My So-Called Life

"Looking back at my fifteen-year-old self, it surprises me that I didn’t actually split into several pieces of teenage mercury, all rolling off in different directions, or try to live a double life of some sort, where at one school I was a prize-winning bassoonist, and at another, a patchouli-wearing hippie. I was not particularly bad or good but hovered somewhere in the middle, always a plain-faced Angela Chase, too earthly for the truly beautiful boys and too vain for the pimply ones. My parents were married; I did well in the classes that I liked and well enough in the others. Even at the apex of hormonal lunacy, I always possessed a stability that was too boring to be believed."

-- Emma Straub, "My Rayannes"

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That pretty much describes me in a nutshell.

Saturday Night

http://www.duke.edu/web/saturdaynight/index.html

I actually wrote a longer post about this yesterday, but I decided my words were unnecessary. Read the stories on this website if you have time. Some of those stories make me want to cry. I feel like it's shame that the publication no longer exists at Duke, because I would bet anything that those stories of rape and sexual assault are still happening today. And not just at Duke, but on college campuses everywhere.

Tower of Babel

"Oh Mom" by T.O.P.
Translated from Korean to French

Chaque jour passe frénétiquement
A présent, te voir est devenu précieux
Tout dans cet univers est devenu magnifique
J’en suis arrivé a aimer ce que tu aimes
Je suis devenu mauvais. Il n’y a plus eu de réponse
Désolé je suis désolé au revoir TOP
Oh maman, qu’est ce que je suis censé faire maman
Un égoïsme plus brulant que le feu me tourmente. Oh mon dieu
Oh maman, je promets maman, qu’est ce que je peux faire
Maintenant, je le sais. Oh mon dieu, oh mon dieu

Un jour gris, je reçois une lettre
Ta situation me fait pleurer
Si ma voix illumine ton monde
De plus en plus fort, je crierais
Nananana nananana, est-ce que tu entends mon cœur lourd
Mon amie, sèche tes larmes, je te trouve plus jolie lorsque tu souris
Désolé je suis désolé oh mon dieu
Bébé ne pleure pas, tu es seulement étourdie
Ne t'inquiètes pas, cela peut être de la solitude, mais tu n’es pas la seule
Vois a tes cotes, tu n’es pas seule
Ne pleure pas, tu es seulement étourdie
Ne t'inquiètes pas, cela peut être de la solitude, mais tu n’es pas la seule
Vois a tes cotes, tu n’es pas seule

La vie est étrange, c’est dangereux de jouer avec le feu
Ces obstacles ne sont qu’une restriction de la vie. Tout n’est qu’énergie pour ton cœur alors
Garde le tête haute
Oh maman, qu’est ce que je suis censé faire maman
Un égoïsme plus brulant que le feu me tourmente. Oh mon dieu
Oh maman, je promets maman, qu’est ce que je peux faire
Maintenant, je le sais. Oh mon dieu, oh mon dieu
Oh maman
Oh maman

------------------
I'm not good with languages, but I love listening to the sound of the language even if I don't understand the lyrics. I listen to a number of songs by international artists -- Jena Lee (French), OLIVIA (Japanese), Mecano (Spanish), Big Bang (Korean), Tokio Hotel (I prefer the German versions of their songs), Jay Chou (Chinese) to name a few from my playlist.

I especially like rap in a foreign language. The rhythmic sound of syllables trickling one after the other -- even if I don't understand the words, I can still feel what the words convey. I actually don't like it when T.O.P. raps in English. Something is lost when he tries rapping in a different language. My favorite is probably his rap in "Forever with You" -- there's a certain sadness in the song that is balanced by the reassurance of his deep, rhythmic voice. I could recognize that voice anywhere.

an update on my life

If you couldn't tell from recent posts, I just went through another bout of depression last week. And when I mean depression, I mean the periods of time when I feel very unhappy with everything about myself, very pessimistic about the future, and all I want to do is escape the world, the society and its prescribed system.

