According to MIT, this whole application process is supposed to be a way to "reflect and learn something about yourself." Or something like that. I am too lazy and time-pressed to search up the actual quote. In fact I make up half the quotes I use in this blog, especially the quotes that people say, rather than write. Because I really can't remember what you happened to mumble twenty hours ago, although it must have sounded pretty funny at the time or else I wouldn't be quoting you.
In honor of the last day of 2010 (when I'm writing this, anyway, and when I'll be dating this, mind you), I will sum up the year with all of the absolute crap that I've written for applications, and what I really mean by them. Just so we start the year with a fresh, new slate. Hopefully with more honesty, but I won't make any promises. Or resolutions.
Dartmouth is the perfect school for me because . . .
Actually, Dartmouth does not require a "Why Dartmouth" essay, or any essay, for that matter; nor am I applying to Dartmouth. Which is why I chose it for this example. But really, this sentence is pretty much set up for falseness, so maybe I shouldn't even begin this way. Perfect, for me anyway, insinuates "the one," and I don't think that's quite the same as "one of the ten other ones just like it."
I will use my multicultural skills . . .
To realize that Pad Thai is delicious, even if it is not made by someone from Thailand. And instead is made by a Chinese chef who most likely have never even been to Thailand. But I digress.
This will be important in helping me solve real-life problems . . .
Because all of the problems I've been solving are not real. I don't know about you, but having a knot in my hair is a very real problem. As are other things, such as missing the bus in the mornings, sleeping through the one class during the week where we actually learned stuff, and figuring out how not to get lost in the subway system of NYC. Granted, they really just impact me, but they are problems nonetheless, and real (and in life, or my life at least).
I have leadership skills . . .
Are you kidding me? I have following skills. I can follow directions like a beast. No, really. Subordinate beasts follow the alpha-whatever really well. But leadership skills? Most people are better off following a calculator's probability simulator than following me, because I'll be using that anyway.
Through all of my experiences, I have learned a lot . . .
About how life is unfair. Among other things, such as the very handy fact that I do not like horseradish at all (maybe this can also count under "multicultural skills"). But I have not at all learned about "the importance of -insert great life lesson here-." Because all of my "great life lessons" I have learned through tripping up my life, and those aren't exactly the "experiences" I wrote about in my essays.
I have always loved math and science . . .
Okay. This one is 100% true.
Yes. This is what I really think. As for what I think about that MIT quote? Reflect? Learn something about yourself? Ha. More like, learn something about how controlling your parents are over the whole application process, for better or for worse. I don't know about you, but I sure learned a lot.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Terra Incognita
Is the first poem I fell in love with. I forgot the exact reason why—perhaps it was the sirens that haunt my dreams as well, perhaps it was the ship sailing, perhaps it was simply the words "uncharted waters."
Uncharted. I fell in love with that uncertainty.
I have tried to recreate that mood, but without much success. Something about it did not sound right, and so I gave up poetry, because what good was poetry if it could not express my uncharted waters?
Whatever they were. I am not sure I know what they are to me.
. . .
Going back to my old stories, I can find a couple recurring characters. Nate, Allison, and of course Syrena. She of the sirens. I had not realized that when I first named her. Her name came from Syreille, which itself was some blend of French and inspiration.
Syreille and Carenallie. Some mismatch, and there was Syrena. My siren. Who was a hymn angel, who sang, who could bend wills with her songs.
That I realized she was a siren in disguise was much, much later.
It was the same with Allison Carter. I realized he was a musician after I realized every piece I wrote about him described him either in a band or playing an instrument. A guitar. He played the guitar. There was no intention, these Allison Carters were not supposed to be exactly the same, but they were. They were all guitarists, and I only realized that after three stories.
Some characters are real, even if they are not rooted in reality.
. . .
I drew yesterday. Started out with what I knew worst, hands. I drew a hand and changed it into a glove, because I did not have the courage to add the arm.
Eyes. Turned into a mask worthy of any masquerade. Pearl necklace with a nautical-themed charm. Sea shells. Feathers. Perfume in a bottle, tickets to some unknown world, rope in a noose burning on one end.
Lipstick. Powder. Camera and ink, pens and pencils and pencil shavings. Nail polish. A photo of the past, earphones and an iPod. Knife with blood. An eraser.
"I love you, and I know you love me. But I can't stay. I'm sorry."
. . .
Absurd. All absurd.
No more turning back.
Uncharted. I fell in love with that uncertainty.
I have tried to recreate that mood, but without much success. Something about it did not sound right, and so I gave up poetry, because what good was poetry if it could not express my uncharted waters?
Whatever they were. I am not sure I know what they are to me.
. . .
Going back to my old stories, I can find a couple recurring characters. Nate, Allison, and of course Syrena. She of the sirens. I had not realized that when I first named her. Her name came from Syreille, which itself was some blend of French and inspiration.
Syreille and Carenallie. Some mismatch, and there was Syrena. My siren. Who was a hymn angel, who sang, who could bend wills with her songs.
That I realized she was a siren in disguise was much, much later.
It was the same with Allison Carter. I realized he was a musician after I realized every piece I wrote about him described him either in a band or playing an instrument. A guitar. He played the guitar. There was no intention, these Allison Carters were not supposed to be exactly the same, but they were. They were all guitarists, and I only realized that after three stories.
Some characters are real, even if they are not rooted in reality.
. . .
I drew yesterday. Started out with what I knew worst, hands. I drew a hand and changed it into a glove, because I did not have the courage to add the arm.
Eyes. Turned into a mask worthy of any masquerade. Pearl necklace with a nautical-themed charm. Sea shells. Feathers. Perfume in a bottle, tickets to some unknown world, rope in a noose burning on one end.
Lipstick. Powder. Camera and ink, pens and pencils and pencil shavings. Nail polish. A photo of the past, earphones and an iPod. Knife with blood. An eraser.
"I love you, and I know you love me. But I can't stay. I'm sorry."
. . .
Absurd. All absurd.
No more turning back.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
My Favorite Songs, Part I
Here is a list of my favorite songs on Pandora. I would link the station, but it doesn't always give my favorite songs (the ones I've checked), and besides, I have over 100 songs I've "liked." I don't remember clicking the button that many times.
