I think this may be the strangest dream I've ever had. I left out some stuff because it was a bit too personal. Honestly, most of you won't ever understand why it's as harrowing as it is, but feel free to read along if you wish.
While sleeping, I remember waking up and going to school. In my head, I knew I had already graduated from high school, but for some reason I was walking into St. Justin's, a parochial K-8 grammar school in which I was enrolled from third grade until graduating after eighth. We were in my first classroom there, but the desks were arranged like my high school, in rows facing the the wall with the door. It was a bit eerie returning to this place, but it was a dream, so I don't really remember questioning my discomfort.
As I'm sitting in class, I see people around my age. I guess in this dream I was of high school age again. Guys and girls began to sit down. A teacher came in, dressed formally but still looking young. He looked like he was Latino and had a goatee of some sort. He looked like a confident teacher, and he knew I didn't belong.
As it turns out, even though I was at St. Justin's, the school was Archbishop Mitty. I was confused because I knew the architecture of the school to be of my alma mater, but the students were all high school students that went to Mitty. I don't know how I knew this, seeing that I don't know many Mitty kids, but I knew. I also recognized one of my old classmates from St. Justin's who also went to Mitty there, and she was old, thereby confirming that these students were, in fact, from Mitty.
The teacher started going over something. I have no idea what class it was, but he'd periodically ask questions. I knew I was new to the class, but the rest of the class wasn't. Apparently it was my first day at Mitty, and it was already midway through the year for the other students.
The teacher went over a worksheet, which I didn't bother to follow because I knew I only had to get through one class and the day would be over. I don't know how I knew this, but I knew that the whole day was only this class. After, I would be done and I could wake up and return to normal life.
But he made me go over the worksheet anyways to turn it in at the end of class. There was some math involved, but it definitely wasn't a math class. I distinctly remember answering a question.
"So here," the teacher said, writing something on the board as the other students took notes, "This letter represents something for the calculation. I don't know if you guys would know this, but...anyone?" He stopped and looked around, searching for an answer within one of our minds.
I ventured a guess, since I was bored.
"Is it growth hormone?" I asked.
"Yes!" he smiled, then writing it on the board. He turned around. "How did you know that?"
I shrugged. I think my ability to answer the question made it seem like I was following the lecture and also very intelligent, or at least quick. It made him expect me to be able to fill out the worksheet. I didn't, obviously. At this point, I knew it was a dream, so I didn't bother filling out the worksheet before turning it in.
But I turned it in anyways, and I stayed back. He started grading them right away and saw mine. He looked at me and just shook his head. I'm thinking to myself, Why do I feel guilty? This is a dream!
He then proceeds to look at me and say, "I know it's your first day here, but your work ethic isn't enough to help you here. That's not how we do things at Mitty."
And I tell him, "It's ok. I only planned on being here for one day only."
He just looks at me with a knowing smile, as if he's thinking, Sure thing, kid. Whatever you say.
I ignore this and leave, still knowing it was a dream. I wake up and check the clock. It's 7AM. I just think to myself, that was so weird.
So I go back to sleep.
And I'm back at "Mitty."
I walk into the class, and this teachers just looks at me and says, "Welcome back."
The rest is even stranger. His name was Hay Gale, or Mr. Gale. Suffice it to say that I met with my old priest and Father Joe was not happy with the way things were going. Also, I woke up at 9 and went back to sleep and came for a third day.
It was terrifying.
Showing posts with label random. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random. Show all posts
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Flashback, Memories
I have just spent that last 3 or 4 hours reading my old Xanga. I admit to making myself chuckle sometimes, but in doing so, I realized that my laughter came from hearing the joke the first time. It seems like I've changed so much that I don't expect what comes out of me anymore, even though I've already expressed it.
There are lots of things I've learned from reading some of my old stuff. Primarily, I'm a horrible poet. I personally blame all my "friends" who told me I was good. I reread some of the crap I wrote, and a vast majority of them are poorly written. I am proud, however, to say that they are not nonsensical, so at least I make sense to myself.
Another thing I learned is that I am always learning. I read a bit over a year's worth of Xanga entries, and I literally followed my own growth and memories. It's a harrowing alleyway, but memory lane is somehow satisfying in its answers. It refills the part of me that was missing myself. Sometimes we lose sight of who we are, forgetting that an important part of that is who we were.
In addition, I've found myself, like I assume many teenagers are, to be addicted to attention. I crave(d) it. I don't know what I'll think when I look back on this particular post, but I do know that I'll be happy I have some account of my personal thoughts, to see and remind myself of myself, if that makes sense.
I did this a few times already, but I guess here's a previously written entry, raw from the crypts of Mista_ex93's Xanga, dated Saturday, 15 October 2005:
"I jumped into the blackness and started writing...
Meaning I clicked "New Weblog Entry" on my Xanga, since it's so black and dark and all. I think I set a personal record. I slept for 16 hours straight. There were a few breaks, like when I called Alex/Daniel/Abbie around 12:15, but other than that, I slept from about 1:15 AM until 5:15 PM. I just realized that for the first time in my life, I received too much sleep. I never thought it possible until now. I got up and brushed my teeth. I admit, that it was probably one of the best sleeps I have ever had, but now I can't help but regret it. It's like you love something sooooo much, yet you know it's bad for you. I am still groggy as we speak. I still love it though. I still do.
Yellow Goodwill Tires.
Let me begin here then. Hello, avid Xanga readers. I know, I know, Xanga is TERRIBLY out of fashion what with Myspace's takeover of the blog/photo/friend world. Admittedly, I myself have a Myspace, yet I can't help myself but to feel loyal to the one blog site that has remained with me in my days of socializing. Ever since the summer before freshman year at Bellarmine, Xanga has remained to me a loyal friend, unbroken in its patience and feedback. So, I find myself here again, over two years later, "blogging" to the tacit world of my life.
But it's different now. The world still remains silent at my rants, and I am still adamant to rant. However, the world has changed and I have changed. Things are always changing, and whether they are for the better or worse, I am not at liberty to say. It is much more practical and sensible to just say: Things are changing and let's just accept that they are.
Heffalump
What is with October birthdays? How can so many people be born in the same month? I am going to try and list the people right now, but keep in mind that this makes up only a small percentage of the people I know, yet just forgot when their birthdays were: John, Rosemary, Andy, Mom, Desiree, Alex Tai, Victoria, Grant Bauer, Eric Masch, Vivian, Bryan Nguyen, Andrew Strawbridge....
A few of them I don't know very well, yet regardless of that, the fact that I have heard of them makes me wary. I just don't understand how so many people can be born in the same month. Until this month, I had thought that the month with the most birthdays was November, but I question the validity of that fact. I mean, shit! Hella people in October.
Door hinge on the X-wing.
I met and old friend yesterday. Over the past year I saw her more often than I thought I would, since I thought I put the St. Justin's life behind me for the most part. I am sure she doesn't read my Xanga (and for that matter, neither do most people), so I am just going to use her name. Olivia Teixeira. She is a really nice girl; well, she was at St. Justin's in my more adolescent years, and from what I see of her now, she still seems to be a really nice gal. Well I saw her again yesterday (Friday) at practice for A Few Good Men. Now, her brother, Eric, and my brother, Matt, are apparently really close friends, so I tend to see Eric a lot. I never usually think of Olivia when I see Eric though. Luckily for him, I see him as an individual and not a spawn off my friend Olivia. Well, I see Olivia again, smiling like she always used to when I knew her and the short time I spent with her was all smiles as usual. She started off the conversation asking what happened between me and (dare I repeat the name?) Jeri. I glossed over it, being the touchy subject it was. We were all smiles again. I was also very mean to her in what I saw as a joking way. I know I must have crossed the line somewhere, but I guess that's just who I am. I did not know how else to deal with an old friend. Well she took it as a cue to be mean to me back, which is perfectly okay; I can take dishes as well as I can give them out and often times even better than I can give them out. Well, she dished one my way..."Thanks for breaking Jeri's heart," she quipped as she walked away. I quickly got over my shock and said, in a seemingly joking manner, "Ouch! Straight though the heart!" She laughed and walked away, "Bye Andrew!" That girl is fun. And I felt like shit. I tried to call to her and say, "It hurts more to hurt someone than it does to be hurt," but I doubt she got me. I don't blame her. I'm an asshole.
Newborn Purple Stars.
How can anyone be so fearless? It kills you when the ideal you tentatively called "love" is shaken at its roots. Why? Because you passed the point when you no longer "tentatively" called it so, but rather, you walked confidently into the realms in which you could call it "love" with neither fear nor diffidence. You called it "love" because it was simply that and you knew it was love. There is no explanation for why it was so; it just was. Love just was. But now you are dying because as it turns out, it wasn't. Love wasn't that. It appears that you were completely wrong and now you walk with your head down in shame because you were wrong. You live in sadness everyday. And along comes a spider. You sat down beside her. And all your errors were thrown away. Now it gets complicated. You had lived your life according to simplicity, thinking that everything boiled down to something simpler, thinking life was simple and that was what made it worth living. But this is the raw form of complexity with which you can't boil it down to simplicity. You don't get it, and you want to. You are afraid. Everything tells you not to be. But you are afraid. You thought there was no such thing as anyone who was fearless. How was it possible that someone can live as the true Romantic? (The Romantic who follows his/her heart and looks inside his/herself in order to order the chaos of the world. The real Romantic; not the shit-ass one who believes in love and all that sappy shit. The Romantic that undoubtedly most of you are learning in your Literature classes. The Romantic.) You found the Romantic and she defies all your conceptions of the perfect girl. You thought the perfect girl had these characteristics and behaved like this and looked like this. But she is the perfect girl too and she did not qualify by your standards. On Josh's scale, she was a 6 or 7 but still a 10. She contradicts everything you believed and believe. And you are afraid.
Silver Mushroom.
Because someone else is seemingly perfect too. Yeah, I'll say it: There's a choice between what you thought was perfect and what you think is perfect, and both make sense.
The Panic Button
I went to Tri's house last night. We argued certain points and concluded that in this life, you gotta "be prepared" for the next. Lisa claimed that "love isn't love until it hurts" meaning that love is only proven through pain. I disagreed and agreed. Pain can define love but it doesn't always do so. It's just because we are afraid of pain and suffering. We are too afraid to risk and too afraid to step blindly with faith. We are, meaning I am, too afraid of it. But I guess Lisa must be somewhat right since all these guys are calling her up all the time.
We played charades last night for a little over an hour. What I have mentioned was only part of what we tried to charade.
Leave a comment for me by which I can define myself."
Thanks for reading, guys.
There are lots of things I've learned from reading some of my old stuff. Primarily, I'm a horrible poet. I personally blame all my "friends" who told me I was good. I reread some of the crap I wrote, and a vast majority of them are poorly written. I am proud, however, to say that they are not nonsensical, so at least I make sense to myself.
Another thing I learned is that I am always learning. I read a bit over a year's worth of Xanga entries, and I literally followed my own growth and memories. It's a harrowing alleyway, but memory lane is somehow satisfying in its answers. It refills the part of me that was missing myself. Sometimes we lose sight of who we are, forgetting that an important part of that is who we were.
In addition, I've found myself, like I assume many teenagers are, to be addicted to attention. I crave(d) it. I don't know what I'll think when I look back on this particular post, but I do know that I'll be happy I have some account of my personal thoughts, to see and remind myself of myself, if that makes sense.
I did this a few times already, but I guess here's a previously written entry, raw from the crypts of Mista_ex93's Xanga, dated Saturday, 15 October 2005:
"I jumped into the blackness and started writing...
Meaning I clicked "New Weblog Entry" on my Xanga, since it's so black and dark and all. I think I set a personal record. I slept for 16 hours straight. There were a few breaks, like when I called Alex/Daniel/Abbie around 12:15, but other than that, I slept from about 1:15 AM until 5:15 PM. I just realized that for the first time in my life, I received too much sleep. I never thought it possible until now. I got up and brushed my teeth. I admit, that it was probably one of the best sleeps I have ever had, but now I can't help but regret it. It's like you love something sooooo much, yet you know it's bad for you. I am still groggy as we speak. I still love it though. I still do.
Yellow Goodwill Tires.
Let me begin here then. Hello, avid Xanga readers. I know, I know, Xanga is TERRIBLY out of fashion what with Myspace's takeover of the blog/photo/friend world. Admittedly, I myself have a Myspace, yet I can't help myself but to feel loyal to the one blog site that has remained with me in my days of socializing. Ever since the summer before freshman year at Bellarmine, Xanga has remained to me a loyal friend, unbroken in its patience and feedback. So, I find myself here again, over two years later, "blogging" to the tacit world of my life.
But it's different now. The world still remains silent at my rants, and I am still adamant to rant. However, the world has changed and I have changed. Things are always changing, and whether they are for the better or worse, I am not at liberty to say. It is much more practical and sensible to just say: Things are changing and let's just accept that they are.
Heffalump
What is with October birthdays? How can so many people be born in the same month? I am going to try and list the people right now, but keep in mind that this makes up only a small percentage of the people I know, yet just forgot when their birthdays were: John, Rosemary, Andy, Mom, Desiree, Alex Tai, Victoria, Grant Bauer, Eric Masch, Vivian, Bryan Nguyen, Andrew Strawbridge....