There are multiple causes I could probably pinpoint. One of which was that I'd let myself become delusional about a boy again, so yesterday I resolved to sever myself from paying so much attention to that one unwary person, even if it would leave me with the phantom limb. Another is that the events of the last week of my winter break had still left me in a vulnerable state. I feel like I am more sensitive about my friendships than ever -- I am now hypersensitive to how my friends behave -- are they ignoring me? Neglecting me? Annoyed by me? Can I trust this person? Am I ignoring this person? Am I being a bad friend? And quite simply, my depression may have also stemmed from the fact that I just don't like having to study again in this pressure-cooker environment. I also think that reading Girl, Interrupted for my Pathologizing Race and Gender class made me more acutely aware of all my unhappiness, since I think part of happiness is being able to forget about your inherent state of gloom.

Anyways, there is news I want to share. It's supposed to be a secret though, so I'm trusting that those of you who know me in person will not go around sharing this with other people. The fact that you even know about this blog (especially after I changed the url) is proof of just how much I trust you.

I'd been doing rush events for the past two weeks for a sorority. Originally, I had no interest in sororities -- because honestly, those of you who know me in person -- can you see me in one? I abhor obligatory socializing and small talk. I grew up as a tomboy and even now I hate nail polish and I don't particularly enjoy doing "girly" social events like baking together. One of the reasons I rushed was because a good friend of mine was doing it.

Even as I was rushing, I didn't know if I wanted to do it. A part of me was still struggling with the fact that I had NEVER seen myself as that sort of girl. The other thing is that when you join a group of girls like that, people automatically make judgments about you. And as someone who actually cares a lot more about how people see her than she wants to admit, I wasn't sure if I was comfortable with being pigeon-holed as the "sorority girl." I mean, Sophelia -- the cynical and sarcastic girl who has always prided herself for following the toot of her own horn? No way. My close high school friend even told me when I was talking to her about this, "You were the last person out of all our friends that I would have expected to rush for a sorority."

But why did I keep going? The reason I give to people is that I want to expand my social circle, network with other girls beyond Duke, and challenge myself to get out of my comfort zone. Sounds very moving and all, right?

I haven't told anybody, but I think the underlying reason goes deeper than that. I haven't even sorted it out coherently myself, so I won't expand on that here.

In any case, I just received a bid for the sorority this afternoon. I have to make my decision by midnight, and although I'm not supposed to tell anybody about this, I wouldn't have even if they hadn't told me so. I like keeping people in the dark, especially the poor friend who has been agonizing for weeks over whether or not I want to join the sorority with her. But I've always been that kind of person. I've kept my secrets to myself and I don't like being the topic of conversation. Inevitably if I accept the bid, I will become a topic of conversation. People will start judging me, whether good or bad.

It scares me like you wouldn't believe. But I think I'm going to accept the bid.

Girl, Interrupted

If you need a thought-provoking book to read anytime soon, I highly recommend Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen.

I've always had my questions about the label of depression and other mental diagnoses. Reading this book has convinced me that I am not sane, whatever the definition of the word may be. What does sane even mean? What is madness? It seems we arbitrarily decide that someone is "ill" if they act against what we as society determine to be "wrong" behavior.

Is someone considered depressed even if she shows no intention of taking her own life? Is depression something to be worried about then, if there's no danger of suicide?

Is it normal for a girl to continuously fall for the guys who have never given her the light of day? Or does that make her erotomanic?

I think one obvious "abnormal behavior" we think of in regards to mental illness in young adults is self-mutilation. Cutting, banging, that's not me, right?

Then I remembered that I once "operated" on my own skin out of curiosity. One day, I was sitting in class for organic chemistry and started scratching at a mole that had formed on my finger. Eventually, the top layer of skin came off, thin as a spider web, taking the tiny pigmented spot along with it and leaving no trace or scar. Intrigued, I went back to the house later that day and started another operation on a different mole on my left hand. This time, I was actually left with a scar.

Is this considered self-mutilation? My action seemed to be out of boredom more than anything.

I'm not Edward Cullen. I can't read other people's minds, so what's a normal thought? Are my thoughts normal? Or am I actually abnormal, insane? Would people freak out if they could actually read my mind?

What happens when somebody doesn't fit into the system that society has created? Susanna Kaysen couldn't see herself following the prescribed path -- going to college, getting a job, getting married, having kids. Am I the only one who also had these thoughts about the system when I was in high school, as I was working my ass off in AP classes and filling out college applications? Am I better at deluding myself into playing the system -- and if that's true, does that mean Kaysen is saner than the rest of us who had these doubts?