- All Hail the High Seas, Eye Alaska
- See Through, Megan McCauley
- I See Right Through to You, D.J. Encore
- Boston, Augustana
- Nothing in My Way, Keane
- Ghost, Jes
- If I Could Fly, Oceanlab
- Move for Me, Kaskade + deadmau5
- Miracle, Oceanlab
- In My Dreams, Noemi
- Before the Worst, The Script
- All Good Things (Come to an End), Nelly Furtado
- Half Acre, Hem
- Just a Dream, Carrie Underwood
- Hey There Delilah, Plain White T’s
- I Remember, deadmau5 + Kaskade
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Ring Around The Rosie
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.
We all fall down.
I saw ghosts of cars today. In the reflection of the bus windows. Car ghosts running head on and crashing into their originals. The car themselves come out unscathed. The car ghosts disappeared.
Did the cars know they were driving into their haunted selves? Did the car ghosts know they were driving into their demises?
Did they know?
Did they care?
Yuma took me to the orchestra room today, and played Imogen Heap's Speeding Cars on the piano. He sang too. I had looked at the lyrics once before but had not noticed them. This time, I realized it was talking about suicide.
Suicide. Such an easy word to say, such a hard word to swallow.
In my dreams—or are they nightmares?—I have been chased many times. I have been on the run many times, from presumed enemies, to win a race, or for the sake of running.
But I have never fallen. Not once. Falling dreams are the ones that haunt my daydreams.
I am suddenly in possession of objects I would deem too dangerous for me to hold. Too dangerous for someone who has such a strong morbid fascination with these objects. But I accepted them with as much grace as I could muster.
What will it be like?
Do I want to know?
My scarf obsession started in fifth grade. Or grade five, as I used to say, before someone pointed it out to me and I subconsciously changed the way I spoke.
My youngest cousin and I were on the streets, with my aunt. We had finished shopping for something, and I cannot remember what it was, but it must have been important because why else would we be out at night in one of the coldest winters I could remember?
My cousin spotted a hat she wanted. We went over, and I, in classic little sibling manner despite the fact I was an only child, decided I wanted a hat as well.
She bought one for herself and one for me. I, in turn, bought the matching scarves and rabbit hair gloves.
My aunt later asked me, “Why aren't you wearing your scarf?”
“It's too short,” I told her.
So she got me another scarf, a long chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. And perhaps that was what went wrong. I should never have two frivolous items, because what else could I do with them but want more?
I still remember the Fairweather scarf.
The tube scarf.
And every scarf that caught my eye afterwards.
I gave Yuma the chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. It is one of four scarves I still have. He looks nice in it, I think. And anyway, he should have something for his throat, because sore throats are awful, especially for a singing throat.
We shared our favorite songs before. And found out how different our musical tastes are.
I am a melancholy-lyrical-rhythm dependent girl. One who grasps onto the melody and threads it through the lyrics in a silk weave. I do not know how he likes to describe himself musically.
Perhaps not as I describe myself.
The other day I was walking down the street and the trees seemed like plastic toys. The sky was so low it bordered surreal. I remember the air as biting cold, as it always is in December. I had only one year of warm December, where the snow fell as light dustings and winter was just as rainy as it was snowy.
The houses were some laborious decoration. Not real.
I walk alone from the mailbox to my door. No one walks down that path with me, except for Yuma sometimes, and even he does not reach my door.
On that stretch of road, I can be anything. Anyone.
I can twirl the air and pretend I am holding onto Lillian. Slash slash jump. I pretend Prescott is there, and I am telling him off yet again. I even sing sometimes. I start off with songs I know and twist the lyrics to my liking. Then I change the tune.
Then I reach my door, and halt the show.
As I write, I wonder, will I ever be well known for my writing? If I will be, will they who read my other, more famous works look back on these simple thoughts and try to assign some deeper meaning to them? Will they think, “Now here is a real thoughtful piece, here it reflects some profound theme.”
Death. Life. And everything in between.
But perhaps there is no real reason for this piece. It is not a statement, nor is it a message. It is merely an expression, a method to consolidate musings.
It is, after all, what came to mind first. And as I am listening to Speeding Cars right now, and re-imagining the car ghosts yet again, I wonder if they are at peace. Ghosts freed of their curses, free to go wherever they want.
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.
We all fall down.
I saw ghosts of cars today. In the reflection of the bus windows. Car ghosts running head on and crashing into their originals. The car themselves come out unscathed. The car ghosts disappeared.
Did the cars know they were driving into their haunted selves? Did the car ghosts know they were driving into their demises?
Did they know?
Did they care?
Yuma took me to the orchestra room today, and played Imogen Heap's Speeding Cars on the piano. He sang too. I had looked at the lyrics once before but had not noticed them. This time, I realized it was talking about suicide.
Suicide. Such an easy word to say, such a hard word to swallow.
In my dreams—or are they nightmares?—I have been chased many times. I have been on the run many times, from presumed enemies, to win a race, or for the sake of running.
But I have never fallen. Not once. Falling dreams are the ones that haunt my daydreams.
I am suddenly in possession of objects I would deem too dangerous for me to hold. Too dangerous for someone who has such a strong morbid fascination with these objects. But I accepted them with as much grace as I could muster.
What will it be like?
Do I want to know?
My scarf obsession started in fifth grade. Or grade five, as I used to say, before someone pointed it out to me and I subconsciously changed the way I spoke.
My youngest cousin and I were on the streets, with my aunt. We had finished shopping for something, and I cannot remember what it was, but it must have been important because why else would we be out at night in one of the coldest winters I could remember?
My cousin spotted a hat she wanted. We went over, and I, in classic little sibling manner despite the fact I was an only child, decided I wanted a hat as well.
She bought one for herself and one for me. I, in turn, bought the matching scarves and rabbit hair gloves.
My aunt later asked me, “Why aren't you wearing your scarf?”
“It's too short,” I told her.
So she got me another scarf, a long chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. And perhaps that was what went wrong. I should never have two frivolous items, because what else could I do with them but want more?