A few of them I don't know very well, yet regardless of that, the fact that I have heard of them makes me wary. I just don't understand how so many people can be born in the same month. Until this month, I had thought that the month with the most birthdays was November, but I question the validity of that fact. I mean, shit! Hella people in October.
Door hinge on the X-wing.
I met and old friend yesterday. Over the past year I saw her more often than I thought I would, since I thought I put the St. Justin's life behind me for the most part. I am sure she doesn't read my Xanga (and for that matter, neither do most people), so I am just going to use her name. Olivia Teixeira. She is a really nice girl; well, she was at St. Justin's in my more adolescent years, and from what I see of her now, she still seems to be a really nice gal. Well I saw her again yesterday (Friday) at practice for A Few Good Men. Now, her brother, Eric, and my brother, Matt, are apparently really close friends, so I tend to see Eric a lot. I never usually think of Olivia when I see Eric though. Luckily for him, I see him as an individual and not a spawn off my friend Olivia. Well, I see Olivia again, smiling like she always used to when I knew her and the short time I spent with her was all smiles as usual. She started off the conversation asking what happened between me and (dare I repeat the name?) Jeri. I glossed over it, being the touchy subject it was. We were all smiles again. I was also very mean to her in what I saw as a joking way. I know I must have crossed the line somewhere, but I guess that's just who I am. I did not know how else to deal with an old friend. Well she took it as a cue to be mean to me back, which is perfectly okay; I can take dishes as well as I can give them out and often times even better than I can give them out. Well, she dished one my way..."Thanks for breaking Jeri's heart," she quipped as she walked away. I quickly got over my shock and said, in a seemingly joking manner, "Ouch! Straight though the heart!" She laughed and walked away, "Bye Andrew!" That girl is fun. And I felt like shit. I tried to call to her and say, "It hurts more to hurt someone than it does to be hurt," but I doubt she got me. I don't blame her. I'm an asshole.
Newborn Purple Stars.
How can anyone be so fearless? It kills you when the ideal you tentatively called "love" is shaken at its roots. Why? Because you passed the point when you no longer "tentatively" called it so, but rather, you walked confidently into the realms in which you could call it "love" with neither fear nor diffidence. You called it "love" because it was simply that and you knew it was love. There is no explanation for why it was so; it just was. Love just was. But now you are dying because as it turns out, it wasn't. Love wasn't that. It appears that you were completely wrong and now you walk with your head down in shame because you were wrong. You live in sadness everyday. And along comes a spider. You sat down beside her. And all your errors were thrown away. Now it gets complicated. You had lived your life according to simplicity, thinking that everything boiled down to something simpler, thinking life was simple and that was what made it worth living. But this is the raw form of complexity with which you can't boil it down to simplicity. You don't get it, and you want to. You are afraid. Everything tells you not to be. But you are afraid. You thought there was no such thing as anyone who was fearless. How was it possible that someone can live as the true Romantic? (The Romantic who follows his/her heart and looks inside his/herself in order to order the chaos of the world. The real Romantic; not the shit-ass one who believes in love and all that sappy shit. The Romantic that undoubtedly most of you are learning in your Literature classes. The Romantic.) You found the Romantic and she defies all your conceptions of the perfect girl. You thought the perfect girl had these characteristics and behaved like this and looked like this. But she is the perfect girl too and she did not qualify by your standards. On Josh's scale, she was a 6 or 7 but still a 10. She contradicts everything you believed and believe. And you are afraid.
Silver Mushroom.
Because someone else is seemingly perfect too. Yeah, I'll say it: There's a choice between what you thought was perfect and what you think is perfect, and both make sense.
The Panic Button
I went to Tri's house last night. We argued certain points and concluded that in this life, you gotta "be prepared" for the next. Lisa claimed that "love isn't love until it hurts" meaning that love is only proven through pain. I disagreed and agreed. Pain can define love but it doesn't always do so. It's just because we are afraid of pain and suffering. We are too afraid to risk and too afraid to step blindly with faith. We are, meaning I am, too afraid of it. But I guess Lisa must be somewhat right since all these guys are calling her up all the time.
We played charades last night for a little over an hour. What I have mentioned was only part of what we tried to charade.
Leave a comment for me by which I can define myself."
Thanks for reading, guys.
Friday, May 29, 2009
"But It's Summer"
This one's for Steph.
I know a few of my friends have been going through tough times. I've said what I can to quell the storm that is their emotions and their lives, but in the end, my words can only help so much.
I'm not trying to say that my words should be the cure to their problems or anything, far from it. I just try to do what I can, because it's sometimes just as difficult to see a friend or friends go through difficult times without being able to change anything directly.
All I can really say is that for me, patience usually wins out. Waiting for the pain and difficulty to subside is my favorite tactic.
No matter how shitty and shoddy things can get, things can get better. They also might get worse before they get better, but lives tend to be a combination of ups and downs, not just downs.
Life is, as Stephanie and I discussed, bittersweet.
So no matter how stormy things get, the rains and hurricanes that brew before you will weather down. No matter how horrid the flurries and blizzards may seem, the hardships of winter once seemingly insurmountable will be behind, and summer will arrive.
Life may hand you dirt on a platter, but it's summer.
Your friends may be deserting you, by their choice or not, but it's summer.
They may not be as attentive to you as you they, but it's summer.
Your lover may be gone forever, but it's summer. (He wasn't good enough for you anyways.)
Your confidence may not be always there, or you may feel like you're not the person people see you as. You may feel like there's a part of you that's missing, and you may not be able to figure it out. But it's summer.
Life is bittersweet like that.
Now someone, please help me fix my sticky "w" key. LASKDFJAL;SDKFJLASDFALSDFJ!
I know a few of my friends have been going through tough times. I've said what I can to quell the storm that is their emotions and their lives, but in the end, my words can only help so much.
I'm not trying to say that my words should be the cure to their problems or anything, far from it. I just try to do what I can, because it's sometimes just as difficult to see a friend or friends go through difficult times without being able to change anything directly.
All I can really say is that for me, patience usually wins out. Waiting for the pain and difficulty to subside is my favorite tactic.
No matter how shitty and shoddy things can get, things can get better. They also might get worse before they get better, but lives tend to be a combination of ups and downs, not just downs.
Life is, as Stephanie and I discussed, bittersweet.
So no matter how stormy things get, the rains and hurricanes that brew before you will weather down. No matter how horrid the flurries and blizzards may seem, the hardships of winter once seemingly insurmountable will be behind, and summer will arrive.
Life may hand you dirt on a platter, but it's summer.
Your friends may be deserting you, by their choice or not, but it's summer.
They may not be as attentive to you as you they, but it's summer.
Your lover may be gone forever, but it's summer. (He wasn't good enough for you anyways.)
Your confidence may not be always there, or you may feel like you're not the person people see you as. You may feel like there's a part of you that's missing, and you may not be able to figure it out. But it's summer.
Life is bittersweet like that.
Now someone, please help me fix my sticky "w" key. LASKDFJAL;SDKFJLASDFALSDFJ!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Failed Scholar.
Perhaps it is the eternal struggle of desire that pits me this afternoon into an almost-tranquil trance. My story is not particularly more interesting than others’, nor does it offer the general depth of perception and literary convention most (good) stories do. My story does, however, follow in the tradition of Edgar Allen Poe. Poe believed that stories should be read in one sitting, and in order to emphasize this point, the dark and dreary artist wrote a majority of his works in one sitting. Thus, I have concluded that great works come in two varieties: the result of many a hard night’s labor, or the result of supernova explosions of inspiration.
The college student inside me has automatic tendencies toward the latter.
Though my story tries most earnestly to avoid convention, it inevitably must fall under some kind of category. Categories and taxonomies and labels in general seem to be a human intuition. Genres and titles make things less scary. We are inherently afraid of the unknown (i.e. the dark, or the Future), and placing things in categories helps us understand things better, or so we think. Ergo, it stands to reason that such taxonomic tendencies ease our anxieties about that which we do not understand. Thus, I must categorize my story.
Let’s call it self-referential for now.
I am a loud, loquacious and lucky college student at the University of the Pacific. I have been blessed (and I use the term semi-sardonically) with the opportunity to study Biology in a Pre-dental focus, having been enrolled in the very unique program Pacific offers.
My educational experience at Pacific has been a mixed and varied one. I have seen first-hand the dichotomy that dissects the various majors of the school. In general, the science majors stick to themselves and the rest stick to the rest. I see music majors clique themselves. I see SIS majors band together freshman year before dispersing. I am enrolled in the Honors Program, and even when we are forced into the same classroom, somehow we know how to segregate ourselves into our respective majors.
It is a sad sight indeed, when my educational experience is not dominated by my education itself, but rather by my observations regarding our very classist society. I guess “sad” isn’t the right term for it, really. I think it is more apt to call myself concerned.
But I digress.
I am a science major, which in and of itself yields inevitable connotations beyond my ability to fathom. As diligently as I try to analyze my situations from a third-person viewpoint, I cannot fully understand what others feel and see when they see a science major. The connotations are boundless in their complexity and yet infinitesimal in their implication.
My story, then, begins in an honors section of Pacific Seminar. I was asked to be involved in a documentary the school funded for the class, and I accepted merrily. I like looking at myself, you see, and there is no better way to watch yourself than in a cinematic format. Alas, my film debut was limited, and I began to accept my squashed dream as a movie star. I did, however, learn a few things about myself and the context in which I have placed myself here at Pacific.
I learned that my ability to write and discuss in Pacific Seminar did not help me in my science classes.
I learned that my knowledge of biology did not help me (much) in my humanities classes.
I learned that injustice occurs in almost every corner of the world, and despite my observations, one person rarely makes a difference.
I learned that despite my ability to write, to put into words my most visceral thoughts and ideas, I cannot fully explain the intuition that is human desire. I have let go of that goal. I cannot explain the intricacies of the abstract.
Love, joy, sadness, anxiety, depression, desire, Chuck Norris. These are the things that we cannot explain in words. We are at a limit in our communicative abilities to express our feelings.
But we try, Lord knows we try.
Perhaps it is our desire to reach out that makes our limits so difficult to bear.
Perhaps it is our desire to be understood that makes us so grotesquely insistent on expressing our feelings.
Perhaps it is our desire to love and be loved in return, as Toulouse claims, that drives us.
Perhaps it is not love, but habit, that breaks our hearts when we separate from each other, whether it is an emotional parting of two lovers or the physical parting of a friend or father.
Perhaps, as Fitzgerald eloquently states in The Great Gatsby, “we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Perhaps it is the desire to put to peace our past mistakes that worries us.
Our fear of the unknown is evident in our fear of the future. We know the past and so we obsess over it. Our fear of the unknown keeps us confined to the familiar, and separates us from the foreign, the strange immigrants, the changing pop culture, the differing majors.
Perhaps it is not the eternal struggle of desire that pits me this afternoon into an almost-tranquil trance. Perhaps it is the unknown and the acceptance that I cannot control the unknown that puts me at peace.
For, despite my upbringing, despite my “science” major, despite my Roman Catholic guilt-ridden educational background, I find Buddha’s words most True:
“Suffering comes from desire. To end suffering, end desire.”
It is the automatic human intuition of desire that makes us suffer.
And it is the fear of the unknown that fuels such desire. We fear that which we do not know, so we desire to Know. So we suffer. And we segregate. And we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
And I have an anatomy test next week, so I can’t spend more time with this story or else I have to use more than one sitting.
Poe would be proud.
The college student inside me has automatic tendencies toward the latter.
Though my story tries most earnestly to avoid convention, it inevitably must fall under some kind of category. Categories and taxonomies and labels in general seem to be a human intuition. Genres and titles make things less scary. We are inherently afraid of the unknown (i.e. the dark, or the Future), and placing things in categories helps us understand things better, or so we think. Ergo, it stands to reason that such taxonomic tendencies ease our anxieties about that which we do not understand. Thus, I must categorize my story.
Let’s call it self-referential for now.
I am a loud, loquacious and lucky college student at the University of the Pacific. I have been blessed (and I use the term semi-sardonically) with the opportunity to study Biology in a Pre-dental focus, having been enrolled in the very unique program Pacific offers.
My educational experience at Pacific has been a mixed and varied one. I have seen first-hand the dichotomy that dissects the various majors of the school. In general, the science majors stick to themselves and the rest stick to the rest. I see music majors clique themselves. I see SIS majors band together freshman year before dispersing. I am enrolled in the Honors Program, and even when we are forced into the same classroom, somehow we know how to segregate ourselves into our respective majors.
It is a sad sight indeed, when my educational experience is not dominated by my education itself, but rather by my observations regarding our very classist society. I guess “sad” isn’t the right term for it, really. I think it is more apt to call myself concerned.
But I digress.
I am a science major, which in and of itself yields inevitable connotations beyond my ability to fathom. As diligently as I try to analyze my situations from a third-person viewpoint, I cannot fully understand what others feel and see when they see a science major. The connotations are boundless in their complexity and yet infinitesimal in their implication.