One of my fears in regards to my writing is that as I am officially no longer a teenager in three months, will I still be able to write with the voice of a teenager? You would not believe in how many different ways I've learned this January that I still have yet to grow up. It turns out I'm growing up right alongside my characters as I continue to wrestle with my writing.

I loled.

fleeting

her allure lies not with her looks or her clothes, but with how the briefest flash of her smile can leave you blinded for hours.

the questions:
how do you trap electricity in a bottle?
how do you catch a smile so that no one else can see it, so that it belongs to no one else but you?

i don't think you're attractive when i see you in photographs. but it's a different story when you're in motion. the beauty that can't be captured -- i think you're the rarest kind of all.

make shit happen

I need to make this my motto.

Toute Seule

I don't even know why, but the feeling struck me tonight like a hurtling wave, and then suddenly I felt as if I were drowning. I felt utterly alone and friendless. It was as if all hope had been extinguished, and I had nothing left to look forward to anymore. Which doesn't even make sense, because classes have barely started and it's not like I'm a complete loner either.

It's like that moment when those dreams of yours seem like they're never going to come true. It's as if your life has no meaning.

The Art of Courtship

Today was my first day of lab for Bio 102L. Most of the time was spent in the university's greenhouses, which felt stupendously Hogwarts-ish to me. A small chunk of time was spent preparing our Generation 1 fruit flies for sex so we can study their great grandchildren within a few weeks.

And when I say I was preparing them for sex, I mean combining the sex-segregated tubes of flies together so that the males can actually get to the females. Ha-ha.

Later, my lab TA decided to show us the above video to demonstrate the flies' courtship song. All I have to say is that this video made me VERY GLAD that I am a member of a species that regards the act of courtship much more artfully than say, these Drosophila -- that was pretty much the equivalent of a guy stalking behind you while hooting catcalls and then suddenly leaping onto you in an attempt to sow his seeds in your fertile ground.

Yeah, I am not complaining the next time I go to a club.

Bloodstream

Wake up, look me in the eyes again.
I need to feel your hand upon my face.

We sit side by side, the left earbud in my left, the right earbud in your right. An umbilical cord extending from ear to ear, tangled and intertwined.

Words can be like knives.
They can cut you open
and the silence surrounds you
and haunts you.

Don't speak. Just listen.

I think I might have inhaled you.
I could feel you behind my eyes
You've gotten into my bloodstream
I could feel you floating in me

My life is a cinematic masterpiece in progress. I choose my own soundtrack. The murmuring piano motif, the soaring howl of the guitar, the pregnant silences -- they are the trembling melody to the pulsing bass of the beating heart.

The spaces in between
Two minds and all the places they have been
The spaces in between
I tried to put my finger on it
I tried to put my finger on it

We are two fetuses, pure and virginal. Eyes closed, hands balled up in tiny curled fists, we are neither here nor there.

I think I might have inhaled you.
I could feel you behind my eyes
You've gotten into my bloodstream
I could feel you floating in me

This will be the song that plays when we begin.
This will be the song that plays when we end.

I think I might have inhaled you.
I could feel you behind my eyes
You've gotten into my bloodstream
I could feel you floating in me

----------------------
"Bloodstream" by Stainless. Beautiful song.

Tiger Mom

It feels like everybody has been talking about this article recently about the parenting methods of the Asian mother: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html?KEYWORDS=tiger+mother

This was part of Gene Luen Yang's cartoon response to the whole hullabaloo, which kind of echoes my own sentiments:

I actually showed my mother the article, and she pretty much said exactly what the above cartoon says right there.

I feel like way too much has been said about this already -- perhaps more eloquently then I can at the moment. But really, I'm disgusted by some of the sentiments that are out there. Apparently Amy Chua has received death threats about her parenting. REALLY NOW? Her kid seems perfectly fine and level-headed to me -- and if we're sending death threats to mothers who are actually caring about their kids, why don't people start threatening the mothers who completely neglect their children and play no part in their lives?

The complexities of parenting are no news to me -- having been raised by a mother with her own set of somewhat strict rules, I know my mother disagrees with some of the parenting methods of my peers' parents. But it's not like my mother would march up to their doors and tell the other families they're doing it wrong. It's really none of our business.

