What I Ended Up Sending to Yale

The number 500 has never seemed so small.

As I fumble wretchedly in an attempt to cut my essay down to 500 words, one particular line from the movie Amadeus replays over and over in my mind. At one point, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart complains to Antonio Salieri, "It's unbelievable. They say I have to rewrite the opera. But it's perfect as it is! I can't rewrite what's perfect!"

Oh, Mozart. I understand exactly how it feels.

Granted, I am no literary Mozart, and the essay can hardly be compared to his great opera, The Marriage of Figaro. But any artist can comprehend that feeling of motherly protectiveness one develops for her work of art. After all, I have spent hours prying and poking my inner self, like a scientist examining an unknown specimen, hoping to discover something ground-breaking. The result? One of the rawest, most personal essays I have ever written. It weaves two stories about my dual passions -- psychology and writing -- together with an anecdote on the first time I watched the French psychological thriller, A La Folie... Pas Du Tout. It recounts various snippets of my childhood memories mixed with details of my future vocational aspirations. It is thoughtful. It is beautiful. It is perfect.

But alas, my baby is 362 words overweight.

I am tempted to simply upload the document and click "Submit" without a second thought, but the warning on the Yale Admissions FAQ ("you will not help yourself by seeming to have ignored our request") looms menacingly on the web page. Grimacing with the seriousness of a surgeon preparing for an operation, I wield my computer mouse and, with a finger hovering over the backspace key, prepare to administer an abdominoplasty operation on my bulging essay.

Initially, the process sails smoothly. I remove some extraneous details, trimming away until the word count reaches 642 words. Then, I begin to encounter the same obstacle women encounter every holiday season nestled around their hips and thighs -- the fat that refuses to go away.

Whenever budget crises ensue in the educational system, the art programs are the first to be cut. Following suit, I begin to remove adjectives. "Concocted mess of miscommunication and love triangles" is reduced to merely "cliches." The actress Audrey Tautou is no longer referred to by name; her character's name, Angelique, is used instead, effectively shaving off six words from the word count. "Hemingway, Hemingway," I repeat, sounding like the "I think I can" train from The Little Engine that Could.

By the time I reach 598 words, I am distraught. My essay, once an exuberant girl with the round rosiness of a cherub, now languishes like a supermodel who has not eaten for weeks. And I still have 98 words to go.

But I am a flexible, calculating person. When I fight, I push myself to the limit. But, I also recognize when I am fighting a losing battle. And so, I now present an essay of exactly 500 words.

------------------
What I ended up using for the Yale Supplemental essay. I kid you not.

Correspondence

You,

I told myself to stop writing to You because I need to convince myself that I don't care. But I'll share something anyway.

I used to think I was trapped. Stuck in a future all neatly shaped by society's cookie cutter. Because really, all the laws and rules and morals we create mean nothing. We have problems with the economy because we created the concept of currency in the first place. We find ourselves in conflict with what is true justice because we make all these rules in the first place. Society creates all the rules, and if you don't follow them, bye bye.

Some hated studying existentialism. I loved it. Everything I had already thought of was neatly explained by Sartre and Camus. But existentialism taught me one more thing. I own my fate. Ultimately, I decide if I want to live my cookie-cutter life. I could just as easily drop out of college, volunteer for two years in Africa, then travel around the world as a free-lance writer. It all depends if I want to be responsible for what happens (such as being disowned by my parents).

So why give a fuck about the ass-kissers? With the attitude he has, he'd probably piss off more people than he can suck up to. I could care less where he is the next four years because whatever college he attends guarantees nothing. For all I know, he could decide to major in women studies and spend the rest of his life teaching women studies. Nothing wrong with women studies, but not exactly a glamorous career, is it?

Hell, just play the game. Go to school, get a job, make some money, then do what You want. Buy a ship and become a pirate. Hell, be Bruce Wayne and buy a Batmobile and all those fancy gadgets. You have to know the rules before You can break them.

Chances are You won't ever read this, which is why I bothered to write in the first place. And if You do, congratulations. Now You know what's been going on the last two years, and unfortunately, I am tired of doing this.

Cheers,
Sophelia

Post-Christmas Crisis

Is there any scientific evidence to back up my hypothesis that humans gain weight during the winter due to the fact that the tendency to store fat for hibernation hasn't been weeded out by evolution?

You know things are not looking good when you're afraid to play Wii Fit because you just know that the Wii board is going to ask you if you're using the proper Mii due to the fact that you've suddenly gained an enormous number of pounds.

Merry Christmas

I think if you live in the United States, at some point you just have to suck it up and get used to the fact that pretty much everyone "celebrates" Christmas, religiously or materialisically. So there you go, boys and girls.

I am completely sick of self-reflecting and contemplating my existence and impending future. I've been doing way too much of that for college apps. My goal is to submit by Saturday. Ha. We shall see how well that goes.

This is probably going to be a very pointless post, because I do not want to talk about myself and because I am too uninspired to write anything fictional.

I had another dream last night, though not nearly as psycho as the previous ones. Oh by the way, did I mention that G bought me a Dream Dictionary for Xmas? Charming little book. It'll be a good sign for me if I dream of castration tonight.

ANYWAYS.

My school district decided to adopt a new calendar this year, so for the first time in my life, my fall finals have occurred before winter break rather than after. Apparently it's supposed to de-stress students, but I think it's been doing entirely the opposite. Because with this new policy, teachers get an entire break to grade their finals. And you know what this means? It means the kids with borderline grades get to sit through the holidays wondering if their grades are going to hold.

As usual, AP Lit is driving me up a wall. Ms. K is a nice person and all, but the tortoise's pace she goes by in grading papers is like torture. My grade remains in the low nineties, but given the fact that there are at least three essays ungraded and a final unscored, I have no idea what will happen.

So then I had the lovely nightmare of taking the AP Lit final all over again, only this time she added some calculus and physics problems that completely went over my head. Disaster.

It's been a kind of catch-up holiday. I read Blood Roses by Francesca Lia Block the other day. It was a fleeting beauty. Such aesthetically pleasing words that immediately left my brain after I finished the book. If you ask me to summarize the book, I can't do it. If I manage to finish apps by Saturday, I intend to read all the books that have been sitting on my shelf for months. And ever since my dad decided to buy the new TV + surround sound system, we've been watching movies every night -- The Dark Knight, Pride and Prejudice, West Side Story, Amadeus, October Sky, and who knows what we're going to be watching today.

Okay screw it, I'll talk about myself.

I hate those questions about how I see myself in ten years. I am so tempted to reply with a half-assed answer:

I see myself with two brown eyes, one nose, one mouth, ten fingers, ten toes, beating heart, intact spinal cord, functioning brain. Because really, that's what matters in the end, doesn't it?

What do they expect me to put? Brain Surgeon? Astronaut? I think there's a line between ambition and pragmatism. I don't know about others, but I am far too humble to assume that I will not be one of the thousands of premed hopefuls that royally screw over their GPAs and end up majoring in something else entirely.

