Retrospect

Now that all of my college decisions have come out, it looks like I'll be going to Duke (if my parents will pay for it) or Cal. I'm leaning towards Duke, for your information. The final tally? Accepted 6 out of 11.

My amazing longtime friend, the multi-talented Gov. J got into both Harvard and Princeton. I was so incredibly happy for her -- I have to admit, I have never felt that proud of anyone other than myself. Ironically, she was rejected by Yale, but who cares? It felt like being acquainted with the hottest celebrity -- like if I was best friends with Kate Winslet when she won the Oscar.

But I do have to confess, it's hard to be so exuberantly happy for a friend, and then come home to tell your mom that you got rejected by the same schools your friend was accepted to. I think my mom really hoped I would get into one of the HYP schools, and in a way, I feel like I've disappointed my parents. So there is a bittersweetness to all this.

Reflecting on this whole business, I've been taking my rejections at HYP much better than when I was rejected by Stanford. Stanford was the first rejection letter I received, and it hurt me rather painfully. I cried for much of the night and stayed up until 3 am talking to Storm online just because I didn't want to go to sleep, and I needed to talk to somebody who was already in college and didn't care to gossip about who got into where.

I think getting rejected from HYP hurt so much less, because by this point, I already know I have two perfectly good schools to go to. Each school I was accepted to culmulatively boosted my confidence -- from Irvine, Davis, San Diego, to Los Angeles -- I was beginning to regain the belief that I was actually a competitive applicant. True, I doubted myself when I didn't get Regents for UCLA and Cal. But in the end, things turned in my favor.

Duke was the turning point for me. I seriously had no expectations for Duke -- I never thought about how I would react if I was accepted or rejected. And so when I read my decision letter in the journalism room, I could not remember the last time I felt so exuberant. Compounded with my acceptance to Cal, and I was simply ecstatic. I was rejected from Johns Hopkins the following day, but the happiness from Duke and Cal swept any negative feelings away.

True, it may have worn off by today. Or perhaps reading three rejection letters in one day is somewhat of an overkill. Once I came home, the negative feelings started kicking in.

But really. I have to admit, I always considered HYP to be reach schools and never seriously expected getting into those three. There are far more superior kids than me who deserve those spots. Before today, everyone was talking about how their fates would be decided today. Personally, that's not how I see it. We shaped our fates long ago, with every decision we made leading up to this moment. Those decisions are what got us this far. I could have made different decisions, such as deciding to intern or volunteer one summer instead of doing something else. I made my fate a long time ago.

And I'm still doing it now.

Untitled

The following that I disclose shall be entirely private, and should you judge me based on what I confide, this is the truth behind my character, and not the face I wear for show in public.

I cannot show affection. I am rarely inclined to hug my friends; I will return the hug, but rarely do I initiate. I do not show emotions well -- if anybody thinks otherwise, I believe you are instead familiar with my public persona. Lately, I am beginning to believe that this infliction stems from the people I have been raised by -- namely, my parents.

I have always believed that my parents were an excellent match. My mother is aggressive, opinionated, headstrong, social; my father is quiet, playful, and much less social -- much like myself. If anybody believes in zodiac pairings, they can do no better than to cite my parents. My parents' respective western and chinese zodiac signs are favorably aligned.

However, that being said, I have never once seen any sign of affection between my parents. The only time I ever saw my parents holding hands was when my mother tripped very badly and my father led her to the car because she could barely keep one eye open. In my nearly 18 years of existence, that is the only physical sign of affection I have ever witnessed.

Nevertheless, I decided that physical affection does not guarantee true affection -- affection can be displayed in other, more subtle ways.

However, at this point I am beginning to wonder about the family dynamic I have grown up with. To be fair, I know that my parents care for me. I am not abused; there is no favoritism between my brother and me; my parents have been deeply involved in my extracurricular activities since I was young. Having grown up in only one family, I cannot say what exactly is "normal."

