http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2350077/1/
I almost feel ashamed about writing teen lit. but whatever. you've got to start somewhere.
May 20, 2007
May 18, 2007
You Might Want to Skip This
screw it. I don't care about sounding sophisticated today.
I don't care who ends up reading this long deep personal psychoanalysis. whatever. now you get to know how screwed up I can get.
I am so frustrated. I was practically sailing through the last few months. I don't know what was the turning point. Maybe it was the day I turned sixteen - suddenly, I lost my motivation and my momentum for everything.
I've decided maybe purging all that frustration will help. I used to keep journals and rant in them. Until I found out my family members were reading them. But they're probably less likely to read this here. I only told one person about this blog. I'm pretty sure others know about this by now, but whatever. I'll be flattered if anyone cares.
Tennis
I was playing pretty damn good last month. I won a tournament during Spring Break - the first in a long time. Self-confidence has always been one of my biggest weaknesses on the court, and I thought I managed to solve the problem. I don't know when it happened - probably around the times my allergies suddenly returned after disappearing for about two years. I was completely unmotivated and pissed at myself all the time. My footwork has gotten lazy again and my backhand sucks ass. I'm having a hard time controlling my temper again - a problem I thought I figured out last month.
Writing
Around December, I came up with a brilliant idea - I took a boring looking composition notebook and started scribbling random stuff in it during class. I'm sure my French teacher started wondering why I was suddenly so studious about French when I aced through all her tests anyway. I was writing in that notebook nearly every day. I plotted the entire storyline, did six character sketches, and wrote random vignettes and whatnot. It was the most complex and original idea I had dreamed up of yet. I posted the first chapter online just to see what kind of response I would get. I probably didn't post it at a good hour, but the two responses I got were both very positive. Inspired? No. At some point, I had exhausted all my inspiration. I was almost forcing myself to sit down, and when I'm forced to think, I don't usually get anything done. My muse is dead.
Piano
I'll admit I was somewhat disappointed when I didn't pass the second round of Panel, but it wasn't a big shocker. I knew compared to the top tier students, it would have been all luck if I made it that far. The good thing was, I finally left the teacher I never got along with. I finally switched over to the teacher I truly admire and respect. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Why do I only work hard under extreme pressure? The week before the first round of Panel was Procrastination Week: I played four hours a day for the entire week. My mom could only sigh, "You should have worked that hard from the beginning." And now that it's all over and testing isn't but months away, I'm totally slacking off again!! I should be playing way more than an hour a day. Once again, the motivation to work is gone, the inspiration to actually think about each piece is dead.
The Future
Sixteen sucks. Now you're pressured to start worrying about college and start taking this test and that test and blah. My parents were furious when they found out J and C were both taking the SAT II this June and I had no idea. "WHY DON'T YOU EVER TALK TO YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT THIS STUFF?!" why the hell would I would talk about this stuff when I don't even want to THINK about this stuff? Now my parents are telling me to study study study because I took two practice tests and I didn't get an 800 on either of them.
Plus, they've pretty much assumed that I'll be training for something in the medical field as a career. I don't really have an issue with that, but honestly, I don't know anything about medicine. what if I totally hate it? what if I throw up at the sight of surgery? Though I'm not those weak whiners who scream at the sight of blood. Come to think of it, I had to learn that blood was gross. (In third grade I pricked myself and said casually, "Oh, I'm bleeding!", as if I just talking about something everyday. Like the weather. Meanwhile my friend screamed, "Eww!!! That's gross!")
People usually say something to me like, "Oh you're so artistic! Are you going to take music or writing in college?" The answer is a definite NO. My parents definitely will not pay for me to take anything impractical. The irony is my mom has a Ph.D in art. ART! I asked her once why her parents let her take art. I guess in Taiwan, she could have easily gotten a job teaching Art, perhaps as a professor. I'm not really complaining, I guess. If I can suddenly get so sick of writing, then there really is no point in investing in that sort of thing.
Mental
I have come to the conclusion that you can be depressed without being suicidal.
I don't know if everyone goes through that phase in middle school. The one where you keep wondering who will cry for you after you die? After experiencing three childhood deaths, I've come to the conclusion that people will remember you at first. You're almost an instant celebrity. Then they'll slowly forget about you; maybe once in awhile they'll remember. Well, I was over that stupid phase a long time ago. I am depressed pretty often, but I will never ever take my own life.
