The Sad Love Story of the Girl Squirrel

[Inspired by the previous post. See the Youtube clip if you haven't already watched The Sword in the Stone.]

To all ye broken hearts out there, does this story sound familiar?

Girl has lived in the same little town all of her life, leading a meaningless, pedestrian life where everybody knows everybody and everybody's business. She wants more than this provincial life -- that is, until the gorgeous new boy comes to town.


Girl meets Boy. It is love at first sight. A little shy, yes, but he is the strapping young man with the lean and luxurious body that she has been dreaming of all her life. In earnestness, she makes her affections known.


Unfortunately he's just not that into her.

Nevertheless, Girl is persistent. She continues her pursuit of Boy in earnestness, flirting playfully with him as she introduces him around town. Boy continues to shy away from her advances, but gradually his heart warms to her sweet temper and friendly nature. After Girl saves Boy's life in a dramatic encounter with a dangerous and wolfish predator, he warms up to her and for the first time, he is receptive to her love as they cuddle together under a tree. Girl is so happy that she feels as if her heart is about to burst.

Unfortunately, it will.


As expected from a "New Kid with a Mysterious Past," Boy has been harboring a dark secret, and soon it is revealed that Boy is not who Girl thinks he is at all. In fact, Boy hides a dark and sinister secret that threatens to strip Girl of her newfound happiness.

Confronted with the truth, Girl is crestfallen and mad with grief. With her dreams of a future life with Boy dashed and shattered into pieces, all Girl can do is run tearfully away from Boy. Even as Boy visits her door apologizing (though in his frustration, he foolishly claims that Girl should have realized his true nature all along), all Girl can do is look down from the window with tears in her eyes.

Boy soon leaves the town with his elderly grandfather, turning his back on the romance that could never be. He could not bear to hazard one last glance behind his shoulder and look upon all the memories he had shared with Girl. But if he had, he would have seen Girl one last time, perched upon the highest roof in town bidding him one final farewell with tears glistening in her eyes as the rain howled around her.


Alas, do you not weep at this tragic tale? Does it not strike a chord within your own hearts? It is she, the Girl Squirrel, the Champion of Broken Hearts, Unrequited Loves, and Romances That Could Never Be!!

Rewind: Disney

Spent most of my Thanksgiving Break catching up on work, sleeping at least nine hours a day (weird dreams included), watching episodes of Chuck (anyone else think Captain Awesome is the best?), eating, lazing around in the dorm room, writing EP, and watching clips of Disney movies on Youtube.

See the clip above? You know why I hated The Sword in the Stone as a kid? I always felt so sorry for the female squirrel. I may be a cynic, but I'll take a happy ending when I can get one. :[

Iridescence

"I believe we are reincarnated, not from soul to soul, but from memory to memory. I think humanity has always looked to the dead for answers and contemplation. I only hope that as viewers look at my work, the portraits of the victims are reincarnated or resurrected, in the present moment."

-- Binh Danh

I saw the Binh Danh exhibit, "In the Eclipse of Angkor," at the North Carolina Museum of Art yesterday. It was a small room with no more than twenty displays on the white walls. Above is a photograph of one of his works, part of a collection titled Iridescence of Life. Binh Danh used a chlorophyll process to print portraits of victims of the Cambodian genocide onto nasturtium leaves, displaying each alongside a butterfly specimen. Looking at each face, you start to remember that the 2 million people who died at the hands of the Khmer Rouge are not just faceless statistics -- these are actual fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters whose lives were cut short. It's especially painful when you see the portraits of the children on those beige nasturtium leaves and realize that these kids had a whole life ahead of them. The butterfly, the symbol of the soul, seems to have been frozen in time.

Today is the anniversary of the day EC died. Even now, people are still writing messages to her on her Facebook wall, telling her that there isn't a day where they don't think of her. I wasn't close enough to her -- I can't recall any distinct memories I have of her, other than the general remembrance that she was sweet and fun-loving girl with great tennis footwork. I really do hope the tradition continues, that her friends continue to write on her wall each year. It sounds cliche and overdone, but it's true -- you're not gone until you're forgotten.

Corgi

heehee :]

Alcohol

Looks pretty, right? Ha-ha.

Though my high school self tended to be more aligned with Charlotte, in college I find myself becoming more and more like the character I've created for Rory. Whether it is subconsciously or intentionally, I do not know -- but let's talk about one instance where my creation and I collide, and that would be in regards to alcohol.