Firstly, my relationship with my father is sorely lacking. There are many days when we exchange barely a word to each other. He comes home very late at night; I leave very early in the morning. I do not confide anything to him. When the acceptances for Duke and Cal came out, Gov. J asked me, "Why don't you call your dad?" I cannot fully explain why I did not call him -- my initial explanation was that it was not worth bothering him at work -- but I am fully certain this was only an excuse for something else I do not fully understand.

Secondly, my relationship with my mother is very volatile. I am very close to my mother. I confide in her about everything except my romantic life. I take her advice most of the time. However, by the same token, I have only discovered the true extent my anger can reach by interacting with her. My peers at school fear her -- one of them even called her "slave driver." Back when that phrase was uttered, I wanted to beat the kid to a pulp. But in my present state, all I have to say is this: none of you have any right to call her a slave driver when you have yet to see what i have seen. All you have seen is barely 20 percent of her full potential.

Yesterday, I played at the branch honors recital for piano. The piece I played, Elegie by Rachmaninoff, is one that is special to me. I connect to the deep sadness in the piece very well. Nevertheless, my stage fright proved to be an obstacle I once again could not overcome. I screwed up in sections where I have never messed up ever before.

Before I divulge my mother's reaction to my failure, allow me to describe the circumstances at hand. Just a week ago, I had my wisdom teeth pulled out. in my pain-ridden, drugged-up state, I was in no condition to practice. The following weekdays, I was plagued by an impending print date for the school newspaper, a terrible Friday in which I had a test/quiz/project in every subject, mental apprehension for the admission decisions from Cal and Duke, and to top it off, a massive headache attributed to Vicodin withdrawal. Needless to say, I practiced very little that week.

On Friday, I returned home from another lengthy day at journalism feeling relieved that I had survived the horrendous Friday and simply wanted to relax. I was, to be honest, in no mood to practice. I ran through the piece about four times before deciding I wanted to watch a movie on television. I will concede that it was an error in judgment on my part. However, I must confess that I felt almost stupidly confident about the piece and had no patience to drill it slowly. My furious mother yelled at me, threatening, "If you're going to have this kind of attitude, you had better not mess up tomorrow!"

Needless to say, I fucked up.

As we went into the parking lot afterward, before she got into her minivan, she yelled at me, "What did I tell you?" We exchanged unpleasant words before she drove off with my brother. I sat inside my Corolla for quite some time, for I was not confident I could drive home with my blurred, teary vision. My teacher discovered me in that state and took me to Baskin Robbins, where we talked. My teacher is very nice and though her words were consoling, I could not be certain if she was genuine. She told me that my mother does not understand how difficult it is to perform for an audience. She told me that even though I hit wrong notes, she enjoyed my performance because i had played the elegie from the heart. When she and Dr. T (a mentor) first picked out the piece for me last year, Dr. T had remarked that I had an unusual talent of being able to express deep sadness, and he asked if I had experienced anything traumatizing in my life. And in response to that, I have not. I do not know why I am so drawn to tragedy and sadness, or why i empathize with sorrow more than any other emotion.

My mother and I imposed the silent treatment on each other for the rest of the day, until this morning when she thundered into my room and started yelling at me about my performance. It was a very nasty fight. It was then that I realized she does not understand me at all. To her, a performance cannot be from the heart if it is riddled with technical errors. She was completely deaf to the musicality and genuine feeling i had poured into the piece. She demanded answers to hundreds of questions. At that point, I was no longer listening. All I could think about was what things I would pack and where I would drive to, because I could not stand being in the same house with this woman any longer.

All I would tell her was that she did not understand me. To her fury, I did not bother trying to explain why. I have long since learned that it is useless to argue with her once she her anger has reached critical mass. When she finally left my room, I shut the door very loudly. The next thing I knew, I heard her elephantine footsteps stomping towards my door like the march of death. She slammed the door open so hard that it knocked the clock from the wall. She screamed at me at probably 90 percent of her full potential and then warned me to never slam the door again. After she had left, I looked at the wall and observed that she had slammed open the door so hard that the doorknob had left a cracked dent in my wall.

Yesterday, my teacher told me I must forgive my mother. My teacher told me that although my mother is very lively socially, she does not appear to express genuine emotions very well. I have understood since a young age that my mother gave up her art -- painting -- to take care of my brother and me. In a way, I know I am responsible for whatever second-thoughts she has about becoming only a homemaker with no time to paint.