Anyways.

I think this bumbling post is a good indication of the mindset I'm in right now. My mental state has gone kaput.

*

Earlier, I wrote a rather depressing laundry list of things wrong with me right now. For example, I have completely ruined my internal clock by sleeping for six hours from 6 pm to 12 am.

Then I thought, For Goodness Sakes, It's Winter Break. Just Shut Up, Finish All Your Damn Work, And Then Enjoy The Break Since This Is Probably The First Year Since Middle School When You Didn't Have Homework Over Break.

I don't know why I am more productive late at night. Night is my favorite time of the day. I also like early mornings -- only if I get up that early naturally. Today and yesterday, I fell asleep really early on the same sofa. It's the one in my living room that is the absolute best seat to watch the TV from. You just lean against the right arm of the sofa, set up a bunch of pillows and blankets, and good night!

I'm technically a second-semester senior now. I'm afraid of getting too lazy and wild. I know my mom certainly is thinking the same, because she's been badgering me about getting a job. But I really have no idea what kind of job I want to do. I think I'd be a terrible waitress, considering how awkward I am around strangers. I think a few years ago, I was telling my mom about how cool it would be to work at a bakery like Sogo and bake pastries and cakes. She effectively shot down that idea by going on and on about how I wouldn't be able to control myself, and how I'd eat way too many sweets, and how gaining ten pounds wasn't worth getting paid. I also used to think about working at one of those Fantasia Tea & Coffee stores, since my parents' university friend (and consequently, my friend's dad) owns the whole chain. That idea stemmed partly from the fact that I accidentally threw a rock at the glass sliding door of his previous house. Which I naively promised I'd pay for back when I was... oh, twelve?

Or I could just intern somewhere. I really don't know.

Wow. It's 2:45. I really should go to sleep now.

Shiva

"Don't you ever have those moments where you have the perfect retaliation, the perfect comeback inside your head?" I ask G as we take a break from studying for finals. The steam from the bowls of wonton soup before us rise into the air and slowly dissipate into the air. Nothingness. "You can imagine it all in your head. But then in reality, you don't do anything. You just look at them dumbly because you don't want to face the consequences if you lose control."

----------
For some reason, our "tennis team" decided to have team vacation. I say team with quotations because technically, it was not the team -- Gov. J was with me and she hasn't even picked up a racket since freshman year. We were hovering over a body of large body of water in our private jet -- which is quite surprising considering how poorly the athletics programs at our school are funded.

Coach announced that we could get off the plane if we wished. There would be a landing platform that rose from the ocean where we could get off and perhaps rent a boat to sail around in. It was late afternoon. The sky was the color of autumn. The water looked like ripples of gold.

I left the plane with Gov. J, and we walked down the creaky wooden stairs of the top tier of the platform down to the bottom where the wooden dock jutted into the water. Downstairs, there were two tables and a line of people waiting for booths -- a voting station. The inspector of the station asked us if we would like to partake in democracy and vote. We said sure, but they later kicked us out because we forgot to bring ID. (Which makes no sense in the first place because you are not supposed to vote in another precinct and even if it is your precinct, you usually do not need ID.)

We left the dock with a group of other girls down to the port where there were a line of seaside restaurants. We settled for the noodle restaurant from Kung Fu Panda, complete with Po as our waiter and the duck as the cook. I ordered a bowl of wonton soup; Gov. J ordered udon. We sat under the open sky on one of the rickety picnic tables and waited until the food came. I was about to drink a spoonful of soup when a sleek black convertible rolled into the parking lot at the front of the dining patio.

A group of punks staggered out of the car. One sported a surging pink mohawk; another's face was riddled with piercings. The apparent leader was not quite as flashy, with dark cropped hair and uncharacteristically well-bred clothes for a troublemaker -- black denim pants, navy blue button-up shirt.

The leader strode up to the picnic tables with a dangerous look on his face. He zeroed in on a scrawny Asian man in his twenties and said almost idly, "Where the hell is my payment, you bastard," before he knocked the shit out of the guy. From there, he began making his way down each of the aisles, throwing racial insults and suggestive comments at some of the restaurant customers. At times, he would take their food -- the tempura, for instance -- and eat it himself. His actions were completely arbitrary -- he would harrass one table and then completely ignore the next.

Gov. J and I continued to watch as he slowly made his way towards our table. I remember distinctly hoping he would avoid us, but at the same time, I recall secretly thinking that I wanted him to do something so I would have an excuse to fight.

As he came by, he completely ignored Gov. J before looking disdainfully down at my bowl. "What the fuck is that?" he said and shoved the bowl so that all the contents spilled onto my lap and soiled my jeans. "Maybe you should learn to be potty-trained." He had turned to walk back towards the parking lot when I leapt off of the bench and thundered towards him.

"Die, you fucking asshole!" All the momentum from sprinting carried into my attack. I remember praying that my fists would make contact as I leapt onto his back and started punching his head. The force knocked him off his feet and we crashed onto the lawn.

In the past, whenever I faced discrimination, I never fought back, verbally or physically. But in that instant, all those years of enduring harrassment silently cracked, erupting into anger and wrath. I was uncontrollable. I was Shiva, the destroyer, with all four arms clawing out to tear the flesh from the bone. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I will take those words of yours and shove them down your filthy throat.

----------------------
Yes, it was just another dream.

Fortunes

There is a fortuneteller in Tainan that my parents take seriously. Granted, my parents are not the type to believe in the supernatural or astrology and such -- though my mom seems to believe in all that Chinese superstition about chi and feng-shui. But there are several reasons why they take the words of this particular fortuneteller seriously.

When my mother was pregnant with me, one day she and my father were rearranging the furniture in their apartment in Illinois. Suddenly, my mother received a phone call from my grandmother back in Taiwan who said, "The fortuneteller said to stop moving things around."

Recently, when my mother returned to Taiwan, she visited the fortuneteller to ask about my academic future. As I've already mentioned, the fortuneteller told her that if I wanted to go to a good school, I'd have to go far away. When she told the fortuneteller that there was a school we liked that was close to our house, the fortuneteller said I might as well go to school on our doorsteps.

Funny how things turn out.

Then, the fortune teller suddenly told my mother, "Don't let the second child drive." My mother hadn't even mentioned my brother; when she told the fortuneteller that that wouldn't be possible, the fortuneteller responded, "At least not until he turns 23 or so." Which is telling, because she also once said that my brother would injure his four limbs easily -- and considering how he's broken his arm before and complains about growing pains all the time, it's not too surprising. So I expect my brother will be driving with my mother in the passenger seat for quite some time.

Furthermore, the fortuneteller also told my mother that my father needs to take care of his liver. Now that's even more on target than the rest, because I doubt my mother told the fortuneteller that my father was born with Hep B.