I still remember the Fairweather scarf.
The tube scarf.
And every scarf that caught my eye afterwards.
I gave Yuma the chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. It is one of four scarves I still have. He looks nice in it, I think. And anyway, he should have something for his throat, because sore throats are awful, especially for a singing throat.
We shared our favorite songs before. And found out how different our musical tastes are.
I am a melancholy-lyrical-rhythm dependent girl. One who grasps onto the melody and threads it through the lyrics in a silk weave. I do not know how he likes to describe himself musically.
Perhaps not as I describe myself.
The other day I was walking down the street and the trees seemed like plastic toys. The sky was so low it bordered surreal. I remember the air as biting cold, as it always is in December. I had only one year of warm December, where the snow fell as light dustings and winter was just as rainy as it was snowy.
The houses were some laborious decoration. Not real.
I walk alone from the mailbox to my door. No one walks down that path with me, except for Yuma sometimes, and even he does not reach my door.
On that stretch of road, I can be anything. Anyone.
I can twirl the air and pretend I am holding onto Lillian. Slash slash jump. I pretend Prescott is there, and I am telling him off yet again. I even sing sometimes. I start off with songs I know and twist the lyrics to my liking. Then I change the tune.
Then I reach my door, and halt the show.
As I write, I wonder, will I ever be well known for my writing? If I will be, will they who read my other, more famous works look back on these simple thoughts and try to assign some deeper meaning to them? Will they think, “Now here is a real thoughtful piece, here it reflects some profound theme.”
Death. Life. And everything in between.
But perhaps there is no real reason for this piece. It is not a statement, nor is it a message. It is merely an expression, a method to consolidate musings.
It is, after all, what came to mind first. And as I am listening to Speeding Cars right now, and re-imagining the car ghosts yet again, I wonder if they are at peace. Ghosts freed of their curses, free to go wherever they want.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Feelings, How Fickle You Are
If you asked me a week ago, I would have said I wanted to go to Penn. Unequivocally.
Did I believe it?
Deep down, I have always wondered if I was ready to choose one path and stick with it yet. I don't think I'm cut for med school because I can't say, right here and right now, "I want to be a doctor. Nothing else." I can't do that. I have vague ideas, but nothing solid.
So why Penn?
Luckily, Penn deviated from its traditional "Why Penn?" essay two years ago. Now, it asks for specifics. The small things. I can say those, even if they may not be necessarily true. I made a journal of my future day at Penn and included all of the things I wanted to do.
But what would make me choose Penn over another school?
What would make me choose Chicago over another school?
Chicago's decisions come out tomorrow. I want to know, in a perverse, curious way. I do not care for the school—I applied because it was an early action choice and because it was in Chicago. I hold ties to places I have lived in before. The land calls out to me and stirs within me some sentimental frivolity. So I applied to Chicago.
Am I going to be accepted?
I want to know because I want a definite answer, because I don't want to wait, because it is so close. And while I was so calm going into Penn's decisions, I am strangely anxious. Is it because I have been deferred once? Or is it because I just want to be accepted by Chicago? If it is the former, why wasn't I nervous before, even though I knew I didn't really have a chance at Penn? If it is the latter, why do I want to be accepted to a school that attracts me only because of its location?
Am I lying to myself? Do I even know what I want?
Maybe on some subconscious level, I want Chicago for whatever reason I have long since forgotten. Returning to past lands is always a reason, but then I could apply to Northwestern and be even closer. Is there something else?
I don't know.
What would make me choose Chicago over another school? Or, more precisely, what would make me choose Chicago over McGill?
Is it because some stubborn, vain part of me does not wish to return to Canada, because it would seem like such a defeat, if I came out here for three years only to go back again. I am not applying to Toronto for that reason. I would feel so much regret I don't think I would be able to truly enjoy my first few months there.
So what about McGill?
What about McGill?
It is a good school. Has a program I really want (joint major in biology and mathematics). One of the best med school in Canada. In the beautiful city of Montreal. Lovely, lovely school. I can even practice my French there.
So what about McGill?
If I am accepted at Chicago, or anywhere else that is not in Canada, what will I do?
The knee-jerk reactions is, "I'll go there. I'm not going to McGill if I can go somewhere else."
Really? Is that what I want?
Chicago doesn't have an engineering school. But it does have a strong economics department. McGill is not best known for that—Queens is, UBC is. It is not best known for engineering either—Toronto is, Waterloo is.
So I guess it should come down to what I want to do with my life. Going back to the med school statement, I don't know if I can make a decision yet.
Should.
Why am I so eager to choose Chicago over McGill then?
Is Chicago that lovely? Yes, it is. Of course it is. Is that my only reason? No, it is not. It cannot possibly be the only reason.
Is it because I am afraid of the huge class sizes at McGill? Is it because I am afraid I will not be able to compete against so many people? Is it because I feel as though I deserve so much more than McGill?
Do I? Do I really? Do I even deserve McGill, or is it the more relaxed system towards US high school students?
This is all stupid. I will know if I am accepted, deferred, or rejected soon enough. Tomorrow. And then I can say what I will choose based on what I am given. But if I could choose any school, I don't know what the triggering factor is that would make me instantly pick Chicago over McGill.
Did I believe it?
Deep down, I have always wondered if I was ready to choose one path and stick with it yet. I don't think I'm cut for med school because I can't say, right here and right now, "I want to be a doctor. Nothing else." I can't do that. I have vague ideas, but nothing solid.
So why Penn?
Luckily, Penn deviated from its traditional "Why Penn?" essay two years ago. Now, it asks for specifics. The small things. I can say those, even if they may not be necessarily true. I made a journal of my future day at Penn and included all of the things I wanted to do.
But what would make me choose Penn over another school?
What would make me choose Chicago over another school?
Chicago's decisions come out tomorrow. I want to know, in a perverse, curious way. I do not care for the school—I applied because it was an early action choice and because it was in Chicago. I hold ties to places I have lived in before. The land calls out to me and stirs within me some sentimental frivolity. So I applied to Chicago.
Am I going to be accepted?