Somehow, innately I know she cares about my brother and me. But I don't know how I know. My brother and I are rarely praised in this household. I do not know if it is a cultural difference in parenting, for my parents are both first-generation immigrants to the United States. Many times, I do not feel my parents are particularly proud of me. If they ever talk to me about my grades or extracurriculars, it is because they are scolding me, not because they are praising me. Their reaction to my acceptances to Cal and Duke could not measure to mine at all. My mother's "Congratulations" was over the phone, so I could not gauge her reaction very accurately, but from the impression I gathered when I returned home, it almost felt as if they expected me to get in -- and they were simply waiting for the rest of the Ivy League schools.

Then again, the lack of communication is mutual. I do not hug my parents. I cannot remember the last time I ever said, "I love you" to anybody. I do not know if these are symptoms of nature or nurture, but either way, I am crippled.

Unsolved Mystery No. 1

i was looking up an image of "hiroshima lovers" from Watchmen on a search engine when i stumbled upon a fanart of snape kissing harry potter titled "Hiroshima Lovers." below were three pages of comments raving about the hotness.

i really don't understand the appeal of yaoi for girls.

sophelia sometimes

"what would it be like if i thought i was pretty
what would be like if i carried that knowledge around
like i do the knowledge that i am a writer"

...

"would i be able to write such raw and seductive words
would you have fallen in love with me sooner
would i have frightened you away
before you had the chance?"

-- From "like pretty" by Francesca Lia Block

----------------------
when i was your age
i wanted pretty things
silver butterfly and dragon rings
i wanted fashionable things
a leather jacket and graphic tees

when i was your age
i wanted to leave this valley
paris for the lovers
florence for the angels
nyc for the rush
seychelles for the antidote
tokyo for the androgynous stars

when i was your age
i wanted to be a writer
publish a novel
both deep yet accessible
a modern rock opera
a punk cinderella story
watch my story on the silver screen
write a television drama
an intelligent sort of humor
of identity and duality
then shatter my label
and write something kafkaesque, literary, raw

when i was your age
i wanted to be loved

now i am old and weathered
crinkled brown paper packaging
but no strings attached

the world is rotating
time dripping down the hourglass
my sillhouette is blurring
but i am still
sophelia, sometimes

How I Feel Today, Pt. II

It's been a crappy week, but on the bright side, I got into UC Berkeley and Duke today. Still waiting on three longshots and one match, though right now I'm feeling damn good about Duke.

What sucks is that I feel like slacking off and celebrating right now, when I have two tests and two quizzes tomorrow and a newspaper print date on Monday. I'd love to write more, but I really have too much work to do. So instead, I'll just put up the baby pictures of my dog Matisse. Why? Because googling for pictures of puppies made me feel nostalgic.


Bon soir!

How I Feel Today

Self-explanatory.

Sleepless

Fuck this. I can't go back to sleep.

Since I have probably spent two-thirds of the entire weekend sleeping, I figured I needed extra sleep before going to school today. So I checked out at around 9:30 pm, expecting to get up by 5:30 pm, which would equal a good eight hours. Unfortunately, I ended up waking up at 2:00 am feeling hot, sore, and irritated. I kept tossing and turning for nearly a half-hour before finally going downstairs and taking more Vicodin. God knows what kind of damage I've been doing to my liver these past few days.

And so now it's 3:00 am. I'm wide awake, it's morning (hello Bright Eyes) and I don't want to go to school looking like this. It'll probably take a good thirty minutes before the Vicodin starts working.

Why the hell do they call them wisdom teeth? Where's the wisdom behind growing teeth we don't even need? It just causes a bunch of unnecessary pain for teenagers/adults all around the world and gives oral surgeons an unnecessary source of income. They already get enough money doing other fancy operations anyway. wtf

Recovery

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Michael Steele's Rap Battle Response
comedycentral.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Mark Sanford

For your enjoyment. And I want a pinstriped hoodie too.

