Andrew came from a short line of rejections. He knew relative success his whole life, but in his mind, he peaked in high school. The saddest realization Andrew had was after his first year of college, after countless of parties and maintaining a GPA that would disappoint his high school self (but still was not that terrible considering the lack of effort, he justified). He realized that his most intelligent and creative days were past him. He chose the path, the path he was still on, and for the first time in his life, Andrew could not do something, and that is why Andrew comes from a short, not a long, line of rejections.

I have other skills, right?

That's it. I'm over it.

Trains of Thought

It must have been easier to write a long time ago, when the only prerequisites for literature were a cohesive idea and the motivation to focus on a piece of paper and physically pen your words. Now, it’s ironically more difficult. I can type, and I’m doing it now, with my eyes off the keyboard, off the screen even. And now I’ve lost my train of thought. See?

Trains.

I’m on a train right now. Bay Area Rapid Transit. It’s a monorail-type thing. The clouds are threatening to pee on us soon, but I have moving shelter. The clouds aren’t the only threat-thing. What’s a word that means “someone who makes a threat?” We need a more common word for that. Threatener/threatenor/threater? Those don’t look right. It looks too much like “theater,” although I suppose an argument could be made that theater is a bluff for reality. It could also be a buffer-reality, a reality that links our imagination to the physical world. Or it could be a bluff, only threaten at being reality, but never being it.

I like facing backwards on a train. I am always seeing exactly where I just was a moment before. If we claim that we live in a dimension, then it must have coordinates. So when I look at the guy right in front of me while I’m sitting on a train facing backwards, I can say that he is literally where I just was a moment ago. He is now occupying the space I just occupied, and is continuing to occupy all the spaces I just occupy. It’s true with a lot of moving things, but it’s definitely interesting to see it explicitly.

Here's an awesome video.

My First Period

It was not a dark and stormy night or some shit like that,
Nor was it the middle of summer while we were so quietly
yet so loudly in our own ears
dreaming our daily dreams.

Nah, my first period
was every morning at 8AM, and I was never late, usually
sometimes
maybe.

My first period was dirty.
The kids were loud and abusive to the high school teacher they only
vaguely respected,
and listened to even more vaguely,
whatever that means.

It wasn’t an English class.

My second period happened during my first period, when I got call from you.

Driving over, I knew that I had to do right by you, girl,
cus, something or the other told me so.
Well I skipped my first period cus I had to deal with my second period, your period.

I bounced to no music in the car,
swaying my head so much
that my neck was confused,
and beseeched me in its sweet neck way,
“Don’t break me, Andrew.”

So I didn’t.
I never do.
Necks are important.

We need them to nod our heads when you ask us if we love you.
We need them to shake our heads with vigor
when you ask us if that other girl,
who was smokin’ hot,
was hot.
We need them to hold up our craniums
jam-packed with jams
from the early days when compact discs ruled the music industry.
You remember. The things between cassettes and digital music.
CDs happened during the transition from hard music copies to soft music copies.
And you, my dear, during my first period, called me over to deal with your period.
It was our first period together, and well, I certainly showed it.

I didn’t bring the ice cream you asked me to because,
well,
I didn’t remember you asking me.
You scream something loudly which I kinda hear.
I should have already known you wanted strawberry ice cream?
Is that what you said?

I wish I could say sorry for not listening
but you’d ask why,
and the only answer I have is
that I was saving this conversation mentally
so I could share it with other people later.

My first period, my second period, our first period
lasted a week.
A period of a week.
That’s a lot of crazy to deal with in a week,
and I’m sorry you had to go through that.
Next time, I’ll know better.

Vanilla, right?

"You make me so happy, and that is why you make me cry."

Each breakup is a bullet. Sometimes it's a surprise, and sometimes you see it coming, but no matter what, the pain is numbing and oftentimes, unbearable. And for some people who've taken bullets before, if they go too long with experiencing that pain, they are not as wary to risk it again. They can convince themselves that they are impervious to the pain.

"I've done it before, so it'll be okay this time. I know what to do."

But it's not, and you don't. Bullets still hurt, the metal maggots eating you from within, and each new bullet hurts with the same extreme intensity, albeit in a different way than other bullets. Breakups are similar in that regard. They are all different, because there are different relationships, but they can hurt with an immeasurable intensity that can only be described by comparing it with similar intensities, such as other breakups. There is sadness and pain that eats from within.





So don't take things lightly, good friends, because when you care, you can hurt.

Pretty Good

“You speak pretty good for an Asian,”
is what I heard surrounded by las montañas in Montana,
the air more frigid than the glare of a jilted lover,
the snowy peaks sharp and steep like hoods.

“You speak pretty good,”
is what he actually said.
I added the extra prepositional phrase (that he implied),
but I still didn’t know where the restrooms were.

I wanted to say to him
with the vitriol of a burning cross,
that blacks and latinos,
and jews and assorted asians, for that matter,
are not the only minorities.

There are homosexuals, and the sterile,
the biology majors,
the policewomen,
the entomologists,
the yoga teachers and zookeepers
and chimney sweepers.
How many of those do you know?
We are all minorities in some form.

And that is why we congregate;
We want to be left alone,
but we don’t want to be alone
against-
the majority who doubt our abilities,
our ability to work,
to drive and to jump,
to speak.


But I will not be silenced by a stereotype.
I will speak, and I will speak well,
and I will speak loudly and use big words,
like gregarious and gesticulate
because they sound pretty good to me,
and are relevant when I speak.

So when you say to me,
“You speak pretty good [for and Asian],”
It is neither socially,
nor politically
nor grammatically
correct,
but I’ll let it slide -
since it’s technically correct,
ain’t it?