These days, sometimes it feels like my life has collided with a script of fiction. I've lived inside my head for the majority of my life, envisioning entire dialogues and acts that I never expected to materialize from these fermented daydreams into some iteration of reality.
We sit across the table from each other in the living room. He never cooks unless I'm visiting. This time, there is a dish of baked panko-breaded chicken and a bowl of quinoa and kale. We drink red wine from Starbucks mugs because we're too lazy to look for the glasses. The conversation jumps from topic to topic without feeling forced, and somehow we end up talking about our classmates. He tells me that it's funny to reflect on how much he misjudged certain people, and I ask him if he misjudged me. He says yes at first, and then pauses. He covers his eyes and lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh, until I suddenly realize that he's trying not to cry.
I walk to his side as he covers his face in embarrassment. He is still seated as I stand beside him and gently pull him towards me. When he finally manages to speak, he says he feels like I deserve someone better. That he can't believe his luck in how he managed to end up with someone like me. I stroke his back, his shoulders, and I tell him that I find myself thinking the same thing from time to time. That I've been waiting all my life for someone like him. You deserve this. You deserve all of this. My voice comes out in a low murmur, but the words aren't just for him. The words are just as much for me.
June 29, 2015
June 18, 2015
ugh
Currently working on Chapter 24, which is already proving to be draining to write.
To build a realistic barrage of cyberbullying that Her Highness receives, I've spent the past hour intentionally looking at articles about Internet flaming. I reread the article I wrote about last year on Emily Gould and Keith Gessen, this post I archived from Curt Schilling's blog about the obscene tweets he got after congratulating his daughter on Twitter, dozens of articles about people like Anita Sarkeesian and prominent female writers receiving hate mail and crap. You can't even make this shit up. I literally feel nauseous from having read this stuff for an hour.
Last year, I briefly touched on the UCSB shooting. This incident hit closer to home for me--one of the victims was my brother's high school classmate. What I didn't write about then was the misogynistic motives behind that shooting. This article gives an inside look at the online community the shooter used to hang around. It is fucking appalling. I want to say that I don't know anyone who spews out the same vitriol about girls being sluts, bemoaning their lack of getting laid because of "shallow" girls, but how do I know if these people I interact with put on a face in public and then unleash all this venom on the Internet? One comment on that article gave me pause:
Since coming to med school, I've had more close guy friends than I've ever had in my life. And I've definitely heard iterations of this from them. I would like to think my friends are good people who wouldn't flame others online, who may complain about dating culture but not because they think women are hos for not sleeping with them. It takes a disturbed person to resort to mass murder in order to validate some "manifesto." But the lines of reasoning behind it are not unique to the murderous. More than likely, there are people around you who have ugly thoughts--perhaps less hateful, more diluted version--and hopefully, they are not the type of people who will choose to manifest this hatred beyond the confines of their brains.
Edit//
I've been reading articles about the church shooting, Charleston, SC. It's all relevant to this. The news stations are already tossing out "mental condition" and "mental illness" in regards to the shooter, but there are others without murderous intent who harbor the same vein of thoughts as the shooter. In light of the Black Lives Matter movement from this past year, you can't deny that there is an insidious bigotry that is pervasive throughout the country.
I don't know if this is the most appropriate way to reflect on this, but I've thought about what if I were in a similar situation. What if America's fear of China as a superpower suddenly climaxes into a massive sweep of xenophobia, and I start seeing stories in the news about attacks against Asians again and again? Would I feel safe in this country? The plight of blacks and Asians in America are not analogous in historical and socioeconomic context, but it's a starting point for me to understand what the current climate is right now. And really, it's quite disheartening.
To build a realistic barrage of cyberbullying that Her Highness receives, I've spent the past hour intentionally looking at articles about Internet flaming. I reread the article I wrote about last year on Emily Gould and Keith Gessen, this post I archived from Curt Schilling's blog about the obscene tweets he got after congratulating his daughter on Twitter, dozens of articles about people like Anita Sarkeesian and prominent female writers receiving hate mail and crap. You can't even make this shit up. I literally feel nauseous from having read this stuff for an hour.