So at around 12:30 yesterday afternoon, I had my wisdom teeth pulled out. I had four teeth pulled out before I got braces and had stitches in my gum before, so I would consider myself an oral surgery veteran. Nevertheless, I was completely dreading the appointment, because as my fellow veterans may know, the part when the anesthesia wears off is NOT something you'd ever want to go through again -- and unfortunately, now I've gone through it three times.

I was actually looking forward to getting laughing gas, but unfortunately they did not give me any. The dental assistant told me I could listen to my MP3 player to help put me at ease -- which in retrospect was completely bullshit, because I couldn't hear anything once the dentist started drilling through the bone in my jaw. Obviously, the process itself did not hurt -- the worst part is when the anesthesia wears off.

And so I spent the rest of the day lying down on the couch, sleeping on and off with my face pressed against an ice pack and watching TV. I have to say, watching TV makes me very impatient -- there is nothing good on in the afternoon and the commercial for Venus razors made me want to throw something at the TV. And so I ended up watching Lord of the RIngs: Return of the King and Emma. I felt like throwing things at the TV again when I was watching Emma -- Jane Austen has the extraordinary ability to create characters I want to slap and scream at.

On the plus side, I ate very little last night. I had soup and porridge, but it was really uncomfortable eating anything remotely warm. Hopefully I'll lose some weight. Strangely enough, I had a dream last night that I went to a potluck and started gorging on brownies, Chex Mex, egg rolls and jello. Very telling.

Today, I am feeling much better. However, now my face resembles this:

Pardon my crudely drawn self-portrait -- WIndows Paint sucks, and for some reason Adobe Photoshop is not installed on my laptop...

Sigh... it's going to be a long week.

Cupid

"Life imitates art far more than art imitates life." -- Oscar Wilde

It was the fifth month of her eighteenth year when she discovered her true calling in life.

It was so brilliantly obvious. Her supernatural ability to spot her target all the way across the quad during the busy lunch hour. Her expertise with Internet search engines, untraceable proxy browsers, and Google Earth. Her unparalleled skill in being able to recall the most insignificant details about her target without even remembering how or when she had learned of such information.

If the CIA ever learned of this girl's existence, they would have snapped her up in a heartbeat.

At least, that's what she thinks -- when she takes the seat in the fifth row next to her friend. Her friend, believing the girl's expansive musical interests have suddenly spread into the realm of chamber music, is oblivious to the true reason as to why her friend has suddenly become very interested in the chamber orchestra that practices in a town twenty miles away from their neighborhood.

But she hardly feels the inclination to explain herself. She can hardly explain herself most of the time, anyhow. She cannot explain how she knew of her target's impressive season average of 14.5 ppg or recent qualification as a National Merit Finalist. She cannot remember how she learned of her target's family members -- an older brother about to graduate from Princeton University, a mother involved in telecommunications, a father sitting at the president's desk overseeing a global Wi-Fi chipset manufacturing company.

And so she tells her friend nothing as she browses idly through the concert program. Idly, almost lazily, for she already knows that her target will appear into her frame of vision at precisely 4:08 pm that afternoon, once the orchestra concludes the first piece of the program (7:24, plus the additional time it would take for rounds of applause). Eight minutes later, her prophesy is fulfilled as a figure -- the first soloist of the concert -- walks to the center of the stage with a violin in hand.

The violinist shakes the hand of the conductor and the concertmaster before sweeping a gracious bow towards the audience. As his head lifts up from the bow, their eyes meet for a split second.

And the split second is all she needs. Ready, aim...

UCLA!!

=D =D =D =D =D

I seriously thought I wouldn't get in.

Feeling pretty darn good, even though I'm not sure if I'll go there for college.

-------------------------

R.I.P. Natasha Richardson -- Parent Trap was my absolute favorite movie when I was a kid.

Vincero

Strangely enough, the only reason I found this particular song was because my mother's dance class is planning to line dance to this song. I like how Fredrik Kempe remixed some very famous opera songs -- some motivation to work on EP, which deals with reviving classical forms of music.