I want to know because I want a definite answer, because I don't want to wait, because it is so close. And while I was so calm going into Penn's decisions, I am strangely anxious. Is it because I have been deferred once? Or is it because I just want to be accepted by Chicago? If it is the former, why wasn't I nervous before, even though I knew I didn't really have a chance at Penn? If it is the latter, why do I want to be accepted to a school that attracts me only because of its location?
Am I lying to myself? Do I even know what I want?
Maybe on some subconscious level, I want Chicago for whatever reason I have long since forgotten. Returning to past lands is always a reason, but then I could apply to Northwestern and be even closer. Is there something else?
I don't know.
What would make me choose Chicago over another school? Or, more precisely, what would make me choose Chicago over McGill?
Is it because some stubborn, vain part of me does not wish to return to Canada, because it would seem like such a defeat, if I came out here for three years only to go back again. I am not applying to Toronto for that reason. I would feel so much regret I don't think I would be able to truly enjoy my first few months there.
So what about McGill?
What about McGill?
It is a good school. Has a program I really want (joint major in biology and mathematics). One of the best med school in Canada. In the beautiful city of Montreal. Lovely, lovely school. I can even practice my French there.
So what about McGill?
If I am accepted at Chicago, or anywhere else that is not in Canada, what will I do?
The knee-jerk reactions is, "I'll go there. I'm not going to McGill if I can go somewhere else."
Really? Is that what I want?
Chicago doesn't have an engineering school. But it does have a strong economics department. McGill is not best known for that—Queens is, UBC is. It is not best known for engineering either—Toronto is, Waterloo is.
So I guess it should come down to what I want to do with my life. Going back to the med school statement, I don't know if I can make a decision yet.
Should.
Why am I so eager to choose Chicago over McGill then?
Is Chicago that lovely? Yes, it is. Of course it is. Is that my only reason? No, it is not. It cannot possibly be the only reason.
Is it because I am afraid of the huge class sizes at McGill? Is it because I am afraid I will not be able to compete against so many people? Is it because I feel as though I deserve so much more than McGill?
Do I? Do I really? Do I even deserve McGill, or is it the more relaxed system towards US high school students?
This is all stupid. I will know if I am accepted, deferred, or rejected soon enough. Tomorrow. And then I can say what I will choose based on what I am given. But if I could choose any school, I don't know what the triggering factor is that would make me instantly pick Chicago over McGill.
Monday, December 13, 2010
For You, Hamlet
Wednesday is our in-class essay, and the official day we will be spending on Hamlet, so I thought I would like to summarize some of my thoughts after reading this play.
- Action vs. Inaction: what everyone reading the play would think about. Hamlet's soliloquies are all about his inaction when it comes to avenging his father. He is "mirrored" in Laertes, who does not hesitate to take down his father's murderer. But what struck me as odd was why Hamlet is not capable of acting. Is it because he is over-thinking things? After he proves that Claudius is responsible for his father's death, what reason does he have for still hesitating? Perhaps he does not truly believe in revenge, and in fact, he asks, "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer / The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles / And by opposing end them?" Is he thinking about revenge only because the ghost, who is presumably his father, asked him to do so, because it is the right thing to do according to societal norms, or because he actually believes in it?
- Another character with a striking resemblance to Hamlet's situation is Fortinbras. As the prince of Norway, Fortinbras has also lost his father, and, at least from my reading of the text, is bent on revenge against Denmark. Throughout the play, he never gives up on attacking Denmark, and even uses traveling through Denmark to attack Poland as an excuse after his uncle condemned his actions. Here, both Fortinbras and Hamlet have lost their fathers and are seeking revenge, but they go about different ways of achieving revenge, and arrive at different destinations. Fortinbras, in his fiery impulsiveness and warrior-like thinking, does not hesitate to attack, and in the end he and his country benefits (as he has now gained control of all of Denmark's lands). Hamlet, with his indecisiveness and heavy thought processes, continues to miss opportunities to kill Claudius, and eventually dies amidst the destruction of the Denmark throne.
- Mini-digression: it appears, at least in the Hamlet world, that revenge is highly valued (and the judicial system not so much).
- Ophelia's death (and life): this is what I found the saddest. Yes, Hamlet lost his father and rightfully should be sad, but later on Ophelia loses her father as well. And perhaps her loss is even worse—when her father was still alive, he controlled every aspect of her life, and when he dies, it is as though Ophelia loses her soul. Her insanity is perhaps a reflection of that loss and her newfound lack of direction in life. But what makes Ophelia's life and death sad, at least for me, is not how sad she feels, but how her condition affects others around her. Laertes's "What ceremony else?" almost broke my heart. I can just hear the desolation in his voice as he realizes he is powerless to protect his sister or even make her death better. And Hamlet's "I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers / Could not, with all their quantity of love / Make up my sum" is both sad and frustrating. Sad, because Hamlet obviously loved her, and frustrating, because, hey, Hamlet, couldn't you at least have treated her a little better when she was alive?
- Mini-digression #2: William Shakespeare must have either had a really bad day or was at least slightly psycho when he wrote this.
- The whole relationship scene: is completely messed up. Starting with family, we have Claudius, who kills his brother and marries his sister-in-law. I don't think it gets much worse than that. Then there are the friends, or the good friends (Horatio) and the bad friends (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) who are back-stabbers and suck-ups. The lovers who lie constantly to each other (Hamlet and Ophelia). Not to mention how Hamlet treats his mother (very likely violence, or at least very cutting verbal remarks) and Polonius's absolute control over his daughter. There are some very, very disturbing relationships in this play.
- And of course, the portrayal of women: both Gertrude and Ophelia are rather weak characters. They advance the plot, but they do not develop much as characters, and are often pushed around by the other, male characters. What is also interesting is how Shakespeare, in creating his strong female characters, sometimes have them cross-dress as males, as seen in As You Like It's Rosalind, or Twelfth Night's Violet.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Not Enough Time
I am falling apart at the seams, save me, save me please?
I thought you said you didn’t need saving. Said you could save yourself.
That was before. This is now.
You’re not desperate enough.
[There are some dreams that cannot be salvaged. Because they never existed.]