I like to joke with my friends that there is no good English translation for the Chinese verb 罵 (ma4). "Scold" and "lecture" are too mild; "yell" isn't quite the same thing; "curse" and "swear" are too vulgar. This is the verb you would use to describe when a parent admonishes her kid, but it's not a "let's-sit-down-and-talk-about-what-you-did-wrong" -- this can usually reach a certain decibel at which your dog realizes it's time to run off to another room until the storm is over. I really think it's a cultural thing -- and much of the backlash against Amy Chua is the problem of not understanding the cultural issues that are inherent in this kind of parenting style.

Honestly, think whatever you think. Personally, I think I turned out fine, though maybe you think otherwise. I think this blog is a testament that my creativity is far from suffocated -- rejecting the argument Chua critics like to make about how her method stifles her children's creativity. I think I've referenced Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers before in this blog, but I still believe in his 10000-Hour Rule. There's no question that some people are born with more talent than others. But that talent doesn't get you anywhere unless you actually hone it with practice. I learned this over and over again in my youth, whether I was practicing for tennis or practicing for piano. I don't think I am particularly talented in either one -- but what made everyone think I was so good at it in high school was simply how much work I put into it. During my three years of middle school, I played 2.5 hours of tennis and 1 hour of piano every day, seven days a week. That makes approximately 2700 hours of tennis and 1100 hours of piano -- and that's only in middle school. I started piano when I was five years old, and I was still doing both tennis and piano in high school.

How does a pre-teen kid develop the persistence and discipline to play 2.5 hours of tennis and sit in front of the piano for an hour every day? Bow down to the Tiger Mom.

Three Dresses

Madame Roger Jourdain (1886), Paul Albert Besnard

1. I went to the Postmodernism exhibit at the De Young Museum in San Francisco a few days before I went back to school. Not as impressive as the "Birth of Impressionism" exhibit that I went to over the summer, in my opinion. I really liked this particular painting though. Picture quality sucks -- but this Madame Jourdain's posture is just so elegant, and there's such a dreamy, night quality to the colors. She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn wearing the Givenchy gown in Sabrina.

2. Speaking of Audrey Hepburn, at the behest of my mother Graydyl and I watched Roman Holiday over the winter break. I must say, having grown up watching black-and-white Old Hollywood movies with my mother while I was too young to understand the plot, I can now fully appreciate the artistry of Roman Holiday. All the little details are what makes the film's premise come alive. Even today, the jokes are still funny. It's a stark contrast to today's romantic comedies that don't really have the same quiet charm -- instead, there is heavy emphasis on sex, which in their defense I suppose reflects the values of today's society. As an analogy, Roman Holiday is the guy who lets a joke slip out and if you're not attentive enough to catch it, all you'll see is the lingering, secretive smile of amusement; whereas your typical romantic comedy of today is one of those guys who cracks out a loud, raunchy joke with an accompanying guffaw, and if the reception is good, proceeds to repeat it over and over again.

Olivia Wilde in Marchesa, 2011 Golden Globes

3. I didn't actually watch the Golden Globes, but as with most award shows I usually make a point to look at the photos of the dresses. Olivia Wilde's was my favorite, and surprise surprise -- the design was by Marchesa. Me like shiny, pretty things. Still undecided about the hair for the red carpet, but considering that's the hairstyle I've been growing my hair out for -- bangs with long, straight hair -- I'll give it a thumbs up. But I give a thumbs down for the photos where Olivia Wilde sticks her leg out from under the dress to show off her gold Christian Louboutin shoes. She just looked weird sticking her leg out... kinda like a dog at a fire hydrant.


I must say though, the shoes were badass. Even the Badass One would approve, if he cared about women's fashion.

"I think there was no other profession for me. I was either going into an insane asylum or going to be an actor." -- Olivia Wilde

heartbreak warfare

Lightning strikes
Inside my chest to keep me up at night
Dream of ways
To make you understand my pain

-- "Heartbreak Warfare" by John Mayer

she thinks you're gay, you know. you came up in one of our late-night conversations last semester -- the ones when we're about to doze off to sleep and we start sharing all our secrets. i didn't affirm or refute her conjecture -- after all, 1) my gaydar sucks; 2) i only know you by name and an assortment of rumors/gossip and have no right to make that sort of judgment; 3) you look no more feminine than the male k-pop stars she adores. she'd always told me that she liked "pretty boys", so when she pointed you out at the party last night, mentioning again how "gay" you look, i ignored her.