Then again, maybe just this fortuneteller seems to have uncanny foresight. Youtube founder Steve Chen was told by a fortuneteller when he was young that he would never be rich. My mother was told by a fortuneteller when she was a child that she would be very fat as an adult.

Funny how things turn out.

By the way, thanks for all the comments for the last post. I'll be perfectly normal at school tomorrow -- I promise. I think I've become more disillusioned about the whole seemingly arbitrary process, but c'est la vie. I also think my self-esteem has taken a pretty big hit, but it was already becoming overinflated anyways.

Whoever was anonymous, thanks for the quote. It struck a chord.

Catharsis and Purging

I.

Hello my name is Sophelia. Do you see this brand on my forehead? It says "Reject." That's right -- look at those six letters. It's just six etches and scratches that can amount to something colossal.

I don't understand why they bother making the rejection letter so clean and flowery. Is that supposed to make me feel better? I don't want that beautifully crafted bullshit. Pick a weapon. I don't care -- an axe, a knife, an ice pick. Why don't you just show me some mercy and finish me off? That's right, Sophelia. Your essay was terrible; it was obvious your teachers think you're a cold, uninterested, withering, pathetic excuse for a student. Even my grandmother could surpass you in your lackluster extracurriculars. 4.0 GPA? Yeah, you're one of 2,700. Special, huh? The truth is, you would disgrace our fine institution. So thanks for the application fee, and good luck with the rest of your life. With luck, you'll be rinsing out the toilet bowls at our fine institution in the future.

II.

But really, why does it all matter? Because it doesn't. Why did I apply in the first place? Why did I apply to the summer program in the first place? Did I rationalize with myself, convincing myself that I love the school? I still remember that right at the beginning, back when my mother wanted me to apply to the summer program, I was thinking that Stanford was too close to home. Eight weeks later, I started saying that I was reluctant to leave California because I love the weather. Which I do. But was I trying to justify everything in order to please people? In the end, did I just go in a full circle as I tried to appease others?

I don't know the answer to any of these questions.

And it is ridiculous for me to compare myself to my fellow classmates. My goodness, we are people just like anyone else sane and not suffering from application anxiety in the world. It is impossible to compare people -- "Oh, my mom is better than yours." Why do we still insist that someone is "better" than someone else? And even though I know this, I still catch myself in the trap of comparing myself to the others -- "No way. How come HE didn't get rejected?"

My mother, while she was trying to console me, said that when she visited one of the temples in Tainan, the people there (who do a lot of fortune-telling and horroscope stuff) said that she was told that if I wanted to study at the best university for me, I would have to travel far away from home. I really don't know what to feel about this. First of all, I already know that the effectiveness of a fortune depends on how creatively one can interpret it to match his/her circumstances. I could easily interpret this as, "Oh, it wasn't written in my fate." But what fate? I'm descended from ancestors who believe that all things happen for a reason -- I was not accepted because my future awaits me on the east coast. Plus, now that I have been rejected, moving to the east coast suddenly doesn't look so bad. Again, is it just another example of justifying everything to make things right?

III.

I spent nearly three hours talking to Storm. I was feeling like shit, and for some reason, I impulsively turned to him. I've never understood why we can talk so liberally with each other -- even back when I was still in middle school and he was in high school, we talked about stuff I rarely told any of my own friends at school. And even today, when I rarely see him and we have almost nothing in common, I told Storm about the rejection and he told me about his new lady with relative ease. I don't know. Really.

The past is past. To the me currently sitting here at 2:30 am, Storm is the older brother I have idly wished for in the briefest of daydreams.

IV.

I remember writing about how strong Sandra carred herself after her second attempt with in vitro failed.

I must do the same.

I need to rest this weekend, for I am emotionally exhausted. But come Monday, like Sandra, I will march forth with life. Que sera sera. It is not the end of everything. It is only the beginning.

[To those of you lucky enough to read this and know what happened: I would greatly appreciate it if you did not spread this around freely, because nobody likes having everyone know you've been turned down. And I would also greatly appreciate it if you don't share this post with others -- otherwise, I will shut this site down if I notice more and more people are reading these presentations.]

HYPERVENTILATION

WTF WHY DO I HAVE A STANFORD ADMISSIONS DECISION EMAIL IN MY MAILBOX???????????????????


???????????????????????????????

I am so not ready for this.

I must not check. I WILL NOT CHECK.

-------------------------------
[edit]

so almost immediately after writing the previous post above, i called G who happened to be with S. According to S, apparently he received the same kind of email from Penn days before the decisions were supposed to be announced -- but apparently all it said was something along the lines of "Your decision is coming!"

.... riiiiiiiight. like we'd forget. silly admissions office.

X_____________X

-------------------------------
[edit]

HOLY SHIT IT'S FOR REAL

GAHHHHL;KJASKLFJASKL;JFLKAS;JFLKAS;JFL;SAJDFK;LSDFJ

I cannot stop shivering. I must be going insane.

I refuse to title this post "Superman by Eminem"

Normally I don't bother completing those chain notes that people do on Facebook to pass time, but I thought this one was kind of interesting. Plus I don't really want to work on my college essays...

But reading these are really boring -- I would know. A bunch of my friends did this particular note on Facebook, and I probably only read Rouge's. So as a present, I will briefly summarize the most interesting results.

I have learned from this lovely exercise that apparently...

• The thing I like most in a guy is his hidden place. (Um... excuse me?)
  
• My motto is "Dudley." (Perfect. So motivational.)
  
• When they think of me, my friends think I lose control. (Probably true)
  
• I regard the person I like as the weight of the world. (Yeah, You weigh like a planet, you stupid, idiotic...)
  
• When I see the person I like, I think, "Born for this." (I was born for this? Or you were born for this?)
  
• When my parents think of me, they think, "Everything is Alright." (HAHAHAHAHA COMPLETELY WRONG)
  
• I will dance to "Humans are Dead" at my wedding. (That might be a little strange.)
  
• Bleeding love is my hobby. (True in a twisted way.)
  
• A honeybear will kill me when I die. (I can already see the headlines. "Body of girl, 17, recovered in tragic mauling. Bear still at large.")
  
• My biggest secret is denial. (True in a twisted way)
  
• I think my friends are rich. (Especially G. Hahahahaha)
  
• Valentine's Day makes me laugh. (In a sardonic, evil cackle sort of way... yes.)
  
• Rain makes me cry. (God. This is total romance fic bait. I can already imagine it: "And the heroine watched in agonizing silence as he walked away, departing from her life forever. The sky cried in a torrent of rain; she couldn't tell whether or not it was the rain or her tears that were streaking down her cheeks." AGHH *writhes in convulsions*)
  
• The worst thing that can happen is for you to kiss me. (Which completely sums up the lack of romance in my life. Hooray!!)
  