My story, then, begins in an honors section of Pacific Seminar. I was asked to be involved in a documentary the school funded for the class, and I accepted merrily. I like looking at myself, you see, and there is no better way to watch yourself than in a cinematic format. Alas, my film debut was limited, and I began to accept my squashed dream as a movie star. I did, however, learn a few things about myself and the context in which I have placed myself here at Pacific.
I learned that my ability to write and discuss in Pacific Seminar did not help me in my science classes.
I learned that my knowledge of biology did not help me (much) in my humanities classes.
I learned that injustice occurs in almost every corner of the world, and despite my observations, one person rarely makes a difference.
I learned that despite my ability to write, to put into words my most visceral thoughts and ideas, I cannot fully explain the intuition that is human desire. I have let go of that goal. I cannot explain the intricacies of the abstract.
Love, joy, sadness, anxiety, depression, desire, Chuck Norris. These are the things that we cannot explain in words. We are at a limit in our communicative abilities to express our feelings.
But we try, Lord knows we try.
Perhaps it is our desire to reach out that makes our limits so difficult to bear.
Perhaps it is our desire to be understood that makes us so grotesquely insistent on expressing our feelings.
Perhaps it is our desire to love and be loved in return, as Toulouse claims, that drives us.
Perhaps it is not love, but habit, that breaks our hearts when we separate from each other, whether it is an emotional parting of two lovers or the physical parting of a friend or father.
Perhaps, as Fitzgerald eloquently states in The Great Gatsby, “we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Perhaps it is the desire to put to peace our past mistakes that worries us.
Our fear of the unknown is evident in our fear of the future. We know the past and so we obsess over it. Our fear of the unknown keeps us confined to the familiar, and separates us from the foreign, the strange immigrants, the changing pop culture, the differing majors.
Perhaps it is not the eternal struggle of desire that pits me this afternoon into an almost-tranquil trance. Perhaps it is the unknown and the acceptance that I cannot control the unknown that puts me at peace.
For, despite my upbringing, despite my “science” major, despite my Roman Catholic guilt-ridden educational background, I find Buddha’s words most True:
“Suffering comes from desire. To end suffering, end desire.”
It is the automatic human intuition of desire that makes us suffer.
And it is the fear of the unknown that fuels such desire. We fear that which we do not know, so we desire to Know. So we suffer. And we segregate. And we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
And I have an anatomy test next week, so I can’t spend more time with this story or else I have to use more than one sitting.
Poe would be proud.
Restless
Everyone needs to see this.
I don't know exactly if others' education parallels my own experience, but growing up, my elementary school days were invariably replete with American history. We learned of our forefathers, and especially, we learned about the Revolutionary War that established these great united states.
Thus, though we may not always proclaim or show it, but the undercurrents of the "underdog" very much flow through our veins. For some, it flows more strongly, and for others, it is but a hint, a trace, a trickle of emotion that we may or may not squash before it hinders us.
We have always been a culture that celebrates the "story" behind a journey. We exalt and proclaim the bravery of those that fight "against the odds." Even when we are at the top of our game, already respected and revered, we somehow make ourselves the underdog, twist our point of view to fuel our underdoggedness and fight to beat the powers that be.
And we are usually the powers that be.
Take, for example, the Olympics. We are already considered athletically superior to a very large percentage of the world, yet our media coverage somehow finds a way to make it seem like we're the underdogs, fighting for the American freedom like our forefathers.
I'm sick of it.
We live in a great country, maybe the greatest in the world, maybe the greatest in the history of the world (except for Iceland, Norway, Canada, Australia, Ireland, Netherlands, Sweden, Japan, Luxembourg, Switzerland, France, Finland, Denmark and Austria), but quite honestly, there is a fine line between national pride and national arrogance.
Also, the whole "underdog" thing is so tiresome. I don't care if the story is inspirational, or if it's truly "American", in the end, it's just a story, a life that has to be lived like all other lives.
Enough with counterculture and underground and indie. It's time to realize that all of that is a part of the whole, a part of the big picture.
It's time to understand that nonconformity has become the new conformity.
Now leave me alone to eat my burger and freedom fries.
I don't know exactly if others' education parallels my own experience, but growing up, my elementary school days were invariably replete with American history. We learned of our forefathers, and especially, we learned about the Revolutionary War that established these great united states.
Thus, though we may not always proclaim or show it, but the undercurrents of the "underdog" very much flow through our veins. For some, it flows more strongly, and for others, it is but a hint, a trace, a trickle of emotion that we may or may not squash before it hinders us.
We have always been a culture that celebrates the "story" behind a journey. We exalt and proclaim the bravery of those that fight "against the odds." Even when we are at the top of our game, already respected and revered, we somehow make ourselves the underdog, twist our point of view to fuel our underdoggedness and fight to beat the powers that be.
And we are usually the powers that be.
Take, for example, the Olympics. We are already considered athletically superior to a very large percentage of the world, yet our media coverage somehow finds a way to make it seem like we're the underdogs, fighting for the American freedom like our forefathers.
I'm sick of it.
We live in a great country, maybe the greatest in the world, maybe the greatest in the history of the world (except for Iceland, Norway, Canada, Australia, Ireland, Netherlands, Sweden, Japan, Luxembourg, Switzerland, France, Finland, Denmark and Austria), but quite honestly, there is a fine line between national pride and national arrogance.
Also, the whole "underdog" thing is so tiresome. I don't care if the story is inspirational, or if it's truly "American", in the end, it's just a story, a life that has to be lived like all other lives.
Enough with counterculture and underground and indie. It's time to realize that all of that is a part of the whole, a part of the big picture.
It's time to understand that nonconformity has become the new conformity.
Now leave me alone to eat my burger and freedom fries.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Lent
is over.
I had another post, but I saved it for later, since I think this needs to be said.
I can finally eat meat!
So I found that Lent ends on Holy Thursday. Naturally, I decided to eat meat on Saturday.
My brother, mother and I went to Applebee's and I ordered a shrimp entree...and a sirloin steak.
For once, ironic considering how small they are, my eyes were bigger than my stomach.
We took a to-go box, and saved the shrimp for later because the steak gave me a stomachache.
I guess I deserved that.
Also, I ate with Cha Tri Dinh! We went to Chili's (God bless America) and had a blast with my parents, brother, Rosemary and Nila. It was good times.
I also found out that Cha goes on Facebook often but found out how to sign in without letting people know he's online.
He's so tricky.
Like a priest would be...
I told Stephanie about my stomach problems after eating meat, proclaiming that I think I might have lost my appetite for meat.
She responded with, "That's the worst news ever!"
I smiled, thinking she might actually care for once.
That is, until she said, "Other than Jesus being dead of course."
Is everything a joke to you, woman!? Have you no soul?
Here's an Easter story.
There was once this teacher of a catechism school on Sundays. She was talking about Easter to her very young students.
"Does anyone know what Easter is?" she asked, smiling at the children.
Unfortunately, she was met with silence. Children seem to understand the precise moments to be quiet and loud, and knowing this, they often do the opposite.
However, one child was brave enough to raise her hand.
"Yes, dear. What is Easter?" the teacher asked supportively to the nervous girl.
The girl put her hand down and gulped.
"It's when Jesus comes out of the tomb," she replied meekly.
The teacher was very happy.
"Exactly," she began. "Easter Sunday is wh-"
"But," the girl interrupted, now filled with confidence. "If he sees his shadow he goes back in and winter lasts six more weeks!"
I had another post, but I saved it for later, since I think this needs to be said.
I can finally eat meat!
So I found that Lent ends on Holy Thursday. Naturally, I decided to eat meat on Saturday.
My brother, mother and I went to Applebee's and I ordered a shrimp entree...and a sirloin steak.
For once, ironic considering how small they are, my eyes were bigger than my stomach.
We took a to-go box, and saved the shrimp for later because the steak gave me a stomachache.
I guess I deserved that.
Also, I ate with Cha Tri Dinh! We went to Chili's (God bless America) and had a blast with my parents, brother, Rosemary and Nila. It was good times.
I also found out that Cha goes on Facebook often but found out how to sign in without letting people know he's online.
He's so tricky.
Like a priest would be...
I told Stephanie about my stomach problems after eating meat, proclaiming that I think I might have lost my appetite for meat.
She responded with, "That's the worst news ever!"
I smiled, thinking she might actually care for once.
That is, until she said, "Other than Jesus being dead of course."
Is everything a joke to you, woman!? Have you no soul?
Here's an Easter story.
There was once this teacher of a catechism school on Sundays. She was talking about Easter to her very young students.
"Does anyone know what Easter is?" she asked, smiling at the children.
Unfortunately, she was met with silence. Children seem to understand the precise moments to be quiet and loud, and knowing this, they often do the opposite.
However, one child was brave enough to raise her hand.
"Yes, dear. What is Easter?" the teacher asked supportively to the nervous girl.
The girl put her hand down and gulped.
"It's when Jesus comes out of the tomb," she replied meekly.
The teacher was very happy.
"Exactly," she began. "Easter Sunday is wh-"
"But," the girl interrupted, now filled with confidence. "If he sees his shadow he goes back in and winter lasts six more weeks!"
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Based on a True Story...
It’s like a scene from a comedy, and then you realize how horrible it is.
Here I am, sitting at my local library, my weekends filled with the droll and arid taste of studying. I had been sharing a table with a stranger, both of us mutually compatible with capitalizing the limited space. No words were exchanged. We just sat and minded our own business.
And then I believe my stranger left temporarily. I’m sure many of you have been in that peculiar, potentially awkward situation when you’re sitting with a friend, and then your friend leaves to use the bathroom. Then someone else attempts to take the seemingly vacated spot, only to hear your disappointing proclamation, “I’m sorry. I believe someone is sitting there.” Or if you’re Jillian, “I already claimed that spot.”
But that’s another story in itself.
Now imagine this person has left, and someone else is trying to take the “empty” spot.
Imagine a paraplegic, confined to a wheelchair, a Stephen Hawking type. He can only move with the movement of his fingers, the index dictates the direction of his desire. I see him from the corner of my eye, the shame of my mobility preventing me from looking at him directly.
What I see for literally the next three minutes is his painstaking attempt to wheel into a small spot. I noticed that he had glasses and hadn’t shaved in a while. He first tried to go into the spot feet first. Then, when he found he couldn’t fit, he turned around and wheeled backwards. He still couldn’t fit all the way, but stopped, half his back end in the spot, face to face with me, who was still avoiding any eye contact possible. I’m pro at that. When he stopped, seemingly settled into his spot, he began to open the book on his lap.
FML, his arms were shaky. He couldn’t clench his fingers to open the book so he half-scooped it up with one hand and shuffled through the pages clumsily. It was really a sad sight, this old, frail man confined to a wheel chair and trying so weakly to open a book and simply try to enjoy the minor pleasure of reading. For us, it’s simply sit down and open, but for this man, it has taken him (and still taking him as I write this) an immense effort to do that which we take for granted. At this point, I was torn between laughing out loud and crying.
Then I noticed he was wearing a baseball cap with “I <3 Jesus” on it. Again, I was torn between laughing and crying.
Then I noticed the book he was trying to read was the Bible.
He took another three minutes to open it up, his arms vibrating involuntary and violently and his fingers noncompliant. It was as if God sent this man to see if I had a heart or not.
Well, God. I didn’t laugh out loud.
I just chuckled.
And he left.
You may say that I’m going to hell, but let me explain the reason behind my overt burst of giddiness. I didn’t laugh at his condition itself, far from it. I was laughing at the fact that it was such an exaggerated form of his condition and seemed almost surreal. I was laughing at the fact that this could be a scene straight from 30 Rock, and I was definitely laughing at my own awkwardness and inability to deal with the situation like a mature adult. It was ridiculously awkward and random. I was laughing because this is a situation that could easily be handled with maturity, but I noticed that I failed to be mature.
Dammit. I’m still definitely going to hell.
Here I am, sitting at my local library, my weekends filled with the droll and arid taste of studying. I had been sharing a table with a stranger, both of us mutually compatible with capitalizing the limited space. No words were exchanged. We just sat and minded our own business.
And then I believe my stranger left temporarily. I’m sure many of you have been in that peculiar, potentially awkward situation when you’re sitting with a friend, and then your friend leaves to use the bathroom. Then someone else attempts to take the seemingly vacated spot, only to hear your disappointing proclamation, “I’m sorry. I believe someone is sitting there.” Or if you’re Jillian, “I already claimed that spot.”
But that’s another story in itself.
Now imagine this person has left, and someone else is trying to take the “empty” spot.
Imagine a paraplegic, confined to a wheelchair, a Stephen Hawking type. He can only move with the movement of his fingers, the index dictates the direction of his desire. I see him from the corner of my eye, the shame of my mobility preventing me from looking at him directly.
What I see for literally the next three minutes is his painstaking attempt to wheel into a small spot. I noticed that he had glasses and hadn’t shaved in a while. He first tried to go into the spot feet first. Then, when he found he couldn’t fit, he turned around and wheeled backwards. He still couldn’t fit all the way, but stopped, half his back end in the spot, face to face with me, who was still avoiding any eye contact possible. I’m pro at that. When he stopped, seemingly settled into his spot, he began to open the book on his lap.