My brother and I are complete opposites. He is the optimist, the cocky one. I am the pessimist, or as I prefer, the "realist." I'm rather two-faced as well. I doubt I seem very pessimistic at school; I'm always doing stupid things like coming up with nonsense rhymes for cheesy love poems with G or yelling out loud in the journo room, trying to explain why supermarket eggs don't hatch. I hate how I am 100% introvert. I'm usually not the one to initiate conversations. Sometimes, if I'm not sure how to act around someone, I just avoid looking at him when I know he's probably looking right at me. IT DRIVES ME NUTS.
I don't know if it's a bad thing, but I keep to myself a lot as well. There are some girls who tell their friends EVERYTHING - oh I love so and so or oh I want to have this or that. I don't feel comfortable around people I don't know well. Very few people have seen me go crazy or laughing my head off. I clearly remember two instances when I suddenly exposed my weird side to two people who are now pretty good friends of mine. One of them was with Y. We were walking to practice with J when J suddenly said another one of her clueless statements. I burst out laughing nonstop and Y looked at me as if I had suddenly morphed into an alien. The second was at a Japanese restaurant with W. I was eating green tea ice cream for dessert when my brother made an idiotic remark about the cushions we were sitting on. I was laughing nonstop. W had never seen me laughing that hard - he though they had drugged my ice cream.
I've got a big match tomorrow. More another time. :]
I don't care who ends up reading this long deep personal psychoanalysis. whatever. now you get to know how screwed up I can get.
I am so frustrated. I was practically sailing through the last few months. I don't know what was the turning point. Maybe it was the day I turned sixteen - suddenly, I lost my motivation and my momentum for everything.
I've decided maybe purging all that frustration will help. I used to keep journals and rant in them. Until I found out my family members were reading them. But they're probably less likely to read this here. I only told one person about this blog. I'm pretty sure others know about this by now, but whatever. I'll be flattered if anyone cares.
Tennis
I was playing pretty damn good last month. I won a tournament during Spring Break - the first in a long time. Self-confidence has always been one of my biggest weaknesses on the court, and I thought I managed to solve the problem. I don't know when it happened - probably around the times my allergies suddenly returned after disappearing for about two years. I was completely unmotivated and pissed at myself all the time. My footwork has gotten lazy again and my backhand sucks ass. I'm having a hard time controlling my temper again - a problem I thought I figured out last month.
Writing
Around December, I came up with a brilliant idea - I took a boring looking composition notebook and started scribbling random stuff in it during class. I'm sure my French teacher started wondering why I was suddenly so studious about French when I aced through all her tests anyway. I was writing in that notebook nearly every day. I plotted the entire storyline, did six character sketches, and wrote random vignettes and whatnot. It was the most complex and original idea I had dreamed up of yet. I posted the first chapter online just to see what kind of response I would get. I probably didn't post it at a good hour, but the two responses I got were both very positive. Inspired? No. At some point, I had exhausted all my inspiration. I was almost forcing myself to sit down, and when I'm forced to think, I don't usually get anything done. My muse is dead.
Piano
I'll admit I was somewhat disappointed when I didn't pass the second round of Panel, but it wasn't a big shocker. I knew compared to the top tier students, it would have been all luck if I made it that far. The good thing was, I finally left the teacher I never got along with. I finally switched over to the teacher I truly admire and respect. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Why do I only work hard under extreme pressure? The week before the first round of Panel was Procrastination Week: I played four hours a day for the entire week. My mom could only sigh, "You should have worked that hard from the beginning." And now that it's all over and testing isn't but months away, I'm totally slacking off again!! I should be playing way more than an hour a day. Once again, the motivation to work is gone, the inspiration to actually think about each piece is dead.
The Future
Sixteen sucks. Now you're pressured to start worrying about college and start taking this test and that test and blah. My parents were furious when they found out J and C were both taking the SAT II this June and I had no idea. "WHY DON'T YOU EVER TALK TO YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT THIS STUFF?!" why the hell would I would talk about this stuff when I don't even want to THINK about this stuff? Now my parents are telling me to study study study because I took two practice tests and I didn't get an 800 on either of them.
Plus, they've pretty much assumed that I'll be training for something in the medical field as a career. I don't really have an issue with that, but honestly, I don't know anything about medicine. what if I totally hate it? what if I throw up at the sight of surgery? Though I'm not those weak whiners who scream at the sight of blood. Come to think of it, I had to learn that blood was gross. (In third grade I pricked myself and said casually, "Oh, I'm bleeding!", as if I just talking about something everyday. Like the weather. Meanwhile my friend screamed, "Eww!!! That's gross!")