So unless someone is extremely bored, feel free to ignore everything below the dotted line. I would just like to note that nearly half of the songs that ended up being picked were either by OLIVIA or the Yeah Yeah Yeahs for some unknown bizarre reason.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
1. Put your music on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
4. Tag 10 friends who might enjoy doing the memo as well as the person you got the memo from.

IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY" YOU SAY?
Say (All I Need) -- One Republic

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Dance, Dance -- Fall Out Boy

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Hidden Place -- Bjork

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
Leave Out All the Rest -- Linkin Park

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
So Far Away -- Crossfade

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Dudley -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Lose Control -- Evanescence

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Spiderspins -- OLIVIA

WHAT IS 2+2?
Cold Light -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Realize -- Colbie Caillat

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Weight of the World -- Evanescence

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
October Skies -- Waking Ashland

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
It's Not Up to You -- Bjork

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Born For This -- Paramore

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Everything is Alright -- Motion City Soundtrack

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Humans are Dead -- Flight of the Conchords

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Y Control -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Bleeding Love -- Leona Lewis

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Denial -- OLIVIA

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Rich -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Kiss Me -- New Found Glory

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
Honeybear -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
Space Halo -- OLIVIA

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Valentine's Day -- Linkin Park

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Rain -- OLIVIA

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
The Sweets -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Permanent -- Acceptance

DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
Shadow of Love -- OLIVIA

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Already Over -- Red

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
From Yesterday -- 30 Seconds to Mars

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS?
Superman -- Eminem

'Tis the Season (when I suddenly become extremely religious)

Despite the increasing number of Christmas decorations I see in my neighborhood or the busy discussions about Christmas presents that I overhear at school, it doesn't seem like the holiday spirit has really sunken in.

After all, any senior at my high school who submitted an early app to colleges is probably losing sleep over the fact that early decisions are announced in less than a week, finals are in a week, Christmas shopping needs to be done, and there are plenty of other apps to complete should a rejection letter arrive next week.

The strange thing is, I have been relatively indifferent to college decisions until today. It's not that I had forgotten -- AJ conveniently whips around in the middle of AP Stats every day to exclaim "December 15!!!!! AHHHHH!!!!" (As it turns out, he didn't realize until much later that his Cornell decision comes out on the 11th, so ha-ha.) After I submitted my application to Stanford, I pretty much forgot all about it. After all, the rest is up to luck and the mysterious creatures known as Admissions Officers. The only thing left to do is pray. And seeing how I am not religious, during my mom's trip to Taiwan a few weeks ago, she and the relatives did a lot of praying.

I even received a necklace with a golden Zhongzi (sweet rice in bamboo leaf) on it. Why? The Chinese are really into all the homophone stuff, so the sound "zhong" can also mean earn/win/achieve. Haha.

Plus, I'd already resigned myself to the fact that my chances are not very promising. The Pseudo-College-Counselor-Lady already informed me that Stanford rejects a ton of students from the Bay Area; Ms. J herself even growled some not-so-pleasant things about the Stanford admissions officers. Not to mention the fact that many of the top students at our school in previous years were rejected. I figure I might have a little more going for me -- since I stayed there for eight weeks after all, I can probably write a little more about why I want to go. But still. I really have no idea how much good it can do for me.

Somebody needs to study admission officers and write a book about their behavioral tics -- I'm sure it'll make an instant millionaire out of you. But I digress.

The reason why I say I have been relatively indifferent until today is for one reason. Yes, another stupid dream.

It was a rather vague dream, but I remember one thing very clearly. I was handed my decision letter, printed on poor quality paper with the ink bleeding through. I could kind of already read through the paper. I opened up the letter. Somehow, I innately knew it was a rejection letter even though nowhere on it did it say "reject." All it said was, "You are confused." And I remember that after I realized I had been rejected, I felt extremely depressed.

When I woke up, that was when I realized, "Holy shit! The decisions are coming out!" Because really, I haven't pondered about how I will feel when I find out. It was during that dream that I realized the two extreme emotions possible -- either I would be ecstatic ("HAHAHA WHAT NOW??!!!") or miserable ("Reject? Who else is going to reject me next?").

With my "awakening" (hahaha I am so clever. what a cute pun.), I am now suddenly dreading to know. I may be dying of curiosity, but because nothing has been finalized and cemented, I can still be blissfully ignorant.

So after sharing my revelation with G this morning, she told me that my old friend Lucille (yes, that was the name she gave herself when we started the whole Rose/Juliet letters thing and she wanted to join) had vowed not to find out whether she was accepted to Yale or not until after she finishes all her other regular decision apps. Very logical, in my opinion. So I have decided I will do the same.

I think I'll die a little more slowly rather finish myself off all at once. Agreed?

Mental Floss

Metric Dead Disco/ FInnish DIsco Instructor Mash-up

You know, overall, I'm pretty okay with the circumstances I've been born in. I wonder if future generations may think otherwise...

Future daughter: How did you even STAND going to school with a bunch of guys in skinny jeans who try to sag and end up looking like waddling grannies in bloomers??)
Me: Hmm. Good question.

... but whatever. I can still breathe good oxygen and drive a gasoline car.

Despite how lowly I regard our current president, I am glad I grew up in the United States. Obviously, I've had my own brushes with racism, but this is as good as it gets -- especially in this part of California. I am not forced to convert to Christianity by missionaries; I am not forced to work lower class jobs because of my ethnicity. I'll admit that sometimes I wish I wasn't Asian (the horror!) but it's usually a fleeting thought that passes by when people start talking about Affirmative Action for college.

This may sound incredibly blasphemous for a high school student slaving away in AP classes, but thank goodness for education.

Seriously. Thank goodness for the fact that I am living in a place that does not treat women as property, a place where girls have a future besides marriage, a place where we understand basic health procedures such as sterilization. As much as I'd like to conk my American Gov't teacher on the head every so often, the Senior Project we are required to do really opens our eyes to the world.

With project topics such as Middle Eastern Honor Killings and Female Genital Mutilation, I don't think I have ever been so grateful for who I am, where I am, and when I am. I whine about how I don't know what I want to do in the future -- I should just shut up and remind myself that I at least have a choice.

The other day I read an article on Telegraph.co.uk about Pakistani arranged marriages. I've noticed that some Fictionpress stories tend to romanticize to the concept of arranged marriages. Usually the guy is of noble breeding (with a bunch of middle names and a roman numeral at the end -- like Alexander Richard Samuel Edington III -- or ARSE III) and has a very arrogant attitude due to the fact that he does not dirty his silky creamy hands among the likes of commoners. (This may explain fan girls' fascination with Draco Malfoy...) But of course, he has to be exceedingly handsome, or you'd end with a story about a girl who runs away and is disowned by her family and dies a miserable death in a street gutter instead of a touching Pride and Prejudice-esque story.

Don't come after me with pitchforks -- I like a feel-good story as much as the next girl.