The steps to 30 Reading Street was covered in filmy moss. When Katie climbed them she almost slipped, but years of subway-riding training gave her the quick reflexes to steady herself and keep on going.
“Careful there,” Nick said. He held out his hand, hovered behind her back.
“Don’t worry about me,” Katie said. “I’m fine.”
She reached over and pressed the doorbell. No sound came from inside, and Katie wondered if she should press it again, or knock on the door. Would it be too rude? She stared at her reflection in the glass.
Perfectly groomed hair. Make-up applied so seamlessly they were dreamy. A neat cardigan over a navy cotton dress and ballerina flats. Her appearance was so youthful and carefree she thought she could almost mask the haunted look in her eyes.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open. Amanda’s weary eyes replaced Katie’s from behind the glass.
“What do you want?” They both said at the same time.
“Am I that predictable?” Amanda asked, a half-smile on her face.
Katie returned it with more optimism than she thought she had. “It is partly my fault. I usually only call on you when I need something.”
“Well then. How are you?”
“Good, good. How are you? How is Nick?”
“He is good,” Amanda and Nick said at the same time. Except this time, Amanda did not react. Katie shot him a dark look before turning back to Amanda.
“I am glad to hear that. You are good too?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Yes, I am.”
They stood a while like that, in silence. Katie remotely remembered why she never called upon Amanda. She pulled up a smile again and said, “Want to go get coffee with me some afternoon? I have a really flexible schedule now, and I get most afternoons off.”
“You don’t have a schedule anymore,” Nick said. “You don’t even work anymore.”
Amanda said, “That sounds nice. I am free Wednesday afternoons, and Nick does not get home until late. It is nearing dinner-time today, so maybe next Wednesday?”
“Yes, that would be great,” Katie said. “Absolutely lovely.” Absolutely fucking lovely, but she managed to cut off the curse. Nick should be proud.
The conversation fell into another lull. This time, Amanda smiled. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings,” Katie said.
None at all.
“Yes, no hard feelings,” Nick said, and laughed. That dry, hacking laugh. “Wish her a happy marriage. I dare you.”
“I hope you will be happy with Nick,” Katie said. “You two are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said. “I was afraid—well, forgive me, but with your history with Nick, I was afraid that you might be upset at the news.”
“No, not at all. I am happy for you.”
“Well, thank you again. I hope you will come to the ceremony? I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but Jessie really wanted—”
“That is not a problem,” Katie said. “I would hate to be so responsible anyway.”
“But the ceremony?”
“Yes, I will. I have to go now, but next Wednesday at Miguel’s café?”
“Of course.”
“Good bye.”
“Good bye.”
The door closed, and Katie was left with her reflection again. The hair still unruffled. The make-up pristine. Her outfit as cheerful and preppy as before. Her eyes just as hollow, but she was glad Amanda was not too perceptive.
Katie went down the steps, taking care not to slip on the moss again. She asked, “Why didn’t you clean this place up?”
“Not my problem,” Nick said. “Amanda can do it if she wanted.”
“She is your fiancée.”
“She is.”
“So what if she slips and falls? What if she gets hurt? You still won’t do it?”
“You were pretty gutsy back there,” Nick said. “I thought you wouldn’t have said it.”
“Don’t change the topic,” Katie said.
“I’m—”
A sky-blue car pulled up in the driveway in front of her. The door opened, and Nick stepped out. He just stood there, staring at Katie, and she could see something in his eyes that she often saw in her own.
“Hey, Nick,” she said.
“Katie,” Nick said. His voice did not have that sardonic tone anymore. It was more subdued, with an edge in it that made Katie’s throat contract. “What are you doing here?”
“I was visiting Amanda. She is my friend, you know.”
Nick cringed, and Katie knew what he was thinking. That drunken night she had called Amanda on a dare, the night she had introduced Nick to her. Because “you don’t have any decent friends,” as Nick had said.
“Yes, she is your friend,” Nick said. “I would have never known that.”
“I had forgotten that,” Nick said. “How are you then?”
“Good. Good enough,” Katie said. “How are you?”
“Good,” Nick said.
“Good,” Nick said.
One with contempt. One with hesitance.
“Amanda invited me to your wedding,” Katie said. “I hope everything goes well. Don’t drink too much—I don’t think she would be happy to wait by the toilet for you to finish throwing up.”
“Thank you.” The other Nick did not say anything.
“You’re welcome.”
All civil. Not a single go to hell, or fuck you. They had grown up, after all. Katie scoffed. If this was what growing up meant, she knew why all the grownups she had known as a child were always so stuck up.
Being grown up meant there were some things you wanted so desperately to say, but never said out loud.
Like, “If I had not called Amanda that night, what would have happened?”
Katied wondered. But she knew the answer already. Had she not called Amanda, Nick would be marrying some other girl. Katie herself would still be on barely-speaking terms with him. They would still find each other in this state, perhaps not at his house, but maybe a coffee place or a supermarket.
Still this awkward. Still hating each other.
And Katie would still hear Nick’s voice wherever she went.
. . .
This is all over the place, I admit. I had other things in mind when I was writing this (Nick was supposed to be perceptive and realize that something was wrong with Katie, for example), but it got long and I knew if I didn't finish this today I will never get to finish it, so I cut it off.
This is a much less morbid version of the other Nick, Katie, and Amanda story I had in mind. That one involves a funeral, and in some ways links to this one, so if I do get to fix it up I'll post it as well.
. . .
I was deferred to Penn. Surprisingly, I am not distraught, nor am I that upset. I think I wanted to get in somewhere early so I could just get it over with, but I am not entirely bought on the whole Penn thing. Maybe I was just persuading myself because I had already said I would do it and I hate to go back on my words.
I still love Penn.
But maybe it's not the one.
What does the one look like? I don't know. But MIT's as good a start as any. And yes, I know it's probably not the one either. But to be honest, I don't think I have to go to any one school, nor do I know what I would want for the next four years right now. In this regard, at least, I agree with Mario.
. . .
In English, someone was going to get cough drops from the nurse's office, and Sergio asked for one as well. Then someone else asked for some tissues.
Mr. Littney then said, "Get Dino a sucker pop as well."