i actually think you're her type. tall. skinny. dark hair. cute smile -- the kind when your eyes smile too.

and i secretly don't agree with her. she bagged on your gray muffler, but a scarf does not a gay man make.

and if i had any doubts last semester that you don't recognize me by sight, i have had little doubt in the past three days since classes began again. it's one of those awkward situations when we know we have mutual friends but we don't quite know how to start the conversation with each other.

we made eye contact once last night. it may have been twice -- there was once where i looked up and you were crouched ahead of me on the carpet amidst the crowd of bacchanalian revelers, picking up one of the pong balls tossed astray. but there was once -- that moment where i looked up and found that we were both staring at each other -- when the lightning struck my chest and i immediately tore my eyes away.

and if that weren't enough, it was as if the lightning strike had ignited something within my chest, caused something within me to germinate and take hold as I slept last night, until i was ensnared in my own mind's castle, surrounded by a maze of hedges and thorns.

i'll tell you what happened -- i had the most vivid, most complete dream i have had in a long time. i dreamt that we were dating -- with you in your gray muffler, me in my purple one. i don't know how my brain could conjure such a detailed dream about being a relationship -- as i have been single all my life -- but those emotions were real.

astrid once told me, "all i really wanted was someone who made me feel safe, so that when the situation slashes my gut like snowden and all my brutal, ugly vulnerabilities tumble out, i experience the warm relief of release rather than the cold nakedness of shame." that's what it felt like -- with you, i was safe. whether it was your arms around my waist or your lips grazing my face, there was a warmth i had never felt in all my 19 years.

and then you dumped me. the extent of my defenselessness, dependency, and addiction unfolded before me, and i went mad. i never groveled -- i was too proud for that -- but i found myself chasing after you, begging you to give me a reason why you would do this to me. but you wouldn't turn around to face me. you gave me some vague non-answer and walked away from my life, but the damage had already been done.

you might actually be gay, though my past experiences with fashionable guy friends tells me otherwise. (just because they dress better does not automatically mean they are homosexual.) but it won't make much of a difference, because i already know this essential truth about me -- that every boy i have ever met has fallen short of the ideal that my mind has created. i am not so much enamored by you than by the image of you that my brain has spun.

the unhealthy truth is, i use you to project what i wish to see. that is why i keep getting myself caught in these traps of observing the boys i've never spoken to before. that is why ever since i saw you for the first time last spring, i can't seem to keep my eyes off of you.

You look good from far away

like all those times in autumn
when i'd recognize the slope of your shoulders

but then today i saw you up close:

1. sitting only a seat away from me in class in that same lecture hall
2. waving hi to her while she was talking to me in the bookstore
3. loitering around the b-center walkway as she and I left the bookstore nearly ten minutes after you'd left
4. catching a conversation with her in the Great Hall as I stood awkwardly to the side.
5. walking by the cash register in the cafeteria that evening.

(that's a record number in one day)

it feels disgusting
the way my mind practices this alchemy over and over
of turning the ordinary things into the extraordinary
of perceiving the glittering of gold from the rusting of iron

Ever After

Zac Efron & Vanessa Hudgens as Disney's Sleeping Beauty

"The knight slays the dragon and then lives happily ever after with the princess in the castle, but when they've moved in together, they have to share a bathroom. How do you keep love alive in a domestic situation? What is it about that that dismantles love?"

-- Ryan Gosling, on Blue Valentine

Paralytic

i am rocks, iron lungs, dust bags moving in and out. watch the smog rise out of my mouth, a writhing eel of dust and insect parts rises out to kiss you. my dreams don't come true, you know. but you already knew that. there's the girl covered in ashes but she's not your little cinderella bejeweled and bedazzled -- no, her cinders are the parts of her that keep falling away in crumbling charcoal chunks each time the clock strikes twelve. the fire keeps burning and burning but there's no reprieve, no dash of ice water to wash away the nightmare.

she wonders as the flames lick the core -- does the phoenix possess the knowledge that it will be reborn, or does it relive the agony of dying over and over again?

My New Year's Resolution is...

... to keep secrets to myself, lest I want to be chomped on the butt in the long run.

In other words, stop gossiping.