Unfortunately the link to the forced marriages article is dead, but here is another article about something similar:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/pakistan/2660881/Pakistani-women-buried-alive-for-choosing-husbands.html

This one is about three Pakistani girls between the ages of 16 and 18 who were buried alive for wanting to choose their own husbands. Two older relatives who tried to intervene were buried as well.

I have to admit that I have wondered in the past, if arranging marriages was practiced in my community, what in the world would happen to me? Would I end up with someone my age -- and probably have at least two children by this age? Or would I be like Waris Dirie, arranged to marry a sixty-year-old man because he offered a good bargain on camels to my father? Chances are, the noble-bred Arse the Third is clearly out of the picture.

I know that in many cases, arranged marriages work. There have been people who say how it exciting to see what new things you learn about your spouse each day. But I think these are only in cases where the parents have their children's best interests in mind. I mean, a sixty-year-old man? For camels? Who's really getting the best bargain?

You know what I really want to say to all those freshmen, sophomores, and juniors who complain about how little sleep they get or how much work they have to do (really, APUSH is already ten times easier than it used to be)?

Dear Underclassmen,
Please refrain from complaining any longer. It's not called being overworked. It's called working smarter and stop being overachieving gits who confuse bragging with complaining.

Hello. Your external genitalia aren't removed when you are five years old. You don't wear necklaces that elongate your necks and enslave you to the will of your husbands. People around you aren't collapsing left and right from AIDS. You aren't kidnapped to work in brothels.

Yes, you're probably thinking, "You're one to talk. You write a bunch of posts about how you don't know what you're sacrificing for. Besides, aren't you all safe with a 4.0 GPA and 5's in four AP tests? Why don't you just shut the fuck up?"

Yeah. Which is why I don't bother telling you in person and instead pat you on the back and say, "You can do it." Because really, you're not going to get anywhere if all you focus on is the crap you have to get through. It's what Camus and Sartre -- the existentialists -- say. It's your rock. You are lucky you even get this rock. There are thousands of kids out there who are uneducated. How are they supposed to fight against those brainless traditions? It's up to the ones who are educated to teach the others.

So suck it up. What are you working for?

---------------
[edit]

I found out my mom bought the music sheets from 1 Litre of Tears and so I started rewatching clips of the drama on Youtube.

Haruto is so funny. "I... with regards to you... I like you... maybe... probably."

Ahahahaha. Sigh. Love bittersweet stories.

Affiche d'une fille

Incapable de rester toute seule
Je deteste dormir sans une présence
Les surprises semblent alléger ma solitude
Alors je ramène quelqu'un dans mon lit
Afin de découvrir comment je me sens
Comme un bébé
Portrait d'une femme
Affiche d'une fille

Me satisfaire
Eviter les novices
Ceux qui cherchent à me faire taire
Jusqu'à ce que je rentre avec l'un d'eux
Car je connais la sensation
De chercher le fil d'or
Et de ne jamais le trouver
Qui ne pense qu'à coucher avec une
fille d'affiche

Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta réalité
Tu sais que je n'aime pas ta réalité
Tu sais que je n'aime pas ma réalité
Personne ne sait ce que c'est

On ne peut pas fabriquer la vérité

-- "Poster of a Girl"
by Metric

Dear Diary

I used to write diaries -- every night, if I wasn't too tired or sleepy. Shamefully, I wrote them principally for two reasons: 1) I thought my older self would enjoy reading my younger self's whining and daydreaming, and, 2) I thought somebody else, be it a future sociologist or my own descendant, would be interested in the records of a child of the nineties.

Now, my diaries remain lined across my shelf, collecting dust. I am afraid to read them. Because I still remember when my world revolved around a single person.

I remember when we read The Diary of Anne Frank back in eighth grade. I doubt she ever thought that someone would read her diary years and years after her death. It is almost disgraceful, really, how I used to amuse myself with the idea that future people would be interested in the nonsense I wrote back then. Anne Frank had a story to tell -- one that gave a face to a tragedy and one that moves people to understand and empathize.

I remember how our class was greatly amused and disturbed by Anne's musings on desire. I felt the same at the time, I suppose. But I think I understand her better now. Clearly, when she was hiding for her life, desire was a luxury thought. Would she have written those thoughts down if she knew people would be reading them all over the world, more than half a century after her death? I wonder.

And I suppose that's what set her apart from me. She bares everything in her diary. With me, it is difficult to know what I am telling and what I am hiding. When you know there is an audience, the filtering tends to be more discriminate.

---------------------------------
Running into another person from my past made me realize something crucial. When they end, either they cannot be erased because the seed was well-nourished to begin with... or they wither away and nothing is left.

I have a feeling that this case of ours is the latter. As fate would have it, the one from the past is of the former.

Remember how I mentioned the music-video-inspired idea I came up with a few weeks ago? Once I finish all my work, the first thing I am going to do is write the three-part short story. It's ironic how I set myself up for this back in my freshman year. That was when I started and discontinued a story titled "Static Valentine." Funny how accurate the name is now, only I'm changing it to "A Static Valentine."

I already know what I plan to do for the first two parts. Still debating on whether or not I want a happy or sad ending. Given my current attitude towards You, I am leaning towards tragic and, most importantly, open-ended. Why? Because I am tired of those clean-cut endings I read about all the time. Life never ends at Happily Ever After. Nor does it end like those soppy tragedies where the girl finds a letter from her lover before he died that reads, "I loved you. I've never stopped." Because people move on after death. How often do people still think of Iris, Elissa, or Marcus? The memory is still there, but it's harder to retrieve after the years pass by.

I am looking forward to this project. The ending is a reflection of what will happen to me by the end of the year. Should something drastically uncharacteristic happen, I may reconsider. But the chances of that are close to zero.

Hades

Mila says she'll take the notes.

After all, they have enough problems on their hands. They've been blinking and rubbing away their eyelids all morning. (See how the skin peels into their palms. Pretty petals with pollenated eyelash stamens.) They drop a strand or two of an explanation, but not nearly enough to draw out a chain long enough to wrap around her throat. Yes darling, your words are safe with me, but don't forget how to breathe.

But I don't want to be safe, Mila thinks as they weave their spider webs in her presence. A trap. Yes, flaunt it. I am Tantalos, one of the damned of the Underworld. Flaunt your bracelets of ruby pomegranates; swing them out of my reach when I turn to grasp them. Isn't this so much fun? Watch the clueless little simpleton flail her arms around like a drowning cat. Into the river Styx you go, my foolish kitten.

The Truth

I don't think I have crazier dreams than anyone else. I think I just remember them better after I wake up than most people.

We were at Normandy. I have never set foot across the Atlantic in my life, but I suppose it would be as beautiful as I imagined. The ocean, the ocean. The beach of blood. A friend of Mme. M owned a chateau that overlooked the sea, and so Mme. brought us to the white sand castle to stay as honored guests. Nearly all the walls were built from panels of glass. It felt as if we were walking through crystals, living inside a glass prism. We were in one of the sun-drenched rooms with a view of the ocean, sprawled across the white sandy carpet with our books and papers.