Last year, I briefly touched on the UCSB shooting. This incident hit closer to home for me--one of the victims was my brother's high school classmate. What I didn't write about then was the misogynistic motives behind that shooting. This article gives an inside look at the online community the shooter used to hang around. It is fucking appalling. I want to say that I don't know anyone who spews out the same vitriol about girls being sluts, bemoaning their lack of getting laid because of "shallow" girls, but how do I know if these people I interact with put on a face in public and then unleash all this venom on the Internet? One comment on that article gave me pause:
"these people are sick. on the other hand i'm a straight guy and i can't say i've never felt some of those emotions before. feeling like no one attracted to you and people think you're a creep sucks. and asking someone out sucks too because then they have the power because you're the one who likes them."
Since coming to med school, I've had more close guy friends than I've ever had in my life. And I've definitely heard iterations of this from them. I would like to think my friends are good people who wouldn't flame others online, who may complain about dating culture but not because they think women are hos for not sleeping with them. It takes a disturbed person to resort to mass murder in order to validate some "manifesto." But the lines of reasoning behind it are not unique to the murderous. More than likely, there are people around you who have ugly thoughts--perhaps less hateful, more diluted version--and hopefully, they are not the type of people who will choose to manifest this hatred beyond the confines of their brains.
Edit//
I've been reading articles about the church shooting, Charleston, SC. It's all relevant to this. The news stations are already tossing out "mental condition" and "mental illness" in regards to the shooter, but there are others without murderous intent who harbor the same vein of thoughts as the shooter. In light of the Black Lives Matter movement from this past year, you can't deny that there is an insidious bigotry that is pervasive throughout the country.
I don't know if this is the most appropriate way to reflect on this, but I've thought about what if I were in a similar situation. What if America's fear of China as a superpower suddenly climaxes into a massive sweep of xenophobia, and I start seeing stories in the news about attacks against Asians again and again? Would I feel safe in this country? The plight of blacks and Asians in America are not analogous in historical and socioeconomic context, but it's a starting point for me to understand what the current climate is right now. And really, it's quite disheartening.
June 15, 2015
Summer Gold
The sun was setting as we sat here, on a boulder underneath the canopy of trees. The first time I'd been here, there were a lot of people, taking pictures of the view on their phones. Children took turns riding the tire swing attached to the giant tree at the top. This time, the swing was gone, and Matisse and I were alone.
Since I left for college, for the most part I've only been in California twice a year. Sometimes, I feel like a visitor to a foreign city, despite the fact that I've spent three-quarters of my life here.
I've also been babysitting my friend's kitten. She's a curious one--strangely affectionate and rather chatty with her squeaky meows. She enjoys chewing on my hair. It's still surprising (and kind of terrifying) how strongly my attachments form. And this refers to not just kitty, but boyfriend as well.
While I babysit her at my friend's condo, in addition to writing, I've also taken advantage of my friend's TV and started watching the show Empire. If you like hip hop music, family drama, a hilarious matriarch with epic one-liners, get on this ish. Cookie is my spirit animal.
June 11, 2015
freefall
i was sitting on the couch the other night
scrolling through some old pictures on my phone
when it suddenly dawned on me
there is a human being in this world who likes me.
What the hell?
Do I have a self-esteem problem? I don't think so. Maybe I did, when I was that quiet kid whose aspirations to be one of the "cool" emo kids were botched by a mother that refused to pay for clothes from Hot Topic and a daily tennis routine that annihilated any hope of pale ghostly skin. But you learn things when you strike out on your own for a while. You learn how to admire without coveting, to scoop yourself out of the fatalistic, pessimistic "why was i born this way" hole and tell yourself in a mantra, "i may have been this way, but who says i have to stay this way?" You grow into your own skin and soon enough, you learn to love the most important person: yourself.
And yet, the idea that someone else might feel the same way is fucking unbelievable.
WHY? ARE YOU INSANE? I want to shake this human by the collar, but I'm too proud to appear as if I am fishing for compliments. Since when did I possess the ability to inspire such grand chivalrous gestures? Since when did anyone ever feel compelled to prepare their heart as an offering to this false idol? The only explanation must be extreme desperation or absolute madness.
I'm not trying to be self-deprecating---"Aw shucks, who would ever feel a thing for sad ole me?" It's just that when you spend your whole life watching the ladies around you pair off with the gentlemen to dance, you start to believe that you're just simply not attractive (to the right people)... and that's okay. Just as you learn to accept that you're never going to be the cool emo kid, you accept your dealt cards and move on with your life.
Until you don't.
scrolling through some old pictures on my phone
when it suddenly dawned on me
there is a human being in this world who likes me.
What the hell?