On an entirely note, has anyone heard about this: Mom Helping Son With Down Syndrome Lose Virginity

Essentially, the article describes how a mother in England is asking for potential dates for her 21 year old son with Down syndrome. She is even willing to pay for a prostitute to help her son lose his virginity, stating that "I'd like all my boys to find love and enjoy sex. I always look at what other people are doing and why shouldn't they be doing the same things?"

"I strongly believe, and have always said, that society has a learning disability when it comes to Down syndrome," she continued. "If he doesn't get a girlfriend, I will feel really bad, because I have sold him this thing that he is like everybody else. That's why I'm working overtime to get this sorted for him."

The son was quoted as saying, "I'm on a mission to find a girlfriend. I'm looking for girlfriends everywhere."

Initially, I recoiled. Was it really so necessary to lose one's virginity? To go such lengths as publicly asking for women to sleep with him -- not to mention announcing that you'd be willing to hire a prostitute? Morally, I found the idea repulsive.

Today, Rogue was telling me about the video she watched in Zoology, which featured many bizarre and disturbing medical cases, including Cephalopagus twins -- basically someone whose head has two faces. I actually bothered to look it up online, and the picture freaked me out. I have always wondered how the parents feel when they give birth to a child with deformities, whether physical or mental. I know there are many parents who learn to love their child regardless of his/her disabilities, but I wonder if the initial reaction upon birth is one of disappointment or sorrow.

The tragedy of such a situation is that nobody can be truly blamed. The child cannot help being born the way he/she is. It is the same with the rest of us -- we cannot help being born less beautiful, less intelligent, less athletic than anyone else.

I can only speculate how a mother must feel. For nine months, she fantasizes about the next twenty years -- singing lullabies to a rocking cradle, sewing Halloween costumes each autumn, watching the apple of her eye transition from dress-up tea parties to prom nights dining at high-end restaurants. Yes, her child will be an Oscar-winning actress, an acclaimed doctor volunteering in third-world countries, the first female president of the United States -- and yet her dreams begin to flicker away the moment she discovers that her child shoulders a great burden.

I do not know whether it is common for those with Down syndrome to fall in love and marry -- and not only with others with the same condition. But you do have to acknowledge that it is rare to see disabled dating in today's relationships. I can understand why the mother would want her son to experience love once in his life. But I don't think she should have gone so far as to bring her son's request in the limelight, which media outlets will undoubtedly cast in a negative light.

Plus, I'm not quite sure if her son really needs to be pushed to experience this. He may be 22 years old, but mentally he may be at a much different age. Perhaps his body has matured physically, but the implication of engaging in intercourse suggests a certain degree of maturity, both emotionally and intellectually. After all, we all hit puberty in our teens, but we're hardly expected to run off and fornicate just because we can.

You can probably tell I'm not quite sure what to think about this whole business. I sympathize with the mother and her son, and yet I cannot really come to terms with their request. Initially, I thought the son's quote was rather off-putting, making him sound like all he really cares about is getting some.

But, on second thought, it occurred to me that the majority of guys his age share the same thoughts. So I really am at a loss for words, even after writing this post since the last forty minutes.

Apocalypse

These days, I feel like a death row inmate enjoying her last meal before execution.

Thus far, I have received 3 acceptances and 1 rejection (which happened back in December -- and for the record, I have completely gotten over it). Still waiting on 7 more schools -- 3 of which are pretty much lottery tickets that I doubt I'll cash in on, 2 private schools on the East Coast that I really hope to attend, and 2 UCs that I would not mind attending.

Recently, I've gotten into the habit of reading the forums on College Confidential. I don't think it's the healthiest habit to do, but I can't help it. In truth, I am getting very worried about UCLA. G has been getting all these letters and e-mails from UCLA and I have not received anything other than a phone call from months ago telling me to apply for the alumni scholarship. I've heard that there were plenty of people last year who got into Cal but not UCLA -- but that's hardly any consolation, because UCLA decisions come out before Cal. I doubt I'd feel very good about my chances at Cal if I am rejected at UCLA.

And it's not really that I am dying to go to UCLA or Cal. I really want to get into Cal because my father really wants me to go to that school and I have a lot of friends there -- but if I get into my east coast schools, chances are I'm heading east.