I wish(ed) you would look at me. But I don't think you ever did.

Oh, did I wake up yet? I don't think this is only a dream.

I ♥ Lists

I want to...

• Beat my record for the Advanced level on Minesweeper (currently 244 seconds)
• Finish writing the three-part short story I started on Saturday (that I may decide to post either on here or on fictionpress).
• Continue experimenting with writing a story in script style.
  

I need to...

• Learn how to use the new washing machine/dryer before my mother leaves tonight
• Start taking notes on Hamlet
• Finish homework for AP Stats
• Study for the AP Stats test tomorrow
• Do the Imaginez exercises online
• Type up the French recipes and compositions
• Work on my Bach English Suite (specifically the Courante and the Gigue)
• Spend at least an hour on both Clementi etudes
• Finish UC essays
• Pick up Senior Project research books from the library
• Brainstorm how the hell I'm going to pull myself up to an A in AP Lit
• Clean up my room
• Figure out how to make crepe batter with the stuff in our house
  
• Practice singing Nel Cor Piu Non Mi Sento (since apparently my brother and I are now taking turns with vocal lessons)
• Figure out how early I have to get up tomorrow morning (VERY EARLY)
• Get off this computer.

K and I are walking from our high school to our middle school because we are slowpokes who won't finish our sculpture project on time unless we visit Mrs. E's room to work after school. On the way, we pass by a young chocolate-brown Boxer dog who is happily sprinting in the bike lane next to us. We say, "Awww, what a cute dog. It looks so happy! Hopefully it won't get run over." I look back over my shoulder and see a distant white SUV at the turning at the stop sign onto the road next to our sidewalk, but the dog is still sprinting happily in the bike lane, so K and I continue walking without much thought.

Approximately ten minutes after K and I have settled into the back art room and started working on our sculptures, EB walks in and tells us that she'd been walking to BHMS from our school when a cute dog ran by and got hit by a car right before her eyes. K and I just look at each other.
-------------------

Earlier today, I was not in a good mood because I had done something incredibly stupid and out of character for someone who is usually pretty observant. Basically, as a result, my AP Lit grade doesn't look like it has a good chance of going up, so I may end up breaking my perfect academic record this year. It's not so much that it'll completely ruin my future -- because I know it won't -- but I would be very disappointed if I'd worked all the way to senior year, and I destroy what I've been working for because of such stupidity and carelessness.

I know that in the long run, your ungraduate school, much less your high school grades, have little impact on how well you do in future careers. But I don't want to get caught up in that trapped method of thinking. That would just be giving me an excuse to succumb to senioritis and stop trying. High school senior year isn't retirement. If I lose all the habits I've attained over the last seventeen years, I'm a dead fish when I reach college. In fact, I think my AP Lit grade is a warning that I'm slipping up. I'm just hoping I'll manage to pull out.

Then again, the episode with the dog just completely turned my head upside down. If I had done something -- tried to talk to the dog, tried to stop it -- I would have stopped it from getting hurt. I don't even know if the dog died, but I get the feeling it probably did. There has never been a point this obvious in my life when I realize just how much of an impact I can make by doing nothing. I even said out loud, "Hopefully the dog doesn't get run over." Why didn't any of us who passed by the dog on the road do anything??

And if a decision that simple could produce such an irreversible outcome, just imagine how fragile this future I'm working for is. AP Lit grades? They don't matter if you're in the hospital in critical condition. You want to be an orthopedic surgeon? Good luck if you're the one lying on the operating table. Someone walking down the expressway might see a swerving car and say, "Gee, that driver must be drunk or something," and then simply continue walking to the bus stop with his burger and fries. Then he hears the sirens moments later, and you've turned out to be the next victim.

The more I try to understand this world, the more ludicrous it seems to get.

Retraction

I took down the previous post I'd written yesterday because in retrospect, I felt I was in no position to discuss the personal affairs of my schoolmates. So consider yourself lucky if you managed to read it before I obliterated the post.

So to compensate for my outraged readers, I have posted several lovely photos of Japanese Spitz puppies. Obviously not as juicy or scandalous as a post titled "Erotomania, Motherhood, and Another Bad Romantic Cliche," but who doesn't like puppies?


There. I hope I am forgiven.

Doll Face

Creeped the shit out of me, but I have to admit, it's pretty ingenious.



One of Bjork's best songs, in my opinion. Chris Cunningham directs some of the most amazing music videos -- each one is a piece of art. Plus, this song probably has some application to the messy Prop. 8 war in California in these turbulent times.

Day & Night

[Day Write]

Late Sunday night, I worked frantically to finish all the homework I had put off to the last minute. As usual. I don't know if my work ethic has taken a slip (as my French teacher has suggested, to my horror and dismay), but it seems that I've gotten into a regular pattern of goofing off the entire day on Saturday and paying the price late Sunday night.

On second thought, I actually did get some things accomplished on Saturday. I finished filling out most of the UC applications; the only thing left is the two essays. If I wasn't such a masochist, I would probably just edit the two essays I wrote last year, but most likely I will end up writing two completely different essays. Frankly, I am not looking forward to those essays at all. I am sick of writing about my weaknesses, my worries, my growth, etc. The UC essays tend to be very straightforward and avert from creative writing. Unfortunately, the only thing I feel like writing now has nothing to do with myself and my self-reflections. Ick.

So where was I? Oh, right. So I was doing my French homework with Sick Puppies' "All the Same" music video playing on Youtube. I was a little bit curious about the band, so I went on Wikipedia and looked them up. Their story is a little interesting, I must say. Vocalist/guiarist Shimon Moore met kickass bassist Emma Anzai in high school and together they co-founded the band. The band has been together for about 11 years now, and even though they've switched through bandmates over the course of years, Shimon and Emma have always stuck together. Not in the romantic sense, but as very close in an almost sibling sense.

So while I was reading their profiles, something struck me. I ended up reading some of their interviews, and it only got me thinking even more. I don't want to reveal what gripped my attention, but I will say that it sparked a pretty awesome idea in my head.

The funny thing about inspiration is that it never comes to you in the same way each time. The idea for EP took many years to take form -- basically it was a bunch of small ideas that collected into one mass over time. With the other long-term piece I have been working on (HTSAH), the idea came up suddenly one day, but initially I left it untouched because I wanted to focus on other things.

But THIS, my friends, was the kind of inspiration that slaps you in the face. I am so psyched about it that I just want to submit myself completely to senioritis and stay at home for the rest of the week.

Just kidding.
------------------------
[Night Write]

So I just ended my high school team tennis career in one of the most regretful, disappointing ways possible.

For some reason, I've been the deciding match for four very momentuous games this season. Personally, I think it's a sign that our team is much weaker this year, but of course I'm not going to say that to my teammates.