Unlike most of the people I've talked to here, my first drink was not at college. The summer after high school senior year, I was at Kinmen -- an island of Taiwan where the drinking age is 18, so I was legal there. There is a kind of liquor called gaoliang that the island is particularly famous for -- the alcohol content is usually between 38 and 63 percent. Not proof -- American alcoholic proof is twice the alcoholic percentage -- I'm talking percent. Essentially, all of our adult chaperons/mentors/etc. said we shouldn't leave the island without having their most famous liquor, so one night our soldier chaperons bought us a bottle of 38 percent and we sat in the makeshift dining room of our suite. Only one of my six teaching partners had ever had a drink before, so the rest of us were sniffing apprehensively while eying the liquid in our glasses. Then we raised our glasses and cheered.

And that, my friends, was my first introduction to the world of alcohol. 38 percent gaoliang, which another friend of mine aptly named "flaming toilet." It was the most disgusting thing I had ever drunk in my life. We ended up playing Liar Poker afterward, and the cruel punishment was to make the loser drink another shot.

Interestingly, the next day we were invited to a lunch banquet with a bunch of important adults including the Taiwanese Minister of Education. This time, we had a 63 percent bottle of gaoliang and I was amazed by the alcohol tolerance of most of the adults there -- the principal of our school downed at least 20 shots of that stuff.

But anyways. Unlike the eager-eyed freshmen who had never had a drink in high school because they were too busy studying or competing or whatnot, I had very little interest in drinking. The taste of gaoliang was still branded in my head, and I had no desire to relive that experience. As a consequence, by the middle of freshman year I found myself drifting between two groups -- one predominantly composed of Christians who abstained from drinking, and one composed of my dorm-mates, several of whom ended up joining a sorority. In the end, I became closer to my dorm-mates for several reasons, one of which is the fact that I had come to the conclusion that it was extremely unlikely that I would ever convert to Christianity.

As a result, this semester I have been to more parties than I had gone to my entire freshman year. It's still not much though -- I might go out once or twice a month and that would be it. But anyways, back to the topic of alcohol.

While I don't completely abstain from alcohol -- I will usually drink one or two shots -- I do not share any particular fondness for alcohol that many of friends have (who frequently reach their limit, resulting in my job as the designated sober nurse). I choose not to drink, not because it is the law (because I don't see the logic of being steadfast to the rule for the rule's stake, especially as I was openly offered 63 percent gaoliang when I was only 18 in Taiwan), but because of personal reasons. The biggest reason is my fear of losing control. I have no desire to learn what kind of a drunk I am -- as I operate through life with a heavy filter on what I say and what I do, I am afraid to learn of what kind of a creature I become once all my filters are gone.

Other reasons include the fact that I simply don't like the taste of it and the fact that having cleaned up after one too many friends, drinking past a certain limit is not at all classy or cool. I wonder if those who binge drink would have second thoughts if they ever considered the ones who have to take care of them after they indulge.

Long story short, last night one of my friends drank to the point where she vomited multiple times throughout the night -- including on the bus, which led to us getting kicked off the bus back to West Campus. When it reaches that point, there is nothing glamorous about drinking. It is messy, it is disgusting, and it is always somebody else who has to clean up the mess. And usually that somebody is me.

Reflecting more on last night, it has become more apparent to me that my refusal to get drunk is heavily influenced by my grasp of self-identity. Perhaps I am more sharply aware of this than others, but your appearance and behavior shape the way others view you. I have never identified myself as a sorority girl; therefore I ran into some odd issues when my friends tried to (and still try to) convince me to rush for a sorority. Doing so would jeopardize my sense of who I am; nevertheless the fact that my friends are in these sisterhoods makes it very strange dynamic. Similarly, I feel I have a subconscious desire to appear classy and cool. Whatever drunk I may turn out to be -- angry, boisterous, mellow, depressed, happy, sassy -- there is no such thing as a classy or cool drunkard.

notes to self

- stop losing sleep worrying about midterm grades
- stop buying bin candy. you're not storing fat for hibernation.
- you're not ugly. stop comparing yourself to everyone else.
- hurry up and finish all your reading this weekend so you can actually write this Thanksgiving break.