FML, his arms were shaky. He couldn’t clench his fingers to open the book so he half-scooped it up with one hand and shuffled through the pages clumsily. It was really a sad sight, this old, frail man confined to a wheel chair and trying so weakly to open a book and simply try to enjoy the minor pleasure of reading. For us, it’s simply sit down and open, but for this man, it has taken him (and still taking him as I write this) an immense effort to do that which we take for granted. At this point, I was torn between laughing out loud and crying.
Then I noticed he was wearing a baseball cap with “I <3 Jesus” on it. Again, I was torn between laughing and crying.
Then I noticed the book he was trying to read was the Bible.
He took another three minutes to open it up, his arms vibrating involuntary and violently and his fingers noncompliant. It was as if God sent this man to see if I had a heart or not.
Well, God. I didn’t laugh out loud.
I just chuckled.
And he left.
You may say that I’m going to hell, but let me explain the reason behind my overt burst of giddiness. I didn’t laugh at his condition itself, far from it. I was laughing at the fact that it was such an exaggerated form of his condition and seemed almost surreal. I was laughing at the fact that this could be a scene straight from 30 Rock, and I was definitely laughing at my own awkwardness and inability to deal with the situation like a mature adult. It was ridiculously awkward and random. I was laughing because this is a situation that could easily be handled with maturity, but I noticed that I failed to be mature.
Dammit. I’m still definitely going to hell.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Attention Deficit Disor- (April 1)
One of the many physical and real examples of getting distracted is blogging at 4AM. It's actually about half past 4.
Another good example is looking up random things. Just now, to clarify the time, I looked up the definitions of "passed" and "past" to see which one fit in the situation of being 30 minutes into an hour. Unable to quench my thirst for knowledge, I searched "how to tell time" on Google. Upon searching through a few websites, I found that it is indeed "half past" an hour.
Interesting, no?
At this point, I would like to be honest. I am indeed "suffering" from Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.). I am prescribed Ritalin (or a generic version of it, actually) and see a psychologist periodically.
I don't mind joking about it or people poking fun at me for it. Technically, I qualify for extended time on midterms and stuff, but I refuse to take it. In a sense, it can be thought of as a "disability" or whatever, but I think I'm a bit too proud to admit it.
I would like to take this chance to admit that sometimes, people go a bit far with the jokes. I don't mind the occasional jab or jest, but when it comes to the point where people start saying things like, "Oh, it's cuz you have A.D.D" and simply blame a mishap on it, then I think it's a problem.
It's ok to say stuff if I'm actually distracted, making fun of my situational stupidity, but to bring it up out of nowhere is kind of a low blow.
Or when people say, "Have you not taken your medication today or something?"
It's a bit ignorant, in my mind.
I am just as capable as the next person, and any deficiency should not be blamed on a pill, but rather, on my own shortcomings as a person.
Honestly, as I've said, I don't mind joking about it, like the constant Bumper Stickers and pins about bunnies and being distracted in the middle of a sentence.
I've pretty much seen/heard (hear and see?) all of the A.D.D. jokes on the web.
Including this one.
So yeah, just a thought.
My dad has it too, apparently. He thinks I'm half-retarded because of it, claiming he somehow "knows" how I'll act simply because I am his direct posterity and therefore will act directly in accordance to his mindset.
The other day, I was eating dinner, and I see my oft-distracted father looking at a pot of water. Standing there for a few moments, concerned, I ask him, "Bố, what are you doing?"
He pauses, still staring with great perplexity at the heated water, before he answers.
"Bố don't know why it take so long."
Damn it. It's 5AM.
Another good example is looking up random things. Just now, to clarify the time, I looked up the definitions of "passed" and "past" to see which one fit in the situation of being 30 minutes into an hour. Unable to quench my thirst for knowledge, I searched "how to tell time" on Google. Upon searching through a few websites, I found that it is indeed "half past" an hour.
Interesting, no?
At this point, I would like to be honest. I am indeed "suffering" from Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.). I am prescribed Ritalin (or a generic version of it, actually) and see a psychologist periodically.
I don't mind joking about it or people poking fun at me for it. Technically, I qualify for extended time on midterms and stuff, but I refuse to take it. In a sense, it can be thought of as a "disability" or whatever, but I think I'm a bit too proud to admit it.
I would like to take this chance to admit that sometimes, people go a bit far with the jokes. I don't mind the occasional jab or jest, but when it comes to the point where people start saying things like, "Oh, it's cuz you have A.D.D" and simply blame a mishap on it, then I think it's a problem.
It's ok to say stuff if I'm actually distracted, making fun of my situational stupidity, but to bring it up out of nowhere is kind of a low blow.
Or when people say, "Have you not taken your medication today or something?"
It's a bit ignorant, in my mind.
I am just as capable as the next person, and any deficiency should not be blamed on a pill, but rather, on my own shortcomings as a person.
Honestly, as I've said, I don't mind joking about it, like the constant Bumper Stickers and pins about bunnies and being distracted in the middle of a sentence.
I've pretty much seen/heard (hear and see?) all of the A.D.D. jokes on the web.
Including this one.
So yeah, just a thought.
My dad has it too, apparently. He thinks I'm half-retarded because of it, claiming he somehow "knows" how I'll act simply because I am his direct posterity and therefore will act directly in accordance to his mindset.
The other day, I was eating dinner, and I see my oft-distracted father looking at a pot of water. Standing there for a few moments, concerned, I ask him, "Bố, what are you doing?"
He pauses, still staring with great perplexity at the heated water, before he answers.
"Bố don't know why it take so long."
Damn it. It's 5AM.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tidbits from Memory (mostly as a result of boredom in econ)
I’ve forgotten how wonderful music can be for the soul.
Everyone talks about how music is vital to their lives. I’ve seen dozens of blogs/lists of 25 things that proclaim the sacredness of music, how people “can’t live without it.”
I’m not sure if I wholeheartedly agree with literally dying in the absence of music, but oftentimes the combination of melodies and words or simply just melodies or words alone can affect us deeply, delve into our innermost thoughts and envelop them in a sense of comfort.
Music is like a friend who will never betray you, like a shoulder that’s always available and will always listen. It’s ironic, then, that we listen to music. I think that when we listen to music, we are listening to our own thoughts and are allowed to roam freely in the fields of our minds. So music is in fact a friend who will always listen to us, because it allows us to listen to ourselves.
I just finished reading The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom. Personally, I think it’s an overrated book, simply because it was recommended to me with such acclamation. It’s a pretty original concept and story, and it’s touching on a few levels, but I don’t think it’s all that jazz. Same with Slumdog Millionaire.
I compiled a list of specific things I dislike as a writing exercise.
I hate waking up to disheveled blankets. My sheets should not be sideways, chaotically and haphazardly flayed and layered about.
I hate setting my alarm and going one minute later than I intended, forcing me to press the button 60 more times. Sometimes I’ll take the extra fate-given minute, but I can’t always. Sometimes I’m an hour off and need to press is 24 more times. I hate that. I also hate setting my alarm to a different 12 hour setting, as in 7:00PM instead of AM. It’s frustrating.
I have an unreasonable and probably unhealthy fear of falling off a treadmill. It has nothing to do with running too far or too fast to control, nor does it lend itself to the metaphor of living my life and the fear of stumbling emotionally. I’m just physically scared of falling, and it’s kinda weird, I think.
Ever since I learned this in chemistry (high school, methinks), I think of eating my foods as limiting reagents. If there isn’t enough ketchup, I refuse to finish my fries. If there isn’t enough Sweet ‘N’ Sour Sauce (or BBQ), I refuse to finish my Chicken Nuggets. If I don’t have enough tofu to complement my rice, I get more rice. I hate it when I get too much rice and need to get more tofu, and the cycle spirals out of control until I’ve literally eaten enough for 4 people.
I hate dressing up without going anywhere. Sometimes I wish I could just see into the future for 24 hours so I can dress accordingly.
Because yes, it gets hard to look this damn beautiful all the time.
Everyone talks about how music is vital to their lives. I’ve seen dozens of blogs/lists of 25 things that proclaim the sacredness of music, how people “can’t live without it.”
I’m not sure if I wholeheartedly agree with literally dying in the absence of music, but oftentimes the combination of melodies and words or simply just melodies or words alone can affect us deeply, delve into our innermost thoughts and envelop them in a sense of comfort.
Music is like a friend who will never betray you, like a shoulder that’s always available and will always listen. It’s ironic, then, that we listen to music. I think that when we listen to music, we are listening to our own thoughts and are allowed to roam freely in the fields of our minds. So music is in fact a friend who will always listen to us, because it allows us to listen to ourselves.
I just finished reading The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom. Personally, I think it’s an overrated book, simply because it was recommended to me with such acclamation. It’s a pretty original concept and story, and it’s touching on a few levels, but I don’t think it’s all that jazz. Same with Slumdog Millionaire.
I compiled a list of specific things I dislike as a writing exercise.
I hate waking up to disheveled blankets. My sheets should not be sideways, chaotically and haphazardly flayed and layered about.
I hate setting my alarm and going one minute later than I intended, forcing me to press the button 60 more times. Sometimes I’ll take the extra fate-given minute, but I can’t always. Sometimes I’m an hour off and need to press is 24 more times. I hate that. I also hate setting my alarm to a different 12 hour setting, as in 7:00PM instead of AM. It’s frustrating.
I have an unreasonable and probably unhealthy fear of falling off a treadmill. It has nothing to do with running too far or too fast to control, nor does it lend itself to the metaphor of living my life and the fear of stumbling emotionally. I’m just physically scared of falling, and it’s kinda weird, I think.
Ever since I learned this in chemistry (high school, methinks), I think of eating my foods as limiting reagents. If there isn’t enough ketchup, I refuse to finish my fries. If there isn’t enough Sweet ‘N’ Sour Sauce (or BBQ), I refuse to finish my Chicken Nuggets. If I don’t have enough tofu to complement my rice, I get more rice. I hate it when I get too much rice and need to get more tofu, and the cycle spirals out of control until I’ve literally eaten enough for 4 people.
I hate dressing up without going anywhere. Sometimes I wish I could just see into the future for 24 hours so I can dress accordingly.
Because yes, it gets hard to look this damn beautiful all the time.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
My Life is Complete
I follow religiously the Ball Don't Lie NBA blog on Yahoo!
J.E. Skeets, the editor, often holds these "Create-A-Caption" contests with fake prizes. He posts up a picture and beseeches his readers (who number in the thousands) to create the funniest caption, which he chooses and puts under the next contest.
On more than one occasion, I offered my own NBA-related humor, but always to no avail. I wasn't hurt by it, really, since I know there are dozens of other submissions. BDL is extremely popular.
However, the other day, one of my captions was recognized as a runner-up. My Yahoo! nickname is AJ. The picture for which I wrote the caption is not the big one, but this one. I can prove it by showing you my original submission, which is number 41.
I am funny after all.
Or at least, I was funny once.
J.E. Skeets, the editor, often holds these "Create-A-Caption" contests with fake prizes. He posts up a picture and beseeches his readers (who number in the thousands) to create the funniest caption, which he chooses and puts under the next contest.
On more than one occasion, I offered my own NBA-related humor, but always to no avail. I wasn't hurt by it, really, since I know there are dozens of other submissions. BDL is extremely popular.
However, the other day, one of my captions was recognized as a runner-up. My Yahoo! nickname is AJ. The picture for which I wrote the caption is not the big one, but this one. I can prove it by showing you my original submission, which is number 41.
I am funny after all.
Or at least, I was funny once.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
It's Business Time
This is an interesting setting, in more ways than one.
I feel a sense of digital deja vu, typing along in the wee hours of the night. Those who know me understand that "wee" in this context doesn't mean the early hours of the morning. This time, it means "little" or "very small." 2:30AM is not late, it is a small hour, a time ungrown into the day. It's still early for me. My deja vu comes not from my physical setting, the school of business is very new to me. It comes from the familiarity of late-night procrastination.
These hours have inadvertently become familiar to me, like a child who never grows up, trapped in an innocence that we cannot help but come to love.
But maybe we don't love children like we think we do. Maybe we simply have grown used to their presumed innocence, their assumed naivete. We are used to their smallness, their youth that we sometimes envy. And maybe it is not the Love of emotions, but rather the Love of habit that we feel for them.
For we are often broken-hearted more over habit than for love itself. It is the habit of care that becomes for us a part of our day, a part of our lives and a part of ourselves. And when this habit breaks, against our will, against our choice, we become desolate, like we lost a part of ourselves, a sandal in the ocean that the tides take and never return.
I hate these hours. I used to revel in them. I used to dominate the nightly/morningly rants and adventures that were a part of me like the air I breathe. They were the branches to my tree and my leaves were golden, shimmering just as the sun hinted its suffocating arrival.
But like a tree, my leaves have fallen, and I grew accustomed to my emptiness. I didn't mind losing my leaves, my glistening foliage. My branches were barren, but I still had myself and I was okay. But autumn's end inevitably brings winter, and now I am laden with snow. I embraced my fate with optimism at first, admiring the twinkle of each snowflake, the beauty of powder glistening around me.
Then the snowflakes built up. My boughs were burdened with blankets of blizzard-induced snow, and their weight pushed me down.