With a Cherry on T.O.P.

In case you haven't figured out yet from reading this blog, I was a late bloomer. When my ex-roommates grumbled about their singledom during last year's Valentine's Day angst, I couldn't quite relate -- after all, having lived through eighteen Valentine's Days with nary a paramour to share the day with, the holiday to me is quite like any other day in the year.

But this goes back even further. Back when my first grade buddies were squealing about N'Sync, Backstreet Boys, and oh yes -- Leonardo DiCaprio, the much-better-looking-90s-equivalent-of-today's-Robert-Pattinson-mania, with his boyish good looks as Jack Dawson of Titanic -- I could have cared less. People swooned over the Disney Princes, while the only animated character I was remotely fond of was Dmitri of Anastasia -- and that can likely be attributed to both my lifelong fascination with male hairstyles and my absolute infatuation with the film itself.

But you would think something would change in middle and high school. You would think I would have swooned over Johnny Depp of the Pirates of the Carribean trilogy, over Orlando Bloom as Legolas of the Lord of the RIngs trilogy, or over Brad Pitt as Achilles in Troy like everyone else in middle school; and fine, if you're going to play the race card, maybe I should have been swooning over the stars in the Asian dramas I was watching in high school, like Oguri Shun (Hana Yori Dango) or Daniel Henney (My Name is Kim Samsoon). Don't get me wrong, I thought they were good-looking. But I didn't really have that sort of devotion that, say, my mother has towards Cary Grant.

Cary Grant: for those of you unfamiliar with Old Hollywood, think George Clooney except more mystery and intrigue

No. I was never much of a fangirl. At least, not until Gov. J sent me the link to the music video for "Haru Haru" in her attempt to get me to fawn over her beloved Taeyang, and I set eyes for the first time on -- who else?

G-Dragon: OM EM GEE. SO IRRESISTIBLE. SO MAGNETIZING.
T.O.P.: Dude, no homo.

Granted, I sorta kinda hated the video. I am not even joking when I say it seems like every Asian musician must make a weepy music video with a dying girl in a hospital at some point in his career. Maybe I am just dense about these things, but I could not for the life of T.O.P. figure out what the hell was going on in that video. The girl died at the end, right? If she and everyone else knew she was going to die, why on Earth did everyone keep it a secret from GD? And why did she start the fling with T.O.P. when it was so obvious that GD was still in love with her? These sort of fascinating questions are never considered in film and music criticism, but whatever. My explanation is that the girl, in face of imminent death, decided that her dying wish was to canoodle with the King of Badassery himself on a date in a snazzy car in a parking garage (yes, unconventional first date location, but leave it to Him to keep things original), and so she dumped a pitiable eyeliner-crazy GD. Carpe diem and all that jazz.

And so, that's how it started. My "idol worship" didn't really kick off, however, until I wrote that post about the heretical impostor from F.Cuz and started the whole Cult of Badassery running gag. That's when I realized, "Hey it's actually A LOT OF FUN writing this stuff!!" And so, as of this post there have been seven posts on this blog listed under the tag "Idol Worship." I cannot deny that when I am inspired, writing these satirical stabs at idol worship and religion is personally very entertaining, and it gives me an excuse to fawn over the Badass One himself.

Offline though, I don't think I act like much of a fangirl in person. Granted, I have photos of the Badass One on my dorm room wall, but they hardly take up any space in comparison to my Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's poster. My friends are aware of my "infatuation" but rarely does the topic enter the conversation. I don't make His image my laptop or cell phone wallpaper. I don't know and can't say any of His Korean lyrics. I don't gush about Him on online forums or other websites. I make a pretty lame fan, come to think of it.

Then it occurred to me this winter break that I come across as obsessed on this blog. After all, any time I mention Him here, I start capitalizing all the pronouns and referring him by titles such as "The King of All Things Badass" and "the Badass One." So, when I got introduced to a friend's cousin last week as a supreme Big Bang/T.O.P. fan, I was like, "Whoa, do I really come across as a mega fan?"

And so, I reread my old posts, and the answer, I must confess, was a resounding yes.

In any case (I got a little sidetracked)... POINT IS, the King of All Things Badass remains my sole celebrity obsession and He never ceases to provide ample material for me to blog about. And now, at Graydyl's behest, I give you another commentary on the One and Only...