We watched the last scene in Hamlet today. Where [spoiler alert] everyone important dies from poison (or, in Laertes's case, also from falling off a balcony, and, in Claudius's case, also from being squished by a chandelier). And Fortinbras marches his troops into the castle only to find everyone dead on the ground.
What a happy sight.
Apparently Aristotle's view of a tragedy is that after reading (or watching) one, we should have learned something about ourselves from it. So what have I learned? (Except for, as Mr. Littney pointed out, "the inability to shut up gives one longer life," as evidenced by Hamlet having being stabbed with poison first but dying last.)
I would say it's my inability to act. My indecision. My ease of just talking things over and not putting them into action. I am like Hamlet in that aspect. And I am missing out on many opportunities, and I am pushing myself off track with each minute I wait.
I can't decide.
I wrote about that in my EOQR as well, and my portfolio. Of course, in my portfolio, I said I learned how to decide, but I don't think I really did. I still don't have what it takes to stick to one decision and its consequences.
Just like colleges.
Just like Nick.
But that would be linking too many things together into one.
I thought you said you didn’t need saving. Said you could save yourself.
That was before. This is now.
You’re not desperate enough.
[There are some dreams that cannot be salvaged. Because they never existed.]
The steps to 30 Reading Street was covered in filmy moss. When Katie climbed them she almost slipped, but years of subway-riding training gave her the quick reflexes to steady herself and keep on going.
“Careful there,” Nick said. He held out his hand, hovered behind her back.
“Don’t worry about me,” Katie said. “I’m fine.”
She reached over and pressed the doorbell. No sound came from inside, and Katie wondered if she should press it again, or knock on the door. Would it be too rude? She stared at her reflection in the glass.
Perfectly groomed hair. Make-up applied so seamlessly they were dreamy. A neat cardigan over a navy cotton dress and ballerina flats. Her appearance was so youthful and carefree she thought she could almost mask the haunted look in her eyes.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open. Amanda’s weary eyes replaced Katie’s from behind the glass.
“What do you want?” They both said at the same time.
“Am I that predictable?” Amanda asked, a half-smile on her face.
Katie returned it with more optimism than she thought she had. “It is partly my fault. I usually only call on you when I need something.”
“Well then. How are you?”
“Good, good. How are you? How is Nick?”
“He is good,” Amanda and Nick said at the same time. Except this time, Amanda did not react. Katie shot him a dark look before turning back to Amanda.
“I am glad to hear that. You are good too?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Yes, I am.”
They stood a while like that, in silence. Katie remotely remembered why she never called upon Amanda. She pulled up a smile again and said, “Want to go get coffee with me some afternoon? I have a really flexible schedule now, and I get most afternoons off.”
“You don’t have a schedule anymore,” Nick said. “You don’t even work anymore.”
Amanda said, “That sounds nice. I am free Wednesday afternoons, and Nick does not get home until late. It is nearing dinner-time today, so maybe next Wednesday?”
“Yes, that would be great,” Katie said. “Absolutely lovely.” Absolutely fucking lovely, but she managed to cut off the curse. Nick should be proud.
The conversation fell into another lull. This time, Amanda smiled. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings,” Katie said.
None at all.
“Yes, no hard feelings,” Nick said, and laughed. That dry, hacking laugh. “Wish her a happy marriage. I dare you.”
“I hope you will be happy with Nick,” Katie said. “You two are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said. “I was afraid—well, forgive me, but with your history with Nick, I was afraid that you might be upset at the news.”
“No, not at all. I am happy for you.”
“Well, thank you again. I hope you will come to the ceremony? I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but Jessie really wanted—”
“That is not a problem,” Katie said. “I would hate to be so responsible anyway.”
“But the ceremony?”
“Yes, I will. I have to go now, but next Wednesday at Miguel’s café?”
“Of course.”
“Good bye.”
“Good bye.”
The door closed, and Katie was left with her reflection again. The hair still unruffled. The make-up pristine. Her outfit as cheerful and preppy as before. Her eyes just as hollow, but she was glad Amanda was not too perceptive.
Katie went down the steps, taking care not to slip on the moss again. She asked, “Why didn’t you clean this place up?”
“Not my problem,” Nick said. “Amanda can do it if she wanted.”
“She is your fiancée.”
“She is.”
“So what if she slips and falls? What if she gets hurt? You still won’t do it?”
“You were pretty gutsy back there,” Nick said. “I thought you wouldn’t have said it.”
“Don’t change the topic,” Katie said.
“I’m—”
A sky-blue car pulled up in the driveway in front of her. The door opened, and Nick stepped out. He just stood there, staring at Katie, and she could see something in his eyes that she often saw in her own.
“Hey, Nick,” she said.
“Katie,” Nick said. His voice did not have that sardonic tone anymore. It was more subdued, with an edge in it that made Katie’s throat contract. “What are you doing here?”
“I was visiting Amanda. She is my friend, you know.”
Nick cringed, and Katie knew what he was thinking. That drunken night she had called Amanda on a dare, the night she had introduced Nick to her. Because “you don’t have any decent friends,” as Nick had said.
“Yes, she is your friend,” Nick said. “I would have never known that.”
“I had forgotten that,” Nick said. “How are you then?”
“Good. Good enough,” Katie said. “How are you?”
“Good,” Nick said.
“Good,” Nick said.
One with contempt. One with hesitance.
“Amanda invited me to your wedding,” Katie said. “I hope everything goes well. Don’t drink too much—I don’t think she would be happy to wait by the toilet for you to finish throwing up.”
“Thank you.” The other Nick did not say anything.
“You’re welcome.”
All civil. Not a single go to hell, or fuck you. They had grown up, after all. Katie scoffed. If this was what growing up meant, she knew why all the grownups she had known as a child were always so stuck up.
Being grown up meant there were some things you wanted so desperately to say, but never said out loud.
Like, “If I had not called Amanda that night, what would have happened?”
Katied wondered. But she knew the answer already. Had she not called Amanda, Nick would be marrying some other girl. Katie herself would still be on barely-speaking terms with him. They would still find each other in this state, perhaps not at his house, but maybe a coffee place or a supermarket.