I hate this limbo period of not knowing. It was unbearable waiting for college applications, but right now I feel physically sick worrying about how I scored on my biology midterm. When I think about it rationally, it only makes things worse, because I know I shouldn't let an exam I've already taken put me in such a dismal mood -- right before Thanksgiving break, no less.

It feels like every negative thought I've had in the last few months has suddenly dumped itself on me this week. It's one of those moments when everything you're doing just seems so pointless. It's one of those moments when you really start doubting yourself. I think everybody in college goes through these thoughts at some point, but it seems to hit me especially hard during the midterm season. I don't want to celebrate the upcoming break by partying with the tennis team. I just want to curl up under the blankets and sleep until winter.

Rocketship Underpants

it's been kind of a down day. gloomy weather. also the day right after a midterm, which is usually when i have anxiety attacks and nightmares about how my scores turn out. also one of those days when i really start doubting myself about everything. for instance, whether not i'm going to fuck up one of my classes again like i've done each semester. or whether or not i'm pursuing a career path solely for doing the "safe" and "expected" thing. or whether or not my dream is going to continue to exist only in my head, or if i'm going to look back seventy years from now and regret not having made the most out of my life.

the advice of "following your heart" is probably the most bullshit advice anyone can give you. because whether you like it or not, your brain is going to tune in and tell you that you're being a selfish prick if all you do is think of your own desires. the heart craves instant gratification; the brain cautions otherwise.

i wonder, is suicide the biggest -- no, only concern when it comes to treatment for depression? is depression treatment solely for the sake of combating suicidal tendencies? is level of depression gauged by how near/far the subject is from contemplating taking his own life? is it any better for someone to have no suicidal thoughts at all but live his life in a constant state of misery? or is that the status quo, the default setting of being -- to live in a predominant state of discontent?

ignore my rambling. thanksgiving is right around the corner and i'm feeling exhausted -- but not suicidal, thank you very much. for the record, despite my emo/morbid tendencies, i have never ever come close to having suicidal thoughts. you never forget the first death in your life, and i've never forgotten her, and how that November night eight years ago, her father took their lives away before taking away his own, and how she'd never grow up, never go through the rebellious teenage years of middle school, never worry about high school letter grades, never worry about high school prom dates, never fail her first driving test, never fall in love in a way that shakes up her entire world, never do any of the things that i complain about without ever once registering the fact that all of these failures are proof that i am still living and breathing here on this earth.

Frisco's World

Yeah, that's right. (Click to enlarge.)

Soundtrack

If my life had a soundtrack, this song would be playing each time I walked through the door.

la pluie violet

"A kiss in the mouth can become a kiss on the mouth. A hand on a shoulder can become a hand on the hips. A laugh on his lips can become a moan on mine. The moments in between these are often difficult to gauge, difficult to partition and subdivide. Time refuses to be translated into a tangible thing, time without a number or an ordinal assigned to it, is often said to be 'lost.' In a city that always looks better in a memory, time lost can make the night seem eternal and full of stars."

-- The Book of Salt by Monique Truong

---

"I only want to see you, only want to see you in the purple rain."

You were standing on the white ceramic tiles of my bathroom floor, your eyes glancing up at the mirror to see my startled reflection staring back. It had been a year since I last saw you. I have dreamt of this moment a million times -- my favorite was the one where I'd make my grand entrance at the annual New Year's Eve party at Rachelle's place and nobody, not even you, would be able to keep their eyes off of me, entranced by how much I'd changed and how beautiful I'd become -- but I'd never imagined that I'd see you standing in my own house, Narcissus before the bathroom mirror with the same wild tangle of hair and look of self-induced lust, a magnetism that could both attract and repel at once.

I didn't want you to look at me. Not yet. My transformation was incomplete; my hair was still only partially tamed, my body still being whittled down, my face still marked with unhealed incisions. I still looked like the same person we both once knew and both wanted to forget.

Mila, I was waiting to hear you say, but you didn't speak.

Time diffused, and this time we were in the same room again, separated by a pane of glass. I could hear the shower water running, feel the steam scurrying up the glass in wispy tail-like curls. The fog shrouded us -- this way, we could see without seeing, look without looking, watch without watching. I could see the haze of your body's movements, unpeeling the layers one by one until the petals of fabric lay at your feet like the withering of the Beast's enchanted rose. But whose death had come? Were you the Beast, or was I?