So in the end, it came down to two matches: Y's close three-setter and my close three-setter. Y played a good match and it was unfortunate she eventually lost. So basically, the score became tied at 3-3, and once again, I was the deciding match. But in all honesty, my match should never have gone to a third set. I was up the first set 5-2. I don't know what happened. I might have gotten overconfident, lost complete focus, or my out-of-shape fitness began to kick in. Possibly all three, for I ended up losing the set 5-7.

My coach talked to me in the break between the first and second set, so I managed to clear my head. Unfortunately, I think the 7-5 comeack from behind boosted my opponent's spirits immensely. After that first set, the rest of the match was brutally close. That girl lobbed me like none other. Plus, I was fairly fatigued, and the last thing I wanted was to engage in a lob war. Basically, I kept trying to keep the points short, which ultimately resulted in many risky plays. It payed off in the second set though, which I ended up winning 6-3.

By the time we started the third set, the sun had almost set completely. I would play brilliantly for awhile and then lapse into a completely unfocused mess. I was actually winning 3-0 until their sly little coach decided to call for line judges. When my coach informed me that my opponent had called for line judges, I was pretty surprised, because I hadn't made any close calls and she hadn't questioned any of my calls at all.

AS IT TURNS OUT, SHE WASN'T EVEN THE ONE WHO WANTED THE JUDGE! My mother told me later that I had hit this serve that my opponent didn't even touch. Apparently, the serve was out -- but the girl didn't even call it! THE COACH DIDN'T LIKE IT (because obviously, I'm winning by a big margin) SO SHE CALLED THE JUDGES AND TOLD ME THAT "HER PLAYER" HAD CALLED FOR THE LINE JUDGES. I don't want to sound like I'm making excuses, but what she did really halted my momentum. I ended up losing the next three games to tie it at 3-3. The score eventually reached 6-6. I had been winning 6-5, but by then it was so dark that I could barely see the ball. Maybe I should have requested to move to a court with lights then, but at the time I didn't think I had a choice. And since the girl was serving at that point, she had the advantage and ended up tying the score to 6-6.

Well what do you know? That's when the coach informs us that there is an available lighted court approximately a mile away where we can finish our match. Really, how convenient you decide to do this AFTER YOUR PLAYER'S SERVICE GAME!

Long story short, I played a not-so-good tiebreaker and lost the final set 6-7, and thus my team did not advance past the first round of CCS Teams for the first time in my high school tennis career. And yes, my last match on the tennis team turned out to be an epic three-setter that lasted over three hours and left my legs quivering like jelly. But honestly, I do not feel proud of that match at all.

All in all, I am really disappointed in how I failed my team twice as the deciding match -- when we lost to PIedmont Hills -- the first time as far as anyone on the team can remember that the girls' tennis team lost a match in the league -- and tonight. Unlike the loss to PH, I did not cry today. I am too exhausted to maintain feeling pissed at myself.

Maybe I should just stay home for the rest of the week.

Just kidding.

Avarice

In the past, if someone asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I wouldn't know how to respond. Basically, the things I wanted could not be simply wrapped in paper and handed over to me with a big bow on top.

So why -- when our economy is going down the drain and my looming college years are poised to suck thousands of dollars away -- do I suddenly find myself wanting tangiable THINGS??

1. Guitar Hero World Tour -- You can ask anyone in my family. I've been dropping hints about this game like none other.

Brother: For the Leland Bridge performance, I don't know if we can find somebody who will sing Hotel California, since my friend chickened out and doesn't want to do it anymore.
Me: Well, if you buy *GUITAR HERO WORLD TOUR*, you can sing Hotel California and practice the vocals every day!!
Brother: .....

2. Decent MP3 Player -- You know, I don't even care what brand it is, as long as it holds over 1GB and won't break on me after three months.

Here's Sophelia's sad heartbreaking story. In middle school, she carried around a clunky pearly white MP3 that only held 128 MB, which is approximately thirty songs. Then in ninth grade, her kind relatives in Taiwan bought her an iPod shuffle that held 512 MB -- the skinny white shuffle, not the new fruity colored ones that are like the size of my eyeball. She used this MP3 until the end of junior year, when her father bought her a small, magenta 1GB Sansa for approximately ten dollars. Unfortunately, the MP3 player broke in less than three months. Thus, Sophelia was reduced to uploading music onto her cell phone, but once again, disaster struck. The only compatible her cell phone broke, and furthermore, she soon learned that listening to music on her cell phone would drain the battery like a vampire.

And thus, may we present a rare specimen: a teenager with no working portable music player.

No flash photography please.

3. White Vans Slip-ons: Why in the world do I want such impractical shoes?? The canvas rips in about a year, and they're WHITE, for goodness sakes! They'll turn brown and black in less than a month!

Well...

MINE!!!

Curse my fangirlism.

blLAAAAAAAAAAA

I just realized my posts have been very depressing recently. whattt?! what happened to my "white background" resolution??

For some reason or another, I was in a pretty good mood this evening. School sucked more than usual today, but I will not bore you with a tedious laundry list of what I did during each period. I think listening to my brother's singing lesson today (which was hilarious) loosened me up. I should post my mom's videos of his singing lesson on Youtube... but of course, I want to at least live to find out which colleges will accept me, so maybe not. But really. Singing is probably fifty times more difficult than playing the piano. While I can watch my fingers play the keys without even thinking about pitch, with singing you cannot watch your vocal chords and having perfect pitch is essential.

Conveniently forgetting about the rest of my college apps, I cannot wait for the holiday season! On second thought, I cannot wait for late November either. My mother will be flying off to visit the relatives in two weeks, which will probably interesting considering that I can now drive. Plus, the movie Twilight is coming out in about two weeks.

Don't get me wrong. I would like to drill into everyone's skulls that I AM NOT A TWILIGHT FAN, NEVER HAVE BEEN, AND EDWARD CULLEN IS A FRICKIN UNDEAD GLITTERING POPSICLE! WHICH SANE PERSON (besides Bella, who does not count because she is clearly out of her mind with her constant ravings about topaz eyes) WANTS TO FCUK A POPSICLE?! I do, however, want a good laugh sometime, and I am sure Twilight will make me laugh plenty, for all the wrong reasons.

Speaking of dumb movies, I can cheerfuly and shamefully add High School Musical 3 to my list of "Movies I Watched that Killed My Brain Cells." Talk about over the top. If somebody like Troy Bolton pranced around my school and burst into song in the most random places, he'd sooner be accepted to the mental institute than to UC Berkeley. Besides, you call that a high school? Where are the joy rides? The potheads? The swearing? Ha! Do you really expect me to believe none of those happily singing and dancing boys EVER talk about how their girlfriends AHEM?