Now these hours are lived without adventure, without enjoyment. They are a burden on me. My choices have left me heavy with duty. Each new dark realization becomes an icicle below my branches, stabbing into the air like a falcon's talon, searching for weakness.
I don't want to be a tree anymore. That's lame.
We were all young once, wishing, yearning to be free. I was too. So I chose to reach as high as I could go. I never realized that no matter how high I want to go, that no matter how beautiful the journey and growth may be, I will always be firmly rooted in the Earth. Terra Madre holds me down.
I know why the caged bird sings.
Cuz it's fuckin' boring in a cage.
I feel a sense of digital deja vu, typing along in the wee hours of the night. Those who know me understand that "wee" in this context doesn't mean the early hours of the morning. This time, it means "little" or "very small." 2:30AM is not late, it is a small hour, a time ungrown into the day. It's still early for me. My deja vu comes not from my physical setting, the school of business is very new to me. It comes from the familiarity of late-night procrastination.
These hours have inadvertently become familiar to me, like a child who never grows up, trapped in an innocence that we cannot help but come to love.
But maybe we don't love children like we think we do. Maybe we simply have grown used to their presumed innocence, their assumed naivete. We are used to their smallness, their youth that we sometimes envy. And maybe it is not the Love of emotions, but rather the Love of habit that we feel for them.
For we are often broken-hearted more over habit than for love itself. It is the habit of care that becomes for us a part of our day, a part of our lives and a part of ourselves. And when this habit breaks, against our will, against our choice, we become desolate, like we lost a part of ourselves, a sandal in the ocean that the tides take and never return.
I hate these hours. I used to revel in them. I used to dominate the nightly/morningly rants and adventures that were a part of me like the air I breathe. They were the branches to my tree and my leaves were golden, shimmering just as the sun hinted its suffocating arrival.
But like a tree, my leaves have fallen, and I grew accustomed to my emptiness. I didn't mind losing my leaves, my glistening foliage. My branches were barren, but I still had myself and I was okay. But autumn's end inevitably brings winter, and now I am laden with snow. I embraced my fate with optimism at first, admiring the twinkle of each snowflake, the beauty of powder glistening around me.
Then the snowflakes built up. My boughs were burdened with blankets of blizzard-induced snow, and their weight pushed me down.
Now these hours are lived without adventure, without enjoyment. They are a burden on me. My choices have left me heavy with duty. Each new dark realization becomes an icicle below my branches, stabbing into the air like a falcon's talon, searching for weakness.
I don't want to be a tree anymore. That's lame.
We were all young once, wishing, yearning to be free. I was too. So I chose to reach as high as I could go. I never realized that no matter how high I want to go, that no matter how beautiful the journey and growth may be, I will always be firmly rooted in the Earth. Terra Madre holds me down.
I know why the caged bird sings.
Cuz it's fuckin' boring in a cage.
Monday, March 16, 2009
My Favorite Albums of All Time
It seems like toddlers are in a permanent state of inebriation. Their drunken actions are excused simply by the fact of their youth. They are difficult to control, to keep track of, because they are always going around, looking for new things or finding new things to explain and figure out. Like drunk people, sometimes they find something that catches their interest, and once something else grabs their attention, the previous adventure is immediately forgotten, lost as a distant memory. Forgetting about the past, they live in the present and cannot worry about the future or the consequences of their actions.
Like drunkards.
We drink to forget, to fill our lives with a placebo vibrance so that we dull our worries about our future. Except that in children, this is okay. It is understandable because they have not learned to Worry, to think about Consequences. Eventually they will learn that things come with Repercussions, that a wigged-out old nerd named Newton decreed every Action with an appropriate Reaction. Until then, however, their naivete is their golden ticket from punitive judgment, their permission slip for a field trip to be carefree, signed tacitly by the World as their legal guardian. For when we grow up, there is no one else but ourselves to hold us accountable. We ingrain in our souls the shackles of Responsibility and Morality, forgetting our carefree memories of a happier time, and there is no permission slip or waiver to remind us of our follies.
Or we drink. We escape. Alcohol becomes our telescope into the stars, where everything twinkles merrily, and the celestial bodies have nothing to do with our Earthly problems. While Newton proclaimed us grounded, Galileo let us look out into a world not our own, a vicarious and precarious glance into an Other.
But a child always looks through this lens, always sees with the utmost clarity the Nature of Things. And their questions are pure, questions asked with alacrity from drunk astronomers, to which oftentimes there are no tangible answers, only more questions.
But we're stuck in an unfair, unanswerable world, where Growing Up means blurring our vision, where Age equals Responsibility, where Maturity comes only with Morality and Accountability, where telescopes are put away and alcoholism is a disease, where we can't get the signature to go on our field trip, where Time goes forward, uncaring, unstopping, where children must Grow Up and Grown-Ups must Remain Up.
And scariest of all, where Chuck Norris awaits.
On a lighter note, I started the second part of this entry back in the early days of January, with the idea of recapping my favorite films of the year. Then I thought that movie reviews were too long, and that generally, few people watch the movies I watch. So I decided that I would recap all the albums of my life, ranking them accordingly.
Since this will obviously cause rifts and clamors of argument over my opinion, I offer this caveat: These are my personal favorite albums of all time, not the objective greatest. I will list my reasons accordingly, but please keep that in mind.
With that said, I shall begin, two at a time, starting with the honorable mentions and numbers 10 and 9
Honorable mentions:
15. Norah Jones - Come Away With Me (2002)
14. Death Cab for Cutie - Plans (2005)
13. Avril Lavigne - Let Go (2002)
12. Motion City Soundtrack - Commit This to Memory (2005)
11. The Killers - Hot Fuss (2005)
10. Sarina Paris - Sarina Paris (2001)
Notable Songs: Look at Us, Just About Enough, So I Wait
Sarina Paris makes my #10 mainly because her music is insanely catchy. I am a huge fan of pop-like sounds and melodies and though her lyrics are lacking, it is more than made up in her stylishly synthetic and pulsating voice. Her songs exude energy and the dance beats that constitute the majority of her music combined with techno-voice are the perfect union of pop/electronica. You would be hard-pressed to find a better example of beat-driven pop music.
9. Stars - Heart (2003), Set Yourself on Fire (2004), In Our Bedroom After the War (2007)
Notable Songs: Heart, Calendar Girl, The Night Starts Here, Personal, The Big Fight
I grouped these albums together because they all have similar sounds. You can almost look at them as one big album released by the very talented Canadian indie band Stars. Actually, After the War has a bit of a more melancholy sound and moves a bit slower than the first two, but it's still very similar in theme and tone. To me, these three particular albums represent a three-act story. Act 1, Heart, establishes the tone and the characters involved. It introduces you to the interesting sounds and wonderfully conversational lyrics of the band. Act 2, Set Yourself on Fire, continues the story and almost builds up to the pinnacle, Calendar Girl, and the third Act, After the War, is like the sad resolution. Calendar Girl and Heart are honestly among two of my favorite songs of all time. I have to thank Winnie for introducing me to Stars. They pretty much embody my current preference in music, sad lyrics, sad melodies and both male and female vocalists.
More to come later!
Like drunkards.
We drink to forget, to fill our lives with a placebo vibrance so that we dull our worries about our future. Except that in children, this is okay. It is understandable because they have not learned to Worry, to think about Consequences. Eventually they will learn that things come with Repercussions, that a wigged-out old nerd named Newton decreed every Action with an appropriate Reaction. Until then, however, their naivete is their golden ticket from punitive judgment, their permission slip for a field trip to be carefree, signed tacitly by the World as their legal guardian. For when we grow up, there is no one else but ourselves to hold us accountable. We ingrain in our souls the shackles of Responsibility and Morality, forgetting our carefree memories of a happier time, and there is no permission slip or waiver to remind us of our follies.
Or we drink. We escape. Alcohol becomes our telescope into the stars, where everything twinkles merrily, and the celestial bodies have nothing to do with our Earthly problems. While Newton proclaimed us grounded, Galileo let us look out into a world not our own, a vicarious and precarious glance into an Other.
But a child always looks through this lens, always sees with the utmost clarity the Nature of Things. And their questions are pure, questions asked with alacrity from drunk astronomers, to which oftentimes there are no tangible answers, only more questions.
But we're stuck in an unfair, unanswerable world, where Growing Up means blurring our vision, where Age equals Responsibility, where Maturity comes only with Morality and Accountability, where telescopes are put away and alcoholism is a disease, where we can't get the signature to go on our field trip, where Time goes forward, uncaring, unstopping, where children must Grow Up and Grown-Ups must Remain Up.
And scariest of all, where Chuck Norris awaits.
On a lighter note, I started the second part of this entry back in the early days of January, with the idea of recapping my favorite films of the year. Then I thought that movie reviews were too long, and that generally, few people watch the movies I watch. So I decided that I would recap all the albums of my life, ranking them accordingly.
Since this will obviously cause rifts and clamors of argument over my opinion, I offer this caveat: These are my personal favorite albums of all time, not the objective greatest. I will list my reasons accordingly, but please keep that in mind.
With that said, I shall begin, two at a time, starting with the honorable mentions and numbers 10 and 9
Honorable mentions:
15. Norah Jones - Come Away With Me (2002)
14. Death Cab for Cutie - Plans (2005)
13. Avril Lavigne - Let Go (2002)
12. Motion City Soundtrack - Commit This to Memory (2005)
11. The Killers - Hot Fuss (2005)
10. Sarina Paris - Sarina Paris (2001)
Notable Songs: Look at Us, Just About Enough, So I Wait
Sarina Paris makes my #10 mainly because her music is insanely catchy. I am a huge fan of pop-like sounds and melodies and though her lyrics are lacking, it is more than made up in her stylishly synthetic and pulsating voice. Her songs exude energy and the dance beats that constitute the majority of her music combined with techno-voice are the perfect union of pop/electronica. You would be hard-pressed to find a better example of beat-driven pop music.
9. Stars - Heart (2003), Set Yourself on Fire (2004), In Our Bedroom After the War (2007)
Notable Songs: Heart, Calendar Girl, The Night Starts Here, Personal, The Big Fight
I grouped these albums together because they all have similar sounds. You can almost look at them as one big album released by the very talented Canadian indie band Stars. Actually, After the War has a bit of a more melancholy sound and moves a bit slower than the first two, but it's still very similar in theme and tone. To me, these three particular albums represent a three-act story. Act 1, Heart, establishes the tone and the characters involved. It introduces you to the interesting sounds and wonderfully conversational lyrics of the band. Act 2, Set Yourself on Fire, continues the story and almost builds up to the pinnacle, Calendar Girl, and the third Act, After the War, is like the sad resolution. Calendar Girl and Heart are honestly among two of my favorite songs of all time. I have to thank Winnie for introducing me to Stars. They pretty much embody my current preference in music, sad lyrics, sad melodies and both male and female vocalists.
More to come later!
Monday, March 2, 2009
Lenten Journey (March 2)
I hate giving up stuff for a reason other than my own volition. I hate New Year's Resolutions and giving up stuff for Lent. If there's something in excess and superfluous to your life, you should take the initiative to stop it yourself. you shouldn't wait until January 1st or Ash Wednesday to do it.
As much as I think it is wonderful we sacrifice and walk with Christ during the Lenten season, I think that we should always be walking with Christ, sacrificing to show that Man does not live on bread alone, but indeed, on the Word of God.
That's the idea, and that being said:
[The Day After Ash Wednesday]
Stephanie: i just stole a girlscout cookie from my roommate
Stephanie: i hope she doesn't mind
Andrew: youre going to hell
Andrew: God minds
Stephanie: balls
Stephanie: i'll apologize later
Andrew: to whom?
Stephanie: my roommate
Stephanie: and god
Andrew: Jesus fasted in the desert for 40 days and you couldn't resist a cookie for less than a week?
Stephanie: false
Stephanie: weeks
Andrew: days
Stephanie: nope
Stephanie: weeks
Stephanie: at least two
Stephanie: if not three
Stephanie: and jesus is jesus
Andrew: shouldnt we strive to be like Jesus?
Stephanie: we should indeed
Stephanie: but might i point out that you had meat yesterday
Andrew: and i might point out that i fasted for the rest of the day
Stephanie: hi, at one day
Stephanie: you fail.
Stephanie: and i fasted too
Stephanie: and
Stephanie: managed not to eat meat
Stephanie: i think i win
Andrew: fine
Andrew: i'm giving up meat for lent
Stephanie: for serious?
Andrew: just to win
Andrew: and yes
Stephanie: JUST TO WIN?
Stephanie: bah
Andrew: a victory for Jesus
Andrew: i swear
Stephanie: thats what they said on the crusades
Andrew: but i'm not killing people
Andrew: it's a bit different
Andrew: the crusades are the crusades
Andrew: don't even
[Pause]
Andrew: say something hilarious before i go
Stephanie: i can't do it on cue!
Stephanie: i don't even mean to be hilarious
[Pause]
Andrew: one more try
Stephanie: nope
Stephanie: but im not letting you win
Stephanie: we'll discuss this later
Andrew: i'm giving up meat starting tomorrow
Stephanie: wait
Stephanie: lent starts today
Stephanie: starting now
Stephanie: you have to give it up
Andrew: i have a dinner to go to
Stephanie: jesus vs dinner
Andrew: argh
Andrew: fine
Andrew: today
So yes, I'm giving up meat for Lent, but can you honestly blame me?