I hate all this waiting. It just gives me weird dreams.

Two nights ago, I had a dream I had to go to a Harvard interview. They had sent me an e-mail, but I ignored it for a about a week before deciding to go visit the interviewer because I was bored. Instead of meeting at some strictly business location like Microsoft, I was given the address to a really luxurious mansion with an ivy-covered iron gate and Greek marble columns. The gate opened for me and I walked inside the reception room, which resembled a hospital waiting room. There were a ton of people in there, all very beautiful and model-like with unproportionally long legs and slim torsos. For some reason, I knew exactly where I was going. I walked the gigantic spiral staircase and down one of the halls on the third floor. The whole place seemed eerily glamorous, with beautiful people dressed in exotic garments everywhere I looked. Finally, I reached one room with double doors, and without even knocking, I opened the door and walked into a master bedroom. I started admiring all of the artful decor that breathed of luxury until an elderly yet youthfully childlike woman greeted me and asked why I was here. I explained the circumstances, and then she started shaking the sleeping figure in the bed awake. The sleeping figure roared and threw off the sheets before suddenly transforming from an elderly man to someone I would not be surprised to see gracing a Dior Homme advertisement in my mother's fashion magazines. He yelled at me for not responding to his e-mails and then shoved me down the stairs and out the door before slamming the gates.

Good sign? I think not.

Eisley

How do you say love in French?

Are you bullshitting me?

Just play along.

L'amour.

Good job. Now how do you say death?

La mort.

Charming, isn't it? L'amour and la mort -- nearly identical words.
The only thing that distinguishes them is how they end.

Motorcade of "Meant to Be's"

"That's when it turned on me
A motorcade of 'meant to be's'
Parades of beauty queens
Where soft entwines make kindling
These many detailed things
Like broken nails and plastic rings
Will win by keeping me
From speaking to my new darling
And there's no way to know
Our future foe scenarios
That's when it turned on me
Where bobby pins hold angel wings"

-- "Future Foe Scenarios"
by Silversun Pickups

---------------------------------------------
I never know what to think when somebody around my age passes away.

It's days like this when I wonder.
I wonder what you would have looked like at this age.
Would you still have kept your hair short
or would you have grown it out?
Would you have been a
punk
ballerina
athlete
nerd
all of the above?

Would we greet each other in the hallway
or avert our eyes --
because it's easier to pretend we are
strangers than to admit that
we're not children anymore?

I wonder if we would have still tormented each other
like sisters
Two girls with dark cropped hair
In a year we'd be
Laughing at your junior prom photograph
Mocking my slow death in college

I wonder how many people still think of you
Because it's days like this that I remember.

Nightshade

It was in the middle of April. I already knew which college I would be attending, and it felt as if my future had already been laid out before me. And then, out of nowhere, I discovered I was pregnant. I looked at the calendar on my wall and estimated that whatever was inside me was a month old. Fear strangled my throat so tightly that I could not even breathe. I had already gotten into my dream school -- was I supposed to give up everything I had worked for my entire life? Immediately, I started contemplating all the options. Offhandedly, I wondered if the disgusting Chinese medicine my mother was making me drink every day would be able to abort the child.

In retrospect, I should have been dubious of the fact that: 1) I had no recollection of who fucked me in March -- which has very frightening implications, perhaps suggesting I am one of those boozed-up sluts who get hammered in the basement at college frat parties -- which I am NOT, thank you very much, and 2) the only reasons that led me to believe I had conceived were that the bloody curse had not come on schedule and the skeptical "I felt different" excuse. But nevertheless, the fear I felt was so excruciatingly real. The relief I felt when I woke up from such a ridiculous yet realistic dream was shockingly revealing.

Recently, "A Concerned Mother" wrote a childishly angry letter to our school newspaper, ranting about how tasteless the editors were for publishing two Top Tens that joked about pregnancy. My reaction to the whole debacle was rather complicated. I agreed that the offending line of "Top Ten Ways to Woo Your Valentine" -- which stated, "Impregnate them" -- was hardly funny. But I thought the other one listed under "Top Ten Valentine's Gifts" -- which stated "Honey, I'm pregnant!" -- was actually funny in a twisted, ironic sort of way. If these had been the only two complaints from "A Concerned Mom", I probably would have acknowledged our wrongs and apologized genuinely.