T.O.P.

As any devout follower of Badassery would know, the King has recently been making the headlines, thanks to His unit promotion with GD. As any follower of this blog would know, I am more than dismayed by His recent choice of hairstyling.


O Badass One, I know I have not yet reached the Nirvana realm of Badassery, for it has been almost a month since you first debuted this hairstyle and I still cannot get over the fact that your hair looks like somebody went up to Draco Malfoy and chomped off the back sides with a lawnmower before he could make up his mind if he wanted to go for a mohawk or not. The only redeeming factor is that when unpouffed, your hair possesses an uncanny resemblance to Andy Warhol's.

I must confess, the pleasure I take in watching your recent music videos for "High High" and "Knock Out" has been diminished by the fact that I cannot help but notice that you now join the white-hair-buzz-cut league that boasts of these two fellows:

Left: Colonel Quaritch of Avatar, Right: Chip Hazard of Small Soldiers

Nevertheless, there is no denying that your sense of style is as sharp as always.


The problem, though, is that now I have the inexplicable urge to take a Sharpie and color in your hair.

But enough about the hair. O Badass One, I must admit that I did not like the new songs at first -- but a couple of them have grown on me in the past week. I have been quite fond of "Oh Mom" since the start, for you must have heard my prayers and answered with a kickass track with two of the things I love best -- rock music and THAT voice. And I will admit that I didn't like "Knock Out" much, until I watched the music video and the song got stuck in my head.

But Your Badassness, allow me to make one more complaint before I conclude this ridiculously long post.

See this? Let's pretend that graphic on the back of the shirt doesn't exist. Even in a boring ol' white dress shirt and black pants -- EVEN WITH THAT TUFT OF WHITE HAIR -- the Badass One can make panties melt with just a sidelong glance.

So please. Stop hiring those skimpy, leotard-clad bunny back-up dancers in your music videos. Stop hiring those face-painted glitter-splashed Caucasian models slinking around you in pastel midriff tops. It's a waste of money and it's complete overkill, for the King of All Things Badass may be forever badass, but He starts to look a lot less sexy when He looks like He is trying too hard.

Unless, of course, the recent appearance of Caucasian models in your music videos is foreshadowing an imminent trip to the United States. Then by all means, carry on.

Epiphany

Sometimes you write yourself into a corner. You can't quite figure out how to make it work but you don't know what else to do, partly because you've plotted the storyline this way forever and you can't see any other possibility.

And then suddenly, you get this massive epiphany. It's an idea you can't let go of, and once you sit down and start molding it in your hands, you are amazed -- and thrilled -- by how perfectly it clicks. Suddenly, the character motivations become infinitely clearer; the dramatic suspense and mystery is multiplied ten-fold; the themes you wanted to explore rise out of the fog, fully-formed and coherent.

I had been having problems with Rory's storyline forever. It wasn't enough that Her Highness disbanded because Rory had died. There needed to be a better reason why the three would not talk for more than a year. Furthermore, I could never figure out the motivations for Rhys. His transformation stemmed from a combination of grief and guilt, but I had yet to find a substantial reason for guilt. More than anything though, I needed to figure out a better way to make Rory, who had been at the top of the social hierarchy, fall all the way down.

I have finally found the answer -- the event that triggered Rory's fall. It's something that leaves everyone with a tortuous shred of guilt -- enough that they cannot face each other in the aftermath of her death, because everyone's selfishness shares part of the blame.

I am notorious among my friends for living a very boring, drama-free life. Graydyl even said that she never asks me about my life when we meet up because I never have anything new to report. This winter, I was suddenly reminded of why I either consciously or subconsciously avoid drama.

So many of my faults rose up to face me -- my tendency to judge others according to my own moral standard; my inability to look at an event from someone else's shoes; my long-harbored insecurity of feeling left out and betrayed by friends; and most importantly, my very very very bad inability to keep my mouth shut and play the ignorant fool.

For someone so repelled by drama in her own life, I had always wondered if this would weaken my ability to create fictional drama. This epiphany is a testament that yes, I have a long, long way to go.

And that, my friends, is how my 2011 began.

Les esclandres

Je suis trop naive. J'ai vécu dans une bulle depuis trop longtemps.

Cet hiver, ma vie a changé.