I mean, c'mon. Giving up meat for Lent vs. losing to Stephanie. Before you judge me, ask yourself, WWJD?
As much as I think it is wonderful we sacrifice and walk with Christ during the Lenten season, I think that we should always be walking with Christ, sacrificing to show that Man does not live on bread alone, but indeed, on the Word of God.
That's the idea, and that being said:
[The Day After Ash Wednesday]
Stephanie: i just stole a girlscout cookie from my roommate
Stephanie: i hope she doesn't mind
Andrew: youre going to hell
Andrew: God minds
Stephanie: balls
Stephanie: i'll apologize later
Andrew: to whom?
Stephanie: my roommate
Stephanie: and god
Andrew: Jesus fasted in the desert for 40 days and you couldn't resist a cookie for less than a week?
Stephanie: false
Stephanie: weeks
Andrew: days
Stephanie: nope
Stephanie: weeks
Stephanie: at least two
Stephanie: if not three
Stephanie: and jesus is jesus
Andrew: shouldnt we strive to be like Jesus?
Stephanie: we should indeed
Stephanie: but might i point out that you had meat yesterday
Andrew: and i might point out that i fasted for the rest of the day
Stephanie: hi, at one day
Stephanie: you fail.
Stephanie: and i fasted too
Stephanie: and
Stephanie: managed not to eat meat
Stephanie: i think i win
Andrew: fine
Andrew: i'm giving up meat for lent
Stephanie: for serious?
Andrew: just to win
Andrew: and yes
Stephanie: JUST TO WIN?
Stephanie: bah
Andrew: a victory for Jesus
Andrew: i swear
Stephanie: thats what they said on the crusades
Andrew: but i'm not killing people
Andrew: it's a bit different
Andrew: the crusades are the crusades
Andrew: don't even
[Pause]
Andrew: say something hilarious before i go
Stephanie: i can't do it on cue!
Stephanie: i don't even mean to be hilarious
[Pause]
Andrew: one more try
Stephanie: nope
Stephanie: but im not letting you win
Stephanie: we'll discuss this later
Andrew: i'm giving up meat starting tomorrow
Stephanie: wait
Stephanie: lent starts today
Stephanie: starting now
Stephanie: you have to give it up
Andrew: i have a dinner to go to
Stephanie: jesus vs dinner
Andrew: argh
Andrew: fine
Andrew: today
So yes, I'm giving up meat for Lent, but can you honestly blame me?
I mean, c'mon. Giving up meat for Lent vs. losing to Stephanie. Before you judge me, ask yourself, WWJD?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
I Can't Wait To Be King.
The heart to heart of freedom's chain,
The liberty and choices made,
The options which we must attain,
We deem as ours, demand our pay.
Yet pay's demand leads all astray,
While work must wait another day.
Impatience shows its subtle scorn,
From which Pandora's jar is born.
The truth of pain relies on this:
That we are all too used to bliss,
Too spoiled by our fathers fore,
Thinking we deserve much more.
But once again the real cares not.
The time rolls on, and we're forgot.
Pandora's jar had Satan's keys,
But perhaps most harrowing of these,
Is unlocked, unleashed reality.
The truth can be the worst of all.
I said, no! I don't need professional help!
The liberty and choices made,
The options which we must attain,
We deem as ours, demand our pay.
Yet pay's demand leads all astray,
While work must wait another day.
Impatience shows its subtle scorn,
From which Pandora's jar is born.
The truth of pain relies on this:
That we are all too used to bliss,
Too spoiled by our fathers fore,
Thinking we deserve much more.
But once again the real cares not.
The time rolls on, and we're forgot.
Pandora's jar had Satan's keys,
But perhaps most harrowing of these,
Is unlocked, unleashed reality.
The truth can be the worst of all.
I said, no! I don't need professional help!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Facebook Hiatus
I promised Stephanie I'd mention her in my next entry, so there. I just did.
She claims to have sent me a Valentine, but I refuse to believe her until it gets in my mailbox. I hope it comes. =)
Honestly, this is my first Valentine's Day where I find myself not pursuing a valentine since I was in 8th grade. I'm not saying this for any particular purpose other than the observation that I think it's actually quite nice. The majority of my day was spent studying, without any internet connection, as is the tradition in the Nguyen household.
When school is in session, the internet is subject to a chaotic and varied schedule. In short, the schedule-maker (or "Father" as some call him) decides on whim when to disconnect it and reconnect it. I actually am able to understand the topological concept of homeomorphism better than I can understand daddy's whims.
So yes, although not necessarily my original plan, I spent the day alone. Valentine's Day was actually nice, knowing that it wasn't any special day at all. In fact, all holidays are human devices, and there is no significance to any particular day...
So, Happy Valentine's Day everyone!
I hope you're all lonely.
The other day, I challenged Quyen in Word Challenge. As some of you know, the WC application on Facebook allows you to duel your friends in a Mano Mano sense. However, although I had been actively participating in challenges from Quyen and to Quyen, this particular challenge was different.
For starters, this challenge did not involve the the "Challenge!" part of the application. It in fact involved the personal, original portion of the game, your personal High Score.
Let me set this up.
Quyen and I have faced each other on the Word Field (as I like to call it) many times before. And while I consider her my protege of sorts, I still refuse to show her mercy. I made that mistake one time already, when distracted by the inescapable allure of Skype conference calls. I had stopped playing around the minute mark, believing my modest score of 19,000 would be sufficient. However, to my utter dismay, Quyen was able to beat me by 2,000.
I didn't make that mistake again. She did, however, eventually beat me one more time, by 200. However, since I have won the majority of the challenges, I wanted a more competitive battlefield. So this happened:
After a particularly pathetic few scores, none of which I lost, fortunately, I told Quyen that I would challenge her once more and get 40,000 points. I called it, and I did it, eclipsing the 41K mark. She responded to the challenge accordingly, and to my utter shock, she got 39K.
This is impressive on two levels. Firstly, her previous high score ever was around 28K. Furthermore, she achieved this noteworthy score of 39K on a challenge. Not only that, 39K is well above my normal average, so on almost all the other challenges, she would have beaten me...except this one. Only Quyen can tell you the extent of her anger.
Then, I proposed a real challenge. I said to her, "Why don't we play for something?"
To which she replied, "Like what? -_-" still obviously depressed about her recent loss.
"I'm not sure," I thought aloud. "How about I have to get 50K and you have to get 35K in real mode before the end of the week?"
It was an equal challenge, I argued, for both. She had only passed the 35K mark once and I had only passed the 50K mark once. My highest score ever was 54K, so it's not easy for me.
She agreed, and we set the terms. If I lost, I had to tell her the secret to the Cereal Box Game, which, as I recall, only Loc, Bethany, Harry, Anna and I know. Oh, and probably Matt. Quyen REALLY wanted to know.
If she lost, however, meaning 1. I eclipsed 50K and she didn't get higher than 35K or 2. I got over 50K more than she got over 35K, then she would have to send me a work of poetry she wrote. She never told me she wrote any, but I assumed she did. I think I'm right.
That night, while "studying" at the library, I logged onto Facebook to get higher than 50K. While in the middle of a game, I realized how stupid this was, how I was going to fail school spending hours and hours playing this stupid game, for this stupid bet. I didn't mind losing. I just wanted to stop.
So I planned to end my Facebook addiction by giving my password to Sean. He changed it like a good friend would. And with that, my FB minutes were cut off.
However, before I logged off, I wanted to play one more game, just to see what would happen. I had already given up, in essence. I just wanted one last taste of Word Challenge before my Facebook Hiatus.
And I got 64,000.
GG.
She claims to have sent me a Valentine, but I refuse to believe her until it gets in my mailbox. I hope it comes. =)
Honestly, this is my first Valentine's Day where I find myself not pursuing a valentine since I was in 8th grade. I'm not saying this for any particular purpose other than the observation that I think it's actually quite nice. The majority of my day was spent studying, without any internet connection, as is the tradition in the Nguyen household.
When school is in session, the internet is subject to a chaotic and varied schedule. In short, the schedule-maker (or "Father" as some call him) decides on whim when to disconnect it and reconnect it. I actually am able to understand the topological concept of homeomorphism better than I can understand daddy's whims.
So yes, although not necessarily my original plan, I spent the day alone. Valentine's Day was actually nice, knowing that it wasn't any special day at all. In fact, all holidays are human devices, and there is no significance to any particular day...
So, Happy Valentine's Day everyone!
I hope you're all lonely.
The other day, I challenged Quyen in Word Challenge. As some of you know, the WC application on Facebook allows you to duel your friends in a Mano Mano sense. However, although I had been actively participating in challenges from Quyen and to Quyen, this particular challenge was different.
For starters, this challenge did not involve the the "Challenge!" part of the application. It in fact involved the personal, original portion of the game, your personal High Score.
Let me set this up.
Quyen and I have faced each other on the Word Field (as I like to call it) many times before. And while I consider her my protege of sorts, I still refuse to show her mercy. I made that mistake one time already, when distracted by the inescapable allure of Skype conference calls. I had stopped playing around the minute mark, believing my modest score of 19,000 would be sufficient. However, to my utter dismay, Quyen was able to beat me by 2,000.
I didn't make that mistake again. She did, however, eventually beat me one more time, by 200. However, since I have won the majority of the challenges, I wanted a more competitive battlefield. So this happened:
After a particularly pathetic few scores, none of which I lost, fortunately, I told Quyen that I would challenge her once more and get 40,000 points. I called it, and I did it, eclipsing the 41K mark. She responded to the challenge accordingly, and to my utter shock, she got 39K.
This is impressive on two levels. Firstly, her previous high score ever was around 28K. Furthermore, she achieved this noteworthy score of 39K on a challenge. Not only that, 39K is well above my normal average, so on almost all the other challenges, she would have beaten me...except this one. Only Quyen can tell you the extent of her anger.
Then, I proposed a real challenge. I said to her, "Why don't we play for something?"
To which she replied, "Like what? -_-" still obviously depressed about her recent loss.
"I'm not sure," I thought aloud. "How about I have to get 50K and you have to get 35K in real mode before the end of the week?"
It was an equal challenge, I argued, for both. She had only passed the 35K mark once and I had only passed the 50K mark once. My highest score ever was 54K, so it's not easy for me.
She agreed, and we set the terms. If I lost, I had to tell her the secret to the Cereal Box Game, which, as I recall, only Loc, Bethany, Harry, Anna and I know. Oh, and probably Matt. Quyen REALLY wanted to know.
If she lost, however, meaning 1. I eclipsed 50K and she didn't get higher than 35K or 2. I got over 50K more than she got over 35K, then she would have to send me a work of poetry she wrote. She never told me she wrote any, but I assumed she did. I think I'm right.
That night, while "studying" at the library, I logged onto Facebook to get higher than 50K. While in the middle of a game, I realized how stupid this was, how I was going to fail school spending hours and hours playing this stupid game, for this stupid bet. I didn't mind losing. I just wanted to stop.
So I planned to end my Facebook addiction by giving my password to Sean. He changed it like a good friend would. And with that, my FB minutes were cut off.
However, before I logged off, I wanted to play one more game, just to see what would happen. I had already given up, in essence. I just wanted one last taste of Word Challenge before my Facebook Hiatus.
And I got 64,000.
GG.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Matthew Strikes Again (Feb. 2)
SO. I'm checkin' out Matt's Xanga (which all of you should follow) and he asked his readers to do something, so instead of studying for physics, I'll do it.
"24 HOURS TO LIVE! (AKA 24 HOURS UNTIL YOU DIE)
Must Have...
- Minimum 8 Hours of Sleep
- Freedom to go anywhere (instant transporation)
- Can go with anyone you want, or alone, at any time
- At some point in the day, you must take two tests (15 minutes each)
- One of the tests must be a rigorous academic subject that you are good at
- The other test must be on an academic subject that you care about the most/are most interested in
- If you pass these two tests, you will be able to fix any significant social/political problem in the world. What would you fix?
- Where do you go, who is with you, and what do you do there?
12 AM -
1AM -
2AM -
3AM -
4AM -
5AM -
6AM -
7AM -
8AM -
9AM -
10AM -
11AM -
12PM -
1PM -
2PM -
3PM -
4PM -
5PM -
6PM -
7PM -
8PM -
9PM -
10PM -
11PM -
12AM -
What would you do?
Places to go?
Activities?
Abilities?
People?
Interests?
Concerns?
Talk to me about it after... If enough people fill it out, I'll type up mine! :D!"
12AM-5AM: I'll sleep and wake up just before the sunrise, so I can catch it one last time with the woman I love on a beach somewhere nowhere near civilization. I know, I know. Those of you who know me well are probably thinking, "No way Andrew can get up that early! Freakin' lazy-ass mother fu-" But this is a hypothetical so just let me have my fun, ok? =)
5AM-7AM: I'd eat breakfast with aforementioned woman while watching the sunrise. We'll talk and laugh and just be all smiles. Breakfast will include sausages and eggs and tater tots. Wait, wtf? That's what I eat at the dining hall...talk about pathetic aspirations. Anyways, the food itself hardly matters, as long as I get to eat something and enjoy my morning.