Still this awkward. Still hating each other.
And Katie would still hear Nick’s voice wherever she went.
. . .
This is all over the place, I admit. I had other things in mind when I was writing this (Nick was supposed to be perceptive and realize that something was wrong with Katie, for example), but it got long and I knew if I didn't finish this today I will never get to finish it, so I cut it off.
This is a much less morbid version of the other Nick, Katie, and Amanda story I had in mind. That one involves a funeral, and in some ways links to this one, so if I do get to fix it up I'll post it as well.
. . .
I was deferred to Penn. Surprisingly, I am not distraught, nor am I that upset. I think I wanted to get in somewhere early so I could just get it over with, but I am not entirely bought on the whole Penn thing. Maybe I was just persuading myself because I had already said I would do it and I hate to go back on my words.
I still love Penn.
But maybe it's not the one.
What does the one look like? I don't know. But MIT's as good a start as any. And yes, I know it's probably not the one either. But to be honest, I don't think I have to go to any one school, nor do I know what I would want for the next four years right now. In this regard, at least, I agree with Mario.
. . .
In English, someone was going to get cough drops from the nurse's office, and Sergio asked for one as well. Then someone else asked for some tissues.
Mr. Littney then said, "Get Dino a sucker pop as well."
We watched the last scene in Hamlet today. Where [spoiler alert] everyone important dies from poison (or, in Laertes's case, also from falling off a balcony, and, in Claudius's case, also from being squished by a chandelier). And Fortinbras marches his troops into the castle only to find everyone dead on the ground.
What a happy sight.
Apparently Aristotle's view of a tragedy is that after reading (or watching) one, we should have learned something about ourselves from it. So what have I learned? (Except for, as Mr. Littney pointed out, "the inability to shut up gives one longer life," as evidenced by Hamlet having being stabbed with poison first but dying last.)
I would say it's my inability to act. My indecision. My ease of just talking things over and not putting them into action. I am like Hamlet in that aspect. And I am missing out on many opportunities, and I am pushing myself off track with each minute I wait.
I can't decide.
I wrote about that in my EOQR as well, and my portfolio. Of course, in my portfolio, I said I learned how to decide, but I don't think I really did. I still don't have what it takes to stick to one decision and its consequences.
Just like colleges.
Just like Nick.
But that would be linking too many things together into one.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
If I Close My Eyes, Will You Still Be There?
If I pretended you did not exist, would you go away?
That is my philosophy towards any problems I have. Which, mind you, I have plenty, except I tend to ignore them and hope that they will stop bothering me because, obviously, I don't want to be bothered, can't you see?
Except right now my problems are intricately linked to the explosively amazing aspects of my life. I had finally climbed up the cliff and jumped off, and I'm free-falling, just as I always wanted to do. The exhilaration is in my veins, drowning out all other sounds.
But I am also falling. I can't deny that.
What do I do?
Should I open the parachute packet? I will get a soft landing, I will survive, but I will fail. I will land on the ground with a heart full of pain-dulled regrets. But if I don't, I might crash onto the ground, head-first, and die. Or worse.
Things shouldn't go wrong. I am aimed over the ocean. I will—I should—make a spectacular entry into the silk-slippery water. Swim my way up to the top again and shake my hair free of the salty droplets. Everything I had ever wanted in one moment of adrenaline.
If I miss, I will die.
But that is what makes it exciting, isn't it?
. . .
I am sprinting as fast as I can, against the churning of time. And no, I am not able to turn back time, not able to revisit the past or even freeze a special moment. All I can do is extend the time that I have and make everything seem like they would last an eternity.
Eternity. I will love you until the end of eternity.
Nate had said that before.
What happens when eternity ends then? What happens after that? Will Nate stop loving? Will our promises be no more?
But I am running against time, and it is stretching out as far as it can go. Every day is still different from the day before, but somehow magically better, even with the definite promise of an end to eternity eventually.
. . .
The way he plays the piano is breath-taking. Every note perfectly struck, strung together into a melody of soft passion. He is emotional with this, passionate, and it shows in the way he composes himself, in the way he pours his soul into the song.
We sat there, listening to the song resonating in our heads. Watching his slender piano fingers search for the right balance, sometimes feather light, sometimes painfully powerful. The music unwinds from his hands.
Just right. Just right.
The song reaches its finale, and he ends it with a flourish. Stands up, and can't help but to look back at the piano. It is a sleek, black thing, the keys ivory white and beckoning. He loves this piano, it is his soul, and in return the piano depends on him to stay on this dazzling stage often dominated by dancers and singers and actors.
Everyone is applauding, but they do not see the way he is looking at the piano, nor do they see his eyes reflected on the piano's glossy cover.
. . .
It only got worse from there, unless of course you had a different measure of good and bad. The first time they found themselves in the dark, they thought they had finally found the perfect haven. They held hands, confident they could tackle on the world.
Even if they jumped at every noise. Despite the darkness—or perhaps because of it—they had a perpetual fear that the world would find them eventually and drag them back to suffer.
When they fell to the ground, staring into the space where each other's eyes should be, they knew they were not defeated. Defeat meant your heart had given up. They still had each other, they still had reasons to go on.
The second time they found themselves in the dark, they were careful not to trip and fall. The fear was still there. It would probably always be there.
And by the time they grabbed onto each other, they already knew there was no escaping it.
. . .
Penn's ED results out tomorrow. I should be more anxious, but the date's just sort of crept up on me and I'm not extremely nervous right now.
Maybe because I have other, more important things to stress over. I never thought I would say that.
That is my philosophy towards any problems I have. Which, mind you, I have plenty, except I tend to ignore them and hope that they will stop bothering me because, obviously, I don't want to be bothered, can't you see?
Except right now my problems are intricately linked to the explosively amazing aspects of my life. I had finally climbed up the cliff and jumped off, and I'm free-falling, just as I always wanted to do. The exhilaration is in my veins, drowning out all other sounds.
But I am also falling. I can't deny that.
What do I do?
Should I open the parachute packet? I will get a soft landing, I will survive, but I will fail. I will land on the ground with a heart full of pain-dulled regrets. But if I don't, I might crash onto the ground, head-first, and die. Or worse.