But what really made me livid was the condescending, hypocritical tone in which the woman wrote to us. She held us to the double standard of being immature (accusing us of being irresponsible students) while asking us what kind of message we were sending to our "young, impressionable children" -- completely neglecting the fact that we are the same "young" and "impressionable" demographic she targets. In addition, she was outraged by what one of the columnists wrote (an article about not liking boring people) -- but instead of articulating what she did not like about the column, she instead inserted a shameless plug about Project Cornerstone.

To be fair, our staff needed some criticism. A true class on journalism is not complete without learning how to deal with those who disagree about the content of a writer's article.

While we ended up writing a very professional and respectable apology letter, in truth I still felt bitter about the woman's letter and did not feel apologetic at all. In reality, I wanted to meet this woman in person and argue with her myself. I wrote an angry letter as a way to vent my irritation, which I obviously did not publish. Our adviser, who was understandably very shaken up by the whole business, became very paranoid about offending others. In fact, in the most recent issue, she was upset by how Francis Drake's column about freedom of expression was printed on the same page as the letter to the editor. Frankly, I saw that as a non-issue because Francis Drake's level of writing is leagues above the offended mother's -- what the hell would she say in response without sounding immature?

Essentially, I was just annoyed. Annoyed by all the disgusting crack-licking we had to do just because one mother was offended enough by a joke to e-mail her complaint not only to us -- but to the principal, the district superintendent, and the president of the county education board. Annoyed that we were being treated by a double standard. Annoyed that we were basically forbidden to stand up for ourselves and fight back.

Though now that this dream has come to me completely out of the blue, I am beginning to wonder if the whole conflict between the journalism staff and the concerned mother has completely gone off target.

Clownerie

Once, Mme. M was surprised to hear that I enjoy playing pranks.

I do. But almost always, immediately I start worrying if the person can't take a joke. Consequently, I stay away from pranks that would humiliate someone. So I usually end up doing something tame like dressing up up as S for Halloween, who fortunately has a good sense of humor.

I wonder what the Senior Prank is going to be this year. The past ones that I know of were all bordering on vandalism or just plain stupid.

And they lived happily ever after

"'And they lived happily ever' after is one of the most tragic sentences in literature. It is tragic because it tells a falsehood about life and has led countless generations of people to expect something from human existence which is not possible on this fragile, failing, imperfect Earth."

I lay awake at night counting the speckles on the ceiling. One billion and one. One billion and two. One billion and three. The rain patters on the rooftops like scrambling kittens, searching for the Itsy Bitsy Spider that has been washed down the spout again.

Mon chéri, sometimes I wonder. If her father had not lost way in the forest and stumbled across the forsaken castle, would the Beauty have ever found the Beast? If her slipper had not fallen on the castle stairs in her frantic escape, would Cinderella have lived the rest of her life watching the Prince from afar? If the prince had not happened to venture into that particular area of the woods, would Snow White have been left to decompose in her glass coffin?

I cannot fall back asleep. I can still touch the remnants of the nightmare. Driving along the California highway, looking to my left through the window, seeing you driving in the neighboring lane. There is that look of recognition and astonishment, shared between two who have become strangers, now reunited at 80 miles per hour. 88 feet per minute. 22 feet in 15 seconds. And 15 seconds later, I take the exit onto the junction as you continue speeding down your life's road, our paths diverging. Perhaps 22 feet could account for a round-trip to the kitchen downstairs for another bowl of seasoned almonds and cashews, but I am craving for something sweeter that I cannot taste with my tongue.

And even if we try to work things out, if we continue sailing past the world side-by-side and forgo all the appointments and business scheduled for the day, this is not happily ever after. I will still watch you through two panes of glass -- yours and mine -- wondering what words your lips are forming, o h - o h - o h until our eyes pull off the road and we incinerate in flames like the steadfast tin soldier and his paper ballerina, ashes and ashes like speckles on a ceiling. One billion and one. One billion and two. One billion and three.