7AM-10AM: After I eat and watch the sunrise and change my Facebook status accordingly, I'd take a 3 hour nap. I freakin' woke up hella early!
"Andrew Nguyen just had an amazing morning with [insert name here], watching the sun rise on a deserted island and enjoying each other's company! About 2 minutes ago. - Comment"
10AM-11AM: I'd take my two tests. The first one would be an essay test. I'd probably take the essay portion of the SAT I again, since I did pretty well every time I took it. Then, after those first 15 minutes, I'd take a 30 minute break to cram for a Human Anatomy test, which is the required course I'm taking now for my degree, leading the way to a dental school acceptance hopefully. The world problem I'd fix would be world hunger. I think everyone should have a chance to be nourished. That way, they can be healthy to make good decisions. I just want everyone to be happy =)
11AM-12:30PM: I'll probably go to Church. I want it to be a Sunday celebration, with one of my friends presiding, and any other friends who happen to be priests also present behind the alter. Also behind the alter I'd like Cha Tri Dinh, simply because he really, really, really knows how to help out alter servers. Yes, I'm speaking as the voice of experience. Matt and I would have walked around aimlessly without him.
Also, I'd like the FLOCK Choir to sing for mass. The gathering song will be "Go to Distance" from Hercules. I want Tri Phan and Thuy Angela to sing the Responsorial Psalm and generally lead the vocals with the rest of FLOCK backing them up. Anh Hoan will conduct and My will be on piano when she's not singing. The music will be the Mass of Glory setting by Bob Hurd. I'd like to be the one to deliver the homily, giving insights about my life and my observations. I'd make it as funny as possible too so that Jesus himself will un-nail himself from the cross to slap his knee and clutch his ribs.
I hope water doesn't spill out, though.
Ok, ok, I'm going to hell, I know.
The Nicene Creed will be sung in Vietnamese as Kinh Tin Kính even though technically, it's missing some parts. Also, the peace-giving part will be long like it is at Youth Mass because everyone will give everyone a hug. The congregation will consist of all my friends, if they so choose to come. Normally, I hate it when that part lasts a long time, not because I don't like to extend peace, but because some people give peace while others stand around uncomfortably. If everyone was involved and it was long, I wouldn't mind. I just don't like leaving people out. That's why when I sang in FLOCK, I was the first one back to the choir section, ready to sing the Lamb of God. I don't like leaving members of the congregation out.
Anywho, after communion (which will feature "The Servant Song" as the song), FLOCK will regale us with a meditation song. I'm thinking Irish Blessing, but it could be anything as long as it's pretty. The last song will be "You Raise Me Up" by Josh Groban. It will be sung by Josh Groban and Mariah Carey, since I think they have the two best voices for their genders in the world.
12:30PM-2:30PM: I'll have lunch with my friends. It will be at a Pho luncheon where we can order plates that a restaurant would normally serve. I'll probably go with some Com Tam dish. Lunch will probably be with my Dong Hanh friends and whoever else went to church like Pray4Fun, my Pacific friends, Boy Scout friends, Bellarmine friends, anyone. We'll pay for the priests. It'd be a lot of fun, like the DHDH meals we had or any meal with Sean, Eric and Michael, haha.
2:30PM-5PM: Hang out at a remote beach with all my friends. Just enjoy the sun and laugh and play. Build sand castles, play football, bury people, argue with Michael Lai, etc.
5PM-6PM: Play basketball. It doesn't matter with whom as long as the games are competitive and fun. I'd actually like to play at American Airlines Stadium where the Dallas Mavericks play cuz I think it's one of the nicest stadiums in the NBA. Actually, it'd be cool to play in front of a sell-out crowd. The game wouldn't be as polished as an NBA game, but if it's competitive then it'll be fun to play and watch too.
6PM-6:30PM: Shower.
6:30PM-8:30PM: Play mafia with anyone who wants to play. Attendance is only required for my brother, cuz he knows how to make it interesting. We'd play on the beach and watch the sun set. We'd play until we need to light torches to see the cards.
8:30PM-10:30PM: Fatty dinner with my family, including all the cousins and uncles and aunts on both sides of my family. Also, all my friends are invited. So really, it's a party with food. We'll be jolly and merry and enjoy ourselves, laughing and joking. The food will be anything anyone wants. I'll probably have a hella gourmet burger with hella gourmet fries or something, haha. We'll be loud and talk and yell and sing at this dinner. Good times will be had. People will leave the dinner saying, "Wow. Andrew knows how to have a good dinner."
10:30PM-11PM: I'll play Super Smash Brothers Melee with Tri Nguyen. I know it'd yield something exciting, haha.
11PM-11:30PM: I'd say goodbye to everyone. Not the sad goodbye. The normal good bye. We shouldn't need to tell our friends and family how much we love them at the last moment. The whole day should be filled with words of appreciation. I wouldn't need to tell anyone that I'll miss them or that I love them. They should have already heard it from me.
11:30PM-11:59PM: I'd take all the pictures that were taken of my day and write a caption for them. There would probably be hundreds so I'll just probably caption the ones I like the best. I'd leave a picture book, showing everyone how I think life should be a relaxing and happy journey.
12AM: I'd change my Facebook status or something, haha. I'd like to die asleep with a smile on my face on my bed with my Appa stuffed animal.
If you really just read all of that, then you realize I didn't do anything lasting, except for making that photo album at the end.
A happy life isn't determined by important actions, but rather, is determined by actions done happily with important people.
"24 HOURS TO LIVE! (AKA 24 HOURS UNTIL YOU DIE)
Must Have...
- Minimum 8 Hours of Sleep
- Freedom to go anywhere (instant transporation)
- Can go with anyone you want, or alone, at any time
- At some point in the day, you must take two tests (15 minutes each)
- One of the tests must be a rigorous academic subject that you are good at
- The other test must be on an academic subject that you care about the most/are most interested in
- If you pass these two tests, you will be able to fix any significant social/political problem in the world. What would you fix?
- Where do you go, who is with you, and what do you do there?
12 AM -
1AM -
2AM -
3AM -
4AM -
5AM -
6AM -
7AM -
8AM -
9AM -
10AM -
11AM -
12PM -
1PM -
2PM -
3PM -
4PM -
5PM -
6PM -
7PM -
8PM -
9PM -
10PM -
11PM -
12AM -
What would you do?
Places to go?
Activities?
Abilities?
People?
Interests?
Concerns?
Talk to me about it after... If enough people fill it out, I'll type up mine! :D!"
12AM-5AM: I'll sleep and wake up just before the sunrise, so I can catch it one last time with the woman I love on a beach somewhere nowhere near civilization. I know, I know. Those of you who know me well are probably thinking, "No way Andrew can get up that early! Freakin' lazy-ass mother fu-" But this is a hypothetical so just let me have my fun, ok? =)
5AM-7AM: I'd eat breakfast with aforementioned woman while watching the sunrise. We'll talk and laugh and just be all smiles. Breakfast will include sausages and eggs and tater tots. Wait, wtf? That's what I eat at the dining hall...talk about pathetic aspirations. Anyways, the food itself hardly matters, as long as I get to eat something and enjoy my morning.
7AM-10AM: After I eat and watch the sunrise and change my Facebook status accordingly, I'd take a 3 hour nap. I freakin' woke up hella early!
"Andrew Nguyen just had an amazing morning with [insert name here], watching the sun rise on a deserted island and enjoying each other's company! About 2 minutes ago. - Comment"
10AM-11AM: I'd take my two tests. The first one would be an essay test. I'd probably take the essay portion of the SAT I again, since I did pretty well every time I took it. Then, after those first 15 minutes, I'd take a 30 minute break to cram for a Human Anatomy test, which is the required course I'm taking now for my degree, leading the way to a dental school acceptance hopefully. The world problem I'd fix would be world hunger. I think everyone should have a chance to be nourished. That way, they can be healthy to make good decisions. I just want everyone to be happy =)
11AM-12:30PM: I'll probably go to Church. I want it to be a Sunday celebration, with one of my friends presiding, and any other friends who happen to be priests also present behind the alter. Also behind the alter I'd like Cha Tri Dinh, simply because he really, really, really knows how to help out alter servers. Yes, I'm speaking as the voice of experience. Matt and I would have walked around aimlessly without him.
Also, I'd like the FLOCK Choir to sing for mass. The gathering song will be "Go to Distance" from Hercules. I want Tri Phan and Thuy Angela to sing the Responsorial Psalm and generally lead the vocals with the rest of FLOCK backing them up. Anh Hoan will conduct and My will be on piano when she's not singing. The music will be the Mass of Glory setting by Bob Hurd. I'd like to be the one to deliver the homily, giving insights about my life and my observations. I'd make it as funny as possible too so that Jesus himself will un-nail himself from the cross to slap his knee and clutch his ribs.
I hope water doesn't spill out, though.
Ok, ok, I'm going to hell, I know.
The Nicene Creed will be sung in Vietnamese as Kinh Tin Kính even though technically, it's missing some parts. Also, the peace-giving part will be long like it is at Youth Mass because everyone will give everyone a hug. The congregation will consist of all my friends, if they so choose to come. Normally, I hate it when that part lasts a long time, not because I don't like to extend peace, but because some people give peace while others stand around uncomfortably. If everyone was involved and it was long, I wouldn't mind. I just don't like leaving people out. That's why when I sang in FLOCK, I was the first one back to the choir section, ready to sing the Lamb of God. I don't like leaving members of the congregation out.
Anywho, after communion (which will feature "The Servant Song" as the song), FLOCK will regale us with a meditation song. I'm thinking Irish Blessing, but it could be anything as long as it's pretty. The last song will be "You Raise Me Up" by Josh Groban. It will be sung by Josh Groban and Mariah Carey, since I think they have the two best voices for their genders in the world.
12:30PM-2:30PM: I'll have lunch with my friends. It will be at a Pho luncheon where we can order plates that a restaurant would normally serve. I'll probably go with some Com Tam dish. Lunch will probably be with my Dong Hanh friends and whoever else went to church like Pray4Fun, my Pacific friends, Boy Scout friends, Bellarmine friends, anyone. We'll pay for the priests. It'd be a lot of fun, like the DHDH meals we had or any meal with Sean, Eric and Michael, haha.
2:30PM-5PM: Hang out at a remote beach with all my friends. Just enjoy the sun and laugh and play. Build sand castles, play football, bury people, argue with Michael Lai, etc.
5PM-6PM: Play basketball. It doesn't matter with whom as long as the games are competitive and fun. I'd actually like to play at American Airlines Stadium where the Dallas Mavericks play cuz I think it's one of the nicest stadiums in the NBA. Actually, it'd be cool to play in front of a sell-out crowd. The game wouldn't be as polished as an NBA game, but if it's competitive then it'll be fun to play and watch too.
6PM-6:30PM: Shower.
6:30PM-8:30PM: Play mafia with anyone who wants to play. Attendance is only required for my brother, cuz he knows how to make it interesting. We'd play on the beach and watch the sun set. We'd play until we need to light torches to see the cards.
8:30PM-10:30PM: Fatty dinner with my family, including all the cousins and uncles and aunts on both sides of my family. Also, all my friends are invited. So really, it's a party with food. We'll be jolly and merry and enjoy ourselves, laughing and joking. The food will be anything anyone wants. I'll probably have a hella gourmet burger with hella gourmet fries or something, haha. We'll be loud and talk and yell and sing at this dinner. Good times will be had. People will leave the dinner saying, "Wow. Andrew knows how to have a good dinner."
10:30PM-11PM: I'll play Super Smash Brothers Melee with Tri Nguyen. I know it'd yield something exciting, haha.
11PM-11:30PM: I'd say goodbye to everyone. Not the sad goodbye. The normal good bye. We shouldn't need to tell our friends and family how much we love them at the last moment. The whole day should be filled with words of appreciation. I wouldn't need to tell anyone that I'll miss them or that I love them. They should have already heard it from me.
11:30PM-11:59PM: I'd take all the pictures that were taken of my day and write a caption for them. There would probably be hundreds so I'll just probably caption the ones I like the best. I'd leave a picture book, showing everyone how I think life should be a relaxing and happy journey.
12AM: I'd change my Facebook status or something, haha. I'd like to die asleep with a smile on my face on my bed with my Appa stuffed animal.
If you really just read all of that, then you realize I didn't do anything lasting, except for making that photo album at the end.
A happy life isn't determined by important actions, but rather, is determined by actions done happily with important people.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Semi-epiphany
For as long as puberty has graced me, I have been somewhat different. If you were able to read my note about the 16 Things About Me, then you should (but probably don't) remember that I like analyzing and diagramming sentences. I attribute such English prowess to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Gloria Wayne.
However, even though my peers received this very same education, I am not aware if they have progressed to become good writers/essayists/what-have-you. Also, my brother, though very proficient in his writing ability, has never written as much as I do, at least as far as I know.