Everything was purple all around me. Violets, lavender, irises engulfed the room in a cloud of perfume as you walked under the water and let it drench your skin. The scent of the flowers rooted into your nestle of hair, entwining with the rising steam that climbed higher and higher. I could feel your eyes tracing my movements through the fogged glass as I let the petals unfurl, one by one until I was as bare and vulnerable as I had once allowed myself to be before you. The water drummed across my shoulders like fingertips, trailing down my back in a lazy trickle. Bottles and bottles of fragmented body wash stood aligned on the ceramic tiles, glass soldiers each uniformed in a varying shade of purple. I pressed the cool gel against the heat of bare skin, watched the translucent purple effervesce, bubbling and slipping away like a tumble of ephemeral pearls.

For a moment, you had reeled me in again -- without even saying a word, without even a single touch, you had caught me in your fist like a flopping, gasping fish.

And when I woke up from this dream, I hated you all over again.

My biggest fear

... is dying before I accomplish everything I want to do in life.

antoinette

You make me sick.

i can't concentrate in class

not when
you're sitting in front of me and all i can think about are
those shoulders

what it would feel like
to see if my wingspan is enough
to cocoon them

and it gets worse in the line at the salad bar when i watch you take
spinach
mushrooms
red peppers
carrots
cheddar
olives
(why does memory work this well in the most trivial moments and fail so epically in the classroom?)

and each time
i go back to my room
look in the mirror
i see myself --

(the girl with the magenta shark backpack
the gold converse shoes
the heart-shaped hoop earrings)

-- pathetically, unforgettably flashy, like
a neon sign blaring to the world that

I want you to look only at me.

gertrudestein

"She, though, carries herself as if she is an object of desire. She carries herself as if she is her own object of desire. Such self-induced lust is addictive in its effect. Prolonged exposure makes those around them weak and helpless."

-- The Book of Salt by Monique Truong

Broken Arrow

There's a splinter here, you know. It's like that tree I once saw -- the knife that had been embedded in its trunk was almost being swallowed by the outgrowth. But you know it's still there. It's not going to go away.

I took the Myers-Brigg Test the other day. I'm an INTJ. Introverted. iNutuitive. Thinking. Judging. I value intelligence, clarity, knowledge and competence, and expect the same of others. It's no wonder that this follows the rest of the personality description:

"Personal relationships, particularly romantic ones, can be the INTJ's Achilles heel. While they are capable of caring deeply for others (usually a select few), and are willing to spend a great deal of time and effort on a relationship, the knowledge and self-confidence that make them so successful in other areas can suddenly abandon or mislead them in interpersonal situations.

This happens in part because many INTJs do not readily grasp the social rituals; for instance, they tend to have little patience and less understanding of such things as small talk and flirtation (which most types consider half the fun of a relationship)."

The modern-day game of courtship is a game for daredevils who dangle their hearts on a string around their necks. Why risk the possibility of having it stolen or battered, or falling loose to the ground with no one there to catch? Why risk the chance of it growing so heavy with misery -- you're not pretty enough, hot enough, skinny enough, enough enough -- that the weight of it strangles you? Because it's fun. Slaves to their internal chemical processes -- the adrenaline, the testosterone -- aim for the high, disregard the low.

There's a INTJ quote I've posted on my wall. "Low tolerance for rampant emotionalism." The roommate and I had quite a laugh over it, not just because of the cynical wording -- but because of how truly it applies to me.

Let's face it -- I'm not meant for it. I seek logic and clarity where there is none. The roommate told me that if she ever saw me preening on the arm of a guy, she would think I'd lost my mind. I am a control freak in the sense that I want to have complete control over myself -- though some friends have joked otherwise, I have no desire to learn what kind of drunk I am.

How do you know if it's love? Some romantic chump is going to say like a whimsical fairy godmother, "You just know." That's not how the INTJ works. She has a mental checklist of physical and intellectual attributes, she'll make an internal pro-con list, have a debate with the brain and the heart where the brain usually wins. Even then, nothing may come out of it -- around the object of interest, the INTJ will freeze up, stiffen, and act like a total zero-confidence idiot -- or actively avoid said object to avoid another deep freeze.

As far as I know, there's only been one time where my heart knocked out the brain -- and even then, there is nothing to tell, save the shred of the arrow that's still lodged within me.

A reminder.

T.O.P.-mas

This fourth day of November in the year 2010 marks the 23rd year since the birth of the King of All Things Badass, and he has a message for you. Listen well.