Do I have a self-esteem problem? I don't think so. Maybe I did, when I was that quiet kid whose aspirations to be one of the "cool" emo kids were botched by a mother that refused to pay for clothes from Hot Topic and a daily tennis routine that annihilated any hope of pale ghostly skin. But you learn things when you strike out on your own for a while. You learn how to admire without coveting, to scoop yourself out of the fatalistic, pessimistic "why was i born this way" hole and tell yourself in a mantra, "i may have been this way, but who says i have to stay this way?" You grow into your own skin and soon enough, you learn to love the most important person: yourself.
And yet, the idea that someone else might feel the same way is fucking unbelievable.
WHY? ARE YOU INSANE? I want to shake this human by the collar, but I'm too proud to appear as if I am fishing for compliments. Since when did I possess the ability to inspire such grand chivalrous gestures? Since when did anyone ever feel compelled to prepare their heart as an offering to this false idol? The only explanation must be extreme desperation or absolute madness.
I'm not trying to be self-deprecating---"Aw shucks, who would ever feel a thing for sad ole me?" It's just that when you spend your whole life watching the ladies around you pair off with the gentlemen to dance, you start to believe that you're just simply not attractive (to the right people)... and that's okay. Just as you learn to accept that you're never going to be the cool emo kid, you accept your dealt cards and move on with your life.
Until you don't.
June 7, 2015
The Cynic
It's a cloudless Saturday afternoon, perfect for sitting under a red patio umbrella and sipping our milk teas. We talk of quarter-life crises and engagement frenzy, and she asks me if I've read Sheryl Sandberg's post from earlier in the week.
I did. I never read Lean In, but something about that post struck a tender part of me, like a muscle you never knew you had until it makes its soreness known. When I saw the photograph of Sheryl Sandberg and David Goldberg at the end of that aching post, that's when I realized what has changed. That when I let someone into my fortress of knives and ice that night in May, I willingly invited the possibility of being gutted from the inside out.
I tell my mother later in the car about how S and I discussed Sheryl Sandberg. It's been six years since S and I first met, and the conversation today was more solemn than it has ever been. We'd spoken of life and death, of how much we've changed in the past six years, and how much more things will change from here. I tell my mother about S's remark, that she could barely imagine the devastation if her boyfriend of almost three years passed away just as suddenly.
My mother replies mildly, "Oh yes, she's really dependent on him."
Her words startle me. "No," I say slowly. "I don't think that's what she meant."
"But she relies on him a lot," my mother says, her eyes on the road. "She lives at his place. He's the breadwinner between the two of them."
Something finally snaps in me. "Jesus, Mom. Why are you so cynical? Maybe she just loves him!"
There's a pause, as if my outburst has surprised her, before she responds with a short dry laugh. "Love? You guys are still young."
The car pulls up into the driveway, and we don't speak of this again.
Perhaps it is just my imagination, but for the rest of that day, my mother is quieter than usual. We hike through the trails in the old mercury mines in the hills behind our house. We stay near each other as the sunset turns the sky from blue to gold to pink, but neither of us speak a word.
I did. I never read Lean In, but something about that post struck a tender part of me, like a muscle you never knew you had until it makes its soreness known. When I saw the photograph of Sheryl Sandberg and David Goldberg at the end of that aching post, that's when I realized what has changed. That when I let someone into my fortress of knives and ice that night in May, I willingly invited the possibility of being gutted from the inside out.
I tell my mother later in the car about how S and I discussed Sheryl Sandberg. It's been six years since S and I first met, and the conversation today was more solemn than it has ever been. We'd spoken of life and death, of how much we've changed in the past six years, and how much more things will change from here. I tell my mother about S's remark, that she could barely imagine the devastation if her boyfriend of almost three years passed away just as suddenly.
My mother replies mildly, "Oh yes, she's really dependent on him."
Her words startle me. "No," I say slowly. "I don't think that's what she meant."
"But she relies on him a lot," my mother says, her eyes on the road. "She lives at his place. He's the breadwinner between the two of them."
Something finally snaps in me. "Jesus, Mom. Why are you so cynical? Maybe she just loves him!"
There's a pause, as if my outburst has surprised her, before she responds with a short dry laugh. "Love? You guys are still young."
The car pulls up into the driveway, and we don't speak of this again.
Perhaps it is just my imagination, but for the rest of that day, my mother is quieter than usual. We hike through the trails in the old mercury mines in the hills behind our house. We stay near each other as the sunset turns the sky from blue to gold to pink, but neither of us speak a word.
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