Thus, among my closer circles of friends, I have always felt like some sort of anomaly, a branch sticking awkwardly outward from a smooth hedge. Though the multitude of them are generally very good writers, able to voice their thoughts and skillfully manifest them into words, I viewed few of them as being formed and identifying with their writing ability. They always had their other capabilities, but rare was it among my friends whom I thought writing the core of their identity (with notable exceptions, i.e. Eric Woo). However, in the back of my mind, I viewed myself as someone who was not necessarily a writer, but had writing tendencies.
So, the majority of my self-perception revolved not on my writing ability, since I have read many works that reach well beyond my imaginative dexterity, but rather, revolved around my random whims to write shit. Yeah, I could spin a yarn or two, could give a few quick lines that I hoped was original, but I was never really a writer, per se (per say, ;))
So, over the last year or so, I decided that I would take on the title of "writer" and would hope to expand my ability to write extensively. I felt that it was the only way to channel my education, much like music is to some and sports to others. I conformed to what people told me I was good at doing.
Well, people. I think you're wrong. I used to think that I had writing tendencies, but as I was falling asleep in Macroeconomics today, I jotted a few things down.
When Professor Herrin woke me up (which is another story in and of itself), I looked down at my notes. I found a few lines of poetry written. I don't remember writing them at all, but there they were.
Then I knew it. My tendencies do not lean toward writing. Sure I can shit out an essay about The Little Mermaid or Howl's Moving Castle or something random for a long time, but it wasn't exactly a skill that came easily to me.
My tendencies are toward poetry. I am, at heart, a poet. Poetry is my hobby, is my sport. I write stories and describe events because sometimes it's just the best way to express certain things. But if I were to express myself fully and most earnestly, I would do it in poetry.
So that's who I am. I've finally come to terms with it. I hope people care, haha.
Here's what I wrote while falling asleep.
I am tired; I am beat,
Body broken, burdened heat,
Holding onto heart so hollow,
Falling fast my fate will follow.
I am sure that I am strong,
Yet still sure that I am wrong.
So which strength must I take heed
If I'm wrong and weak indeed?
Is there strength in self-awareness,
Analyzing my own fairness?
Or is there strength in being strong,
Trust my own self all along?
I have nothing to reply here,
No such answers for the sly ear.
Hear me ponder; hear me rant.
Find the answers that I can't.
Find the answers hidden in this.
If they're hidden, do they exist?
However, even though my peers received this very same education, I am not aware if they have progressed to become good writers/essayists/what-have-you. Also, my brother, though very proficient in his writing ability, has never written as much as I do, at least as far as I know.
Thus, among my closer circles of friends, I have always felt like some sort of anomaly, a branch sticking awkwardly outward from a smooth hedge. Though the multitude of them are generally very good writers, able to voice their thoughts and skillfully manifest them into words, I viewed few of them as being formed and identifying with their writing ability. They always had their other capabilities, but rare was it among my friends whom I thought writing the core of their identity (with notable exceptions, i.e. Eric Woo). However, in the back of my mind, I viewed myself as someone who was not necessarily a writer, but had writing tendencies.
So, the majority of my self-perception revolved not on my writing ability, since I have read many works that reach well beyond my imaginative dexterity, but rather, revolved around my random whims to write shit. Yeah, I could spin a yarn or two, could give a few quick lines that I hoped was original, but I was never really a writer, per se (per say, ;))
So, over the last year or so, I decided that I would take on the title of "writer" and would hope to expand my ability to write extensively. I felt that it was the only way to channel my education, much like music is to some and sports to others. I conformed to what people told me I was good at doing.
Well, people. I think you're wrong. I used to think that I had writing tendencies, but as I was falling asleep in Macroeconomics today, I jotted a few things down.
When Professor Herrin woke me up (which is another story in and of itself), I looked down at my notes. I found a few lines of poetry written. I don't remember writing them at all, but there they were.
Then I knew it. My tendencies do not lean toward writing. Sure I can shit out an essay about The Little Mermaid or Howl's Moving Castle or something random for a long time, but it wasn't exactly a skill that came easily to me.
My tendencies are toward poetry. I am, at heart, a poet. Poetry is my hobby, is my sport. I write stories and describe events because sometimes it's just the best way to express certain things. But if I were to express myself fully and most earnestly, I would do it in poetry.
So that's who I am. I've finally come to terms with it. I hope people care, haha.
Here's what I wrote while falling asleep.
I am tired; I am beat,
Body broken, burdened heat,
Holding onto heart so hollow,
Falling fast my fate will follow.
I am sure that I am strong,
Yet still sure that I am wrong.
So which strength must I take heed
If I'm wrong and weak indeed?
Is there strength in self-awareness,
Analyzing my own fairness?
Or is there strength in being strong,
Trust my own self all along?
I have nothing to reply here,
No such answers for the sly ear.
Hear me ponder; hear me rant.
Find the answers that I can't.
Find the answers hidden in this.
If they're hidden, do they exist?
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Flame of Tar Valon and the Dragon's Fang
Something I thought up in the moment while studying for anatomy today.
And no, they don't have anything to do with anatomy.
The Flame of Tar Valon
"For Those"
Oh yes, there's hope for those who seek it,
Maybe more for those who need it.
But there's still hope for those who want it,
And some just have enough to flaunt it.
And yet for those who blinded cry,
Let me help you use your eyes:
Tears don't work to maximize
Your sight from which no truth can hide.
For sight is not in seeing with
Your eyes upon your facial gift.
No, seeing life for all its worth
Is living fully on this Earth.
And Nature, God or Life may not
Be easy to retain or taught,
But openness to truth is key.
The truth will set you free,
Thus will you live happily.
The Dragon's Fang
"Weakness"
Maybe there's just simply something,
Or maybe nothing's barely bumping,
Or somehow questions silly stumping,
Fixing, mixing, feelings clumping.
Maybe nature built us knowing
How we think prevents our growing,
How we feel will get us going,
But gone are we when we stop flowing.
Gone are we when we hold onto
All our pains; our pangs belong to
Stalling gains we make and strive to
Save for me and thus provide you
Thus provide you little choice,
Blocked by banking on my voice,
Holding in my thoughts, rejoice
In little as my cheeks get moist.
Little things I noticed lately,
Small they are but impact greatly,
I move onward, guise as stately,
Strong and steady, sigh innately.
Give you reason not to hate me.
Give me reason for my fate.
I'll give mad props for anyone who can find the connection between "The Flame of Tar Valon" and "The Dragon's Fang."
Hint: The poems are yin and yang.
And no, they don't have anything to do with anatomy.
The Flame of Tar Valon
"For Those"
Oh yes, there's hope for those who seek it,
Maybe more for those who need it.
But there's still hope for those who want it,
And some just have enough to flaunt it.
And yet for those who blinded cry,
Let me help you use your eyes:
Tears don't work to maximize
Your sight from which no truth can hide.
For sight is not in seeing with
Your eyes upon your facial gift.
No, seeing life for all its worth
Is living fully on this Earth.
And Nature, God or Life may not
Be easy to retain or taught,
But openness to truth is key.
The truth will set you free,
Thus will you live happily.
The Dragon's Fang
"Weakness"
Maybe there's just simply something,
Or maybe nothing's barely bumping,
Or somehow questions silly stumping,
Fixing, mixing, feelings clumping.
Maybe nature built us knowing
How we think prevents our growing,
How we feel will get us going,
But gone are we when we stop flowing.
Gone are we when we hold onto
All our pains; our pangs belong to
Stalling gains we make and strive to
Save for me and thus provide you
Thus provide you little choice,
Blocked by banking on my voice,
Holding in my thoughts, rejoice
In little as my cheeks get moist.
Little things I noticed lately,
Small they are but impact greatly,
I move onward, guise as stately,
Strong and steady, sigh innately.
Give you reason not to hate me.
Give me reason for my fate.
I'll give mad props for anyone who can find the connection between "The Flame of Tar Valon" and "The Dragon's Fang."
Hint: The poems are yin and yang.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Maybe I'm Dreaming
I had another freaky dream during my 11:30AM-1PM nap. Unfortunately, this one is a little bit too strange for the internets. It involves two of my good friends and a VERY awkward situation.
Sorry for building that up.
So my nap today was strangely eventful. I skipped lunch and was prepared to go to my 1PM Macroeconomics class. I had the ever-reliable Anna deal the wake up call. Actually, I had her call me at noon so I could get lunch. However, as noon rolled nearer, it was evident that my state of slumber was much more powerful than my mind or stomach.
Therefore, I asked Anna to call me back a few minutes before 1PM, so that I could readily make it to my class. As 1PM neared, I got the call.
"Hey," her voice came through emphatically.
"Heyyyy," was my groggy reply.
"Are you going to class?" she asked me.
"Yeah, of course." It really wasn't obvious if I were going or not.
"OK, then. You should get going. You only have ten minutes until class," she advised.
"Yeah, yeah," I replied, feigning awareness. "I'm heading out now."
"OK, then. I'll talk to you later?"
"Sure." I checked the time. 12:50PM. I went back to sleep.
An eternity later, I woke up to check the time.
12:55PM.
That's it, I thought to myself, I'm DEFINITELY ditching Macroeconomics today. I went back to sleep.
An eternity later, I woke up to check the time.
12:58PM.
Fuck. Are you fucking KIDDING me!?
So yeah, I went to class reluctantly with a newly opened can of Monster.
24 fl. oz. of energy, and I still regretted going to class. Bullshit. BULLSHIT!
And now I can't even go back to sleep because I'm so freakin' spiked on this liquid crack.
At least it's Lo-Carb.
Sorry for building that up.
So my nap today was strangely eventful. I skipped lunch and was prepared to go to my 1PM Macroeconomics class. I had the ever-reliable Anna deal the wake up call. Actually, I had her call me at noon so I could get lunch. However, as noon rolled nearer, it was evident that my state of slumber was much more powerful than my mind or stomach.
Therefore, I asked Anna to call me back a few minutes before 1PM, so that I could readily make it to my class. As 1PM neared, I got the call.
"Hey," her voice came through emphatically.
"Heyyyy," was my groggy reply.
"Are you going to class?" she asked me.
"Yeah, of course." It really wasn't obvious if I were going or not.
"OK, then. You should get going. You only have ten minutes until class," she advised.
"Yeah, yeah," I replied, feigning awareness. "I'm heading out now."
"OK, then. I'll talk to you later?"
"Sure." I checked the time. 12:50PM. I went back to sleep.
An eternity later, I woke up to check the time.
12:55PM.
That's it, I thought to myself, I'm DEFINITELY ditching Macroeconomics today. I went back to sleep.
An eternity later, I woke up to check the time.
12:58PM.
Fuck. Are you fucking KIDDING me!?
So yeah, I went to class reluctantly with a newly opened can of Monster.
24 fl. oz. of energy, and I still regretted going to class. Bullshit. BULLSHIT!
And now I can't even go back to sleep because I'm so freakin' spiked on this liquid crack.
At least it's Lo-Carb.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Stupendous
The week after my birthday, I received a call from my good friend, Winnie.
"Hey! Did you get your card?" she asked me excitedly.
"Uh, I don't think so..." I replied, concerned.
"Oh, did you check your mail yet?"
I thought.
"No, but it's been awhile. Wait, did you send it to my room?" I asked.
"What?" She exclaimed. "You never told me your room number when I asked for your address!"
So I told her my room number.
"It's not going to help me now!" she yelled in a way I hoped was jokingly.
About a week later, she rang again.
"Did you get your card?" she asked me, a little bit less excitedly.
"Uh, I don't thi-"
"Check you mail."
So I did.
I got two cards, one for my birthday and one for Christmas.
The Christmas card, while sweet, was not quite as hilarious as my birthday card.
A pig with a turban is sitting on a ledge, arms spread in wisdom. Two piglets with backpacks stare at him, hanging off the edge, but waiting comfortably. They have climbed the mountain to listen to the wise sage. On the back of the wise pig is a hole. Large coins are littered around him.
"Remember," the wise pig says to the young adventurers. "Change comes from within."
I open the card up, and inside, it reads,
And thus in this blog do I impart my cents upon you, my readers.
Adieu.
"Hey! Did you get your card?" she asked me excitedly.
"Uh, I don't think so..." I replied, concerned.
"Oh, did you check your mail yet?"
I thought.
"No, but it's been awhile. Wait, did you send it to my room?" I asked.
"What?" She exclaimed. "You never told me your room number when I asked for your address!"
So I told her my room number.
"It's not going to help me now!" she yelled in a way I hoped was jokingly.
About a week later, she rang again.
"Did you get your card?" she asked me, a little bit less excitedly.
"Uh, I don't thi-"
"Check you mail."
So I did.
I got two cards, one for my birthday and one for Christmas.
The Christmas card, while sweet, was not quite as hilarious as my birthday card.
A pig with a turban is sitting on a ledge, arms spread in wisdom. Two piglets with backpacks stare at him, hanging off the edge, but waiting comfortably. They have climbed the mountain to listen to the wise sage. On the back of the wise pig is a hole. Large coins are littered around him.
"Remember," the wise pig says to the young adventurers. "Change comes from within."
I open the card up, and inside, it reads,
Happy birthday to someone who has always made a lot of "cents."
And thus in this blog do I impart my cents upon you, my readers.
Adieu.
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