Things shouldn't go wrong. I am aimed over the ocean. I will—I should—make a spectacular entry into the silk-slippery water. Swim my way up to the top again and shake my hair free of the salty droplets. Everything I had ever wanted in one moment of adrenaline.
If I miss, I will die.
But that is what makes it exciting, isn't it?
. . .
I am sprinting as fast as I can, against the churning of time. And no, I am not able to turn back time, not able to revisit the past or even freeze a special moment. All I can do is extend the time that I have and make everything seem like they would last an eternity.
Eternity. I will love you until the end of eternity.
Nate had said that before.
What happens when eternity ends then? What happens after that? Will Nate stop loving? Will our promises be no more?
But I am running against time, and it is stretching out as far as it can go. Every day is still different from the day before, but somehow magically better, even with the definite promise of an end to eternity eventually.
. . .
The way he plays the piano is breath-taking. Every note perfectly struck, strung together into a melody of soft passion. He is emotional with this, passionate, and it shows in the way he composes himself, in the way he pours his soul into the song.
We sat there, listening to the song resonating in our heads. Watching his slender piano fingers search for the right balance, sometimes feather light, sometimes painfully powerful. The music unwinds from his hands.
Just right. Just right.
The song reaches its finale, and he ends it with a flourish. Stands up, and can't help but to look back at the piano. It is a sleek, black thing, the keys ivory white and beckoning. He loves this piano, it is his soul, and in return the piano depends on him to stay on this dazzling stage often dominated by dancers and singers and actors.
Everyone is applauding, but they do not see the way he is looking at the piano, nor do they see his eyes reflected on the piano's glossy cover.
. . .
It only got worse from there, unless of course you had a different measure of good and bad. The first time they found themselves in the dark, they thought they had finally found the perfect haven. They held hands, confident they could tackle on the world.
Even if they jumped at every noise. Despite the darkness—or perhaps because of it—they had a perpetual fear that the world would find them eventually and drag them back to suffer.
When they fell to the ground, staring into the space where each other's eyes should be, they knew they were not defeated. Defeat meant your heart had given up. They still had each other, they still had reasons to go on.
The second time they found themselves in the dark, they were careful not to trip and fall. The fear was still there. It would probably always be there.
And by the time they grabbed onto each other, they already knew there was no escaping it.
. . .
Penn's ED results out tomorrow. I should be more anxious, but the date's just sort of crept up on me and I'm not extremely nervous right now.
Maybe because I have other, more important things to stress over. I never thought I would say that.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
This Is Why No Work Ever Gets Done
When I am on the computer. Because really, the computer is my greatest source of procrastination, and that is saying a lot, since I procrastinate a lot.
But here are the computer-related reasons why I haven't been getting any substantial work done lately (these are all approximates):
wasted spent: 1015 minutes, or nearly 17 hours.
But here are the computer-related reasons why I haven't been getting any substantial work done lately (these are all approximates):
- In a mix of marketing genius and sheer cuteness, Mozilla has most likely killed hundreds of thousands of "productivity minutes" by adopting two firefox cubs and, sadly, naming them "cub #1" and "cub #2." I mean, seriously? I know they're temporary names, but still. The overhead cam is by far the best, because you get to see them in their entirety no matter where they happen to drop and nap. [Productivity minutes wasted: 20]
- Every time I see an article (or anything, really) on math that I know a little bit about I get really excited. So guess how I spent a lot of my time? P.S.: That last one I have not read through completely, but it sounds really cool and it also mentions times when other regression models (such as chi-squared) should be used instead, which is really helpful. [Productivity minutes wasted: 250; including the other math and science articles that I have not linked to because there are too many of them]
- After much consideration, I have decided that my next blog will be on food. Or at least taking pictures of food. Because food is so, so good and I don't know how I can ever live without it. Also, Yuma, if you're reading this, can we make the second-to-last recipe? [Productivity minutes wasted: 400]
- There is so much I do not know about Toronto, despite having lived there for three years. Did you know I had never heard of Transit City? But I have to say, if costs were not in consideration (I can't comment on that because I haven't researched into how much either project will cost), I like the idea of Transit City better than Ford's idea of expanded subway lines, if only because I think more light will be good for otherwise already probably pretty frustrated commuters. [Productivity minutes wasted: 120]
- I am a sucker for pretty graphs and other pictures. Always. 100% of the time. [Productivity minutes wasted: 45]
- This blog. [Productivity minutes wasted: 180]
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Generalizations And My Inherent Laziness
When I say "I don't know," half the time I do know, but I feel disinclined to say what I know out loud. It has been a point of contention between my parents and me. They have been trying to get me to say every thought I have, instead of keeping them all within my head.
It doesn't work that way, I want to tell them, but that would require actually saying the words out loud, and that is exactly the problem.
A vicious cycle.
I have been wondering lately if I have been turning this blog into a diary. There are so many "thoughts" posts, and not enough "events" posts or "story" posts. So much inner monologue. Like Hamlet.
So to make amends I will talk about math team, as I have promised (many, many times).
. . .
Since our last math meet was also Argon's birthday, Yuma and I tried out this really cool cake mix and whipped cream cookies recipe. Except it turned out to be more like cake. I think it was because we put all the batter on one tray, because we were running out of time, so the resulting glob of stuff was too thick and therefore did not have cookie chewy/crunchy consistency.
Oh well. It was still really delicious.
On the bus ride to Spearheadville, Bryant, Tybalt, and Dino started talking about college. Which reminds me, Penn's ED results are out next Friday! Can you believe it? Less than a week away! It is both exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time, and I don't know (really) which one is winning right now.
Anyway, college has definitely overtaken our lives. Perhaps things will get better in a month or so?
Once there, we found our normal banished-to-the-corner tables, and started our normal soda-talk, commonly known as, "Did you know there is partially brominated fats in opaque-looking sodas?" And then everyone at the table deciding to drink only the transparent sodas. And then Grob coming over and grabbing the one soda with said fats in it.
We had a short-lived discussion on whether Grob will turn out okay after freshman year, as