AT LAST, WE MEET AGAIN MY PRECIOUS MORTALS! Yes, He has returned and now walks amongst thee as the living champion of badassitude! So let us depart, my badasslings -- zip up thine hoodies and don thine shades, for all shall be revealed on this day of celebration and merriment.


To be Badass, my pretty, foolish mortals, is not to simply don a studded face mask or hide thy face behind a pair of shades. This, the heretical imposter, Pastel Offspring of Spock, learned too little too late as I smote him with my Glare of Badassitude near seven moons ago. No -- Badassery, it is a way of living and a way of being. Those atrocities who call themselves followers of Badassery -- perhaps thou hast seen them indulge in facial piercings or practice their sneers in front of the bathroom mirror -- their lives are but empty vessels, sucked dry by vanity and pretension.

To be a Badass, my children, is to act upon thine principles and blaze thy trail, even if the beaten path tempts thee with luring promises of safety and acceptance.

Take the tale of David Carter, hailing from the American state of Indiana, who took matters into his own hands when his stepdaughter and other neighborhood children were frequently bullied and cussed at by a vile teenage girl in the neighborhood. How many times hast thou read the tale of To Kill a Mockingbird and secretly wished that Scout had Atticus' approval to defend his honor so that she would have really taught Cecil Jacobs and Francis Hancock a lesson for calling her father a "n----- lover"? Atticus may be a noble father, but he who tells his children to keep their fists down when the family honor is at stake is no true Badass.

But David Carter did not tell his daughter to reclaim the family honor with a good neighborhood pummel at the hands of her fists. He did not tell his young daughter to soil her hands with bloodshed. No, he approached the wrongdoer at the bus stop wielding an electric razor and threatened to shave off her hair should she ever bother the little Lady Carter again.

This, my lost lambs, is the way of a Badass.

Suppose thou sees a restaurant employee hurling racial insults at an ethnic customer. Wouldst thou eat thy food quietly and ignore the indecency unfurling before your eyes? Or wouldst thou stand up and make the offender eat his own words -- or if not, shove a table napkin down his throat instead? Wouldst thou speak for those who cannot find their own voice?

Listen. This is the Voice of T.O.P. -- the one unlike any other on this Earth. The key to Badassery lies neither in aerodynamically spiked hair nor pointed glares. He Who is Badass defends those in need of a savior and whoops the ass of those who brag and taunt behind the protection of legality. He Who is Badass shall bear the punishment (be it a felony or misdemeanor charge) in thine stead as thine savior.

And with that, I bid thee farewell, my badasslings. Until my return --

The One and Only Idol,
T.O.P.

Far East Movement

Everyone who's a college student has probably heard Far East Movement's "Like a G6" -- if not, perhaps they're a social hermit who never leaves the dorm room. I really like this song though -- "Rocketeer" -- with OneRepublic's Ryan Tedder and cameos by some people you may or may not recognize.

It took me awhile -- probably longer than it should have, given the group's telling name -- to realize that Far East Movement is a group of Asian-American artists. But I think most of people would be surprised to learn that the group responsible for "Like a G6" is comprised of Asian-Americans. It has all the catchiness of the Billboard chart-toppers you'd attribute to white and black dance/rap artists -- hell, can you even name another Asian artist on the Billboard charts? (Bruno Mars, perhaps -- but he's half-Puerto Rican, half-Filipino)

Even looking at the Youtube comments for their videos, it seems some people don't take well the idea of Asian-Americans making this kind of insanely popular hit. They make fun of the fact that the members of Far East Movement are wearing sunglasses in their music videos, speculating it has something to do with their "Asian eyes." Once they learn that their favorite song is performed by Asians, they take an 180 degree turn and start bashing on the song.

As I've already discussed in a post back in September, ever since I started taking my Asian-American Lit class, I've become acutely aware of the social perception of Asians, and the recent rise of Far East Movement is especially eye-catching. Obviously, it's not like Asians are completely rejected -- you still have Youtube stars like Nigahiga, Wongfu, and Kevjumba who have humongous followings on the Internet. But at the same time, they haven't reached the same place as Far East Movement, who has done something extraordinary for an Asian-American group.

And I don't like this group just because we share the same racial background. I truly do think they are talented bunch -- their songs STICK. It's exciting to see if they have what it takes to carve a solid place on the music charts.