All I can say is fortunately, I did not spend ten bucks on a movie ticket to watch that lovely piece of utopian high school bull sh!t in a movie theatre. Rogue and I have G to thank for showing us a blurry pirated copy of the film. Which incidentally gave each of us a headache that sent us to bed nearly four hours earlier than usual. I suppose we needed the sleep to purge our systems from the load of crap we had absorbed.

Alright. This was a very strange post. Over and out.

Like Sid + Nancy

My love for this story is about equal in terms of unhealthy obsessiveness to Nana and Ren's possessive romance.

It sounds stupid, but the ink-drawn character of Nana Osaki changed my life. Thanks to her, I cut my hair, I wore miniskirts, I learned the electric guitar, I pierced my ears, and I finally found the confidence to sing. She was tough, ambitious, and loyal -- three qualities I yearned to possess. She has the fortitude to stand up against others and fight for herself, whereas I often find myself simply imagining scenes of retaliation in my mind. She has the ambition and passion that pushes her towards her goal, whereas I am at a complete loss as to what I want out of my future.

Perhaps, I imitate Nana's fashion and physical appearance because I want to be like her.

I will also confess that I had a major obsession with Ren Honjo as well. Tall, short spiky hair (none of that long wispy feminine hair), good-natured, musical. In reality, I would never seriously fall for Ren's type -- the ones who neglect all else but the guitar and fall victim to drugs and alcohol.

Perhaps, I was drawn towards Ren because I had subconsciously adopted Nana's frame of mind.

I hated how both Nana and Ren smoked constantly, but the reality was, I was completely drawn to the dangerous, consuming edge of their love.

Nocturne

A girl's love does not start with the Porsche he drives or the Armani clothes that he wears but when that person starts to look pitiful.

-- from Mana by Vin Lee

This blog is almost two years old. Funny how so little has changed. The entries still lament of unrequited yearning. My running theme, I suppose. I laugh when I wonder if there is anybody else who stupidly clings onto the same obsession for two years. Or if there is anybody else who latches on for two years and refuses to let go.

But two years would be simplifying the story. The story began the first day we met. Even I don't remember how long ago that had been, but to a degree, the fascination has always been there.

In essence, Heart & Crossbones is a love letter that never reached its recipient. It probably never will. Maybe I will tell the story one day when I can look back upon this and laugh.

Or maybe not.
I thought this was hilarious.

Yellow

In August, employees at the bar Changes, in Seattle, had to break up a karaoke-night attack by a woman on a man who was singing the Coldplay song "Yellow." The woman had shouted, "Oh, no, not that song. I can't stand that song." She charged the stage, screamed at the man and shoved him (and it eventually took four men to hold her for the police). [Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 8-9-07]

...X...

Love me, or Love me not. As if you had a choice.

The clock strikes midnight but the dress doesn't disintegrate into rags, the limousines don't swell into ripened gourds, and the chauffeurs don't scurry away on the paws of mice. The prince doesn't need to chase after the girl, not when they are lying on side by side on a bed of daisies watching the planes masquerade among the stars. Look at the stars, he says. Look how they shine for you.

The smoke trails from her lips as she exhales. The cigarette glows like a sneer in the darkness.

But of course, it's all in my head. You don't know me. You never did. I burn for you in degrees of Kelvin, but a billion miles away, you raise your head towards the sky and see yet another celestial speck trying her hardest to stand out against the starry night. One in a million. One in a billion. And even with everything you do when I am around, there is no indication that you notice the burning agony of the star at all.

The dimness of the room makes her feel nauseous. She wants to throw up. Expel the garbage inside.

I did not know how to react when you came along, a person born anew with confidence interwoven into his sinews and rebellion embedded in his skin like an unclean wound. But that was when you still acknowledged me, wasn't it? There is a ball of dust and particles, yes you can see that. Yes, you see the chemical reaction -- memories of the slightest looks in her direction, the fleeting conversations -- a nuclear fusion exploding in bursts of tormented passion, jolts of light. But you cannot feel. I wrote a song for you once. There was a lonely architect who built and sculpted an entire labyrinth crafted from vignettes and poetry. The foolish architect buried her heart at the center of the maze. Perhaps the hero will come; perhaps he will slay the Minotaur clawing away at her insides. Relieve her from the dread of knowing but not knowing.

Her drink remains untouched. She'd briefly entertained the cliched notion of "drowning her sorrows away" but that would have been foolish. She'd only be in a worse mood later.

But you are not a star, transfixed in one place as the others pass on by. No one waits in this world. And now, all the things you do mean nothing more than our lives here on this planet. We come and go; we live and die. Your skin -- unblemished and polished like marble -- will one day disintegrate at the slightest touch. Your skin and bones, formed of stardust, will return to their former selves and turn into something beautiful.

The singer steps off the stage amidst good-natured applause. He had been decent. None of the nasal whining, none of the raspy growling that reminded her of a dying, feral animal clawing for its last breath.

You turn your back to me. And yet you know, you know I love you so. You know I love you so.

She pays no attention as another man steps into the spotlight. Her head feels like shit. She should have gone back home, perhaps done something productive. She stands up, preparing to leave, when the familiar chords envelop the room and slither around her throat. She cannot breathe.

I still remember. You were there that one night. I hadn't expected you to see you in my house at all. Last I heard, you were oceans away on the other side of the world. And here you are, sitting on the carpet with my brother's guitar cradled in your arms. And that melody, those lyrics, those chords. I still remember.

"OH, NO, NOT THAT SONG. I CAN'T STAND THAT SONG."

I would have swam across, I would have jumped across the ocean for you. But what could I have done? There was nothing to do that could change your mind. They never told me how long you would be gone. I had assumed you were never coming back.

She claws her way to the stage. Anything to turn the music off. Anything to prevent the repressed memories from bubbling back to the surface. Her body no longer functions consciously as she unleashes years of anger and frustration in a torrent of violence, like a wounded animal snapping and snarling in self-defense.

Maybe if I drew a line. If I drew a line for you separating me and you, would you look at me in the eye again? Cut along the dotted line and split my heart in two. Whatever it takes, anything to bring you back to me -- I would have done it all for you.

She is blind. Something hot, something wet clings to her eyes, and she cannot see. She hears shouts and cries -- who is making all the noise? Who is the one screaming, wailing as if being burned alive?

For you, I'd bleed myself dry.
For you, I'd bleed myself dry.

She feels heavy pressure on her arms, attempting to pin her down and hold her still. She tries to break free, but each time, they pin her down even tighter, until she can no longer move.

It's true.
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine

The sirens finally cease their wailing. As they drag her out of the building, she looks up into the sky. The stars -- hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, trillions of them -- all look exactly the same to us on this earth. One will die; another will take its place. Dispensable. Forgettable.

Hey you. Tell me, what happens to a star when it dies? Will it incinerate everything around in a colossal explosion?

Or will it silently collapse in on itself, a victim of its own flame -- burning and burning until it has burned itself out?

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And all the things you do.