People usually say something to me like, "Oh you're so artistic! Are you going to take music or writing in college?" The answer is a definite NO. My parents definitely will not pay for me to take anything impractical. The irony is my mom has a Ph.D in art. ART! I asked her once why her parents let her take art. I guess in Taiwan, she could have easily gotten a job teaching Art, perhaps as a professor. I'm not really complaining, I guess. If I can suddenly get so sick of writing, then there really is no point in investing in that sort of thing.
Mental
I have come to the conclusion that you can be depressed without being suicidal.
I don't know if everyone goes through that phase in middle school. The one where you keep wondering who will cry for you after you die? After experiencing three childhood deaths, I've come to the conclusion that people will remember you at first. You're almost an instant celebrity. Then they'll slowly forget about you; maybe once in awhile they'll remember. Well, I was over that stupid phase a long time ago. I am depressed pretty often, but I will never ever take my own life.
My brother and I are complete opposites. He is the optimist, the cocky one. I am the pessimist, or as I prefer, the "realist." I'm rather two-faced as well. I doubt I seem very pessimistic at school; I'm always doing stupid things like coming up with nonsense rhymes for cheesy love poems with G or yelling out loud in the journo room, trying to explain why supermarket eggs don't hatch. I hate how I am 100% introvert. I'm usually not the one to initiate conversations. Sometimes, if I'm not sure how to act around someone, I just avoid looking at him when I know he's probably looking right at me. IT DRIVES ME NUTS.
I don't know if it's a bad thing, but I keep to myself a lot as well. There are some girls who tell their friends EVERYTHING - oh I love so and so or oh I want to have this or that. I don't feel comfortable around people I don't know well. Very few people have seen me go crazy or laughing my head off. I clearly remember two instances when I suddenly exposed my weird side to two people who are now pretty good friends of mine. One of them was with Y. We were walking to practice with J when J suddenly said another one of her clueless statements. I burst out laughing nonstop and Y looked at me as if I had suddenly morphed into an alien. The second was at a Japanese restaurant with W. I was eating green tea ice cream for dessert when my brother made an idiotic remark about the cushions we were sitting on. I was laughing nonstop. W had never seen me laughing that hard - he though they had drugged my ice cream.
I've got a big match tomorrow. More another time. :]
May 12, 2007
One-Eighty By Summer
Go on just say it,
You need me like a bad habit,
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
Go on just say it (Are you afraid to),
You need me like a bad habit (Say what you want to, tell me you want to),
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
(Are you afraid to say what you want to, tell me you want to)
You need me like a bad habit,
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
Go on just say it (Are you afraid to),
You need me like a bad habit (Say what you want to, tell me you want to),
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
(Are you afraid to say what you want to, tell me you want to)
Izzy. Izzy. Izzy. That's how it always began, the voice that wafted like perfume rising after the glass stopper. A viscous lilt, like watching the cherry syrup spiral into crimson swirls in a Shirley Temple. Izzy, Isabelle, my belle. His voice drives into the soul almost perversely, the way his lips trace her lilac veins without a single blush of modesty.
I hold my tongue use it to assess,
The damage from way back when it mattered,
But nothing seems important anymore,
We’re just protecting ourselves from our self,
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back…
The damage from way back when it mattered,
But nothing seems important anymore,
We’re just protecting ourselves from our self,
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back…
The agency canceled her photo shoots. They told her she was overworking herself, that she deserved a break. By then, she couldn't conceal the bruises and cuts across her skin anymore. The cerulean roses in her dress nearly camouflaged into her black and blue skin. She would tell them it was an accident. An accident. She had met him and fallen in love with him, that was the accident.
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
He was going insane, but she stayed because she thought she could change him. Maybe she was insane too. But by now her need for him was an addiction. She was still a teenager when he caught her in his web, a naive girl suddenly exposed to the city of fashion, lust, and rock & roll. He was the one who designed the clothes she modeled, led her to the music of the city, and taught her the language of lust. His "love" for her coursed in her veins; by now she was so dependent on him - his touch, his voice, his taste - he was her staircase to ecstasy.
I’m making the difference,
It just seems pointless,
With all the obvious lines all out of focus.
Why can’t you just be happy?
Why can’t you just be happy?
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back...
It just seems pointless,
With all the obvious lines all out of focus.
Why can’t you just be happy?
Why can’t you just be happy?
And I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back down),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back down (I don’t think I’ll ever come back…),
I don’t think I’ll ever come back...
It was always her fault, he told her. She was the one who drove him to hurt her, beat her, strangle her. He didn't like how the other male models, the photographers, the way anyone else looked at her. Isabelle is a belle. She was so tired of hearing the same stupid pun again and again - she was exhausted by her beauty. Maybe if she wasn't so goddamn attractive, maybe other men wouldn't look at her a split-second longer than they should. But if it weren't for her beauty, maybe he never would have picked her out of the crowd.
Run.
Run while his vision is still blinded by the stars of the city lights.
Run before he picks your face out of the darkness.
(Just come back, just come back...)
Go on just say it, (just come back...)
Come on just say it, (just come back...)
Well I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I need you defenseless, dependent and alone.
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
Go on just say it, (just come back...)
Come on just say it, (just come back...)
Well I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I’ll just say it, (just come back...)
I need you defenseless, dependent and alone.
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
She says live up to your first impression.
Well my best side was your worst invention,
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
She says live up to your first impression.
Well my best side was your worst invention,
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
(Just come back, just come back, just come back...)
She says live up to your first impression.
Well my best side was your worst invention,
Can't you live without the attention?
Can't you live without the attention?
But there is nowhere to run. He knows he has her heart hooked on his line; all he has to do is reel her back in. He has her pinned to the mattresses, her beauty exposed like an impaled butterfly. Izzy, Izzy, Izzy, you don't know how much I love you, he whispers into her neck as the edge of the knife grazes by her skin. The scarlet maps he drew on her skin were always shallow.
But the blade can always slice a little deeper each time.
She says live up to your first impression. (Come on, just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (Come on, just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (alone).
She says up to your first impression (I just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (I just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (Alone),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without (Defenseless, dependent, defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without...
Well my best side was your worst invention (Come on, just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (alone).
She says up to your first impression (I just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (I just say it),
Why can't you live without the attention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live without the attention (Alone),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without (Defenseless, dependent, defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live (Defenseless, dependent),
Why can't you live…without…live…without...
"One-Eighty By Summer" - Taking Back Sunday
..............................
My muse has mysteriously disappeared on me. I haven't been able to write anything decently for weeks. I'm not even satisfied with this one at all - the timing is extremely choppy and there is too much obtuse writing.
I feel like a pressure cooker with all the steam building up inside. But I don't keep diaries/journals where I write about my personal life anymore. Why? Because I've learned as long as you put anything down on paper, anyone will be able to read it. My brother has already confessed to reading my old journals and I don't plan to update him on my current miserable life.
I have no inspiration whatsoever. I'm just tired. Left and right there's always other things I should be doing. Playing more piano, playing more tennis, practicing for SATs, brainstorm ways to surpass the brainiac overachievers I have to compete with. Sixteen is not sweet. It's the same feeling you get when there's two seconds left as you watch the sand run down an hourglass.
Chinese school ended yesterday - it was probably the last time I'll ever see my friend again. That thought didn't occur to me until I read the card she wrote attached to her farewell present. I was about to go to bed when I read it. I can't believe I started crying over a card. I realized then that my childhood is gone. In two years, everything I've known for my entire life will change. I've grown up with the same people and the same friends all my life and found my own niche in society. In two years, everything becomes a blank slate again. The idea is just overwhelming, especially if you're about to fall asleep by yourself in the dark.
Hmm, this almost resembles a journal entry. This is about as personal as it'll ever get in written words.
..............................
My muse has mysteriously disappeared on me. I haven't been able to write anything decently for weeks. I'm not even satisfied with this one at all - the timing is extremely choppy and there is too much obtuse writing.
I feel like a pressure cooker with all the steam building up inside. But I don't keep diaries/journals where I write about my personal life anymore. Why? Because I've learned as long as you put anything down on paper, anyone will be able to read it. My brother has already confessed to reading my old journals and I don't plan to update him on my current miserable life.
I have no inspiration whatsoever. I'm just tired. Left and right there's always other things I should be doing. Playing more piano, playing more tennis, practicing for SATs, brainstorm ways to surpass the brainiac overachievers I have to compete with. Sixteen is not sweet. It's the same feeling you get when there's two seconds left as you watch the sand run down an hourglass.
Chinese school ended yesterday - it was probably the last time I'll ever see my friend again. That thought didn't occur to me until I read the card she wrote attached to her farewell present. I was about to go to bed when I read it. I can't believe I started crying over a card. I realized then that my childhood is gone. In two years, everything I've known for my entire life will change. I've grown up with the same people and the same friends all my life and found my own niche in society. In two years, everything becomes a blank slate again. The idea is just overwhelming, especially if you're about to fall asleep by yourself in the dark.
Hmm, this almost resembles a journal entry. This is about as personal as it'll ever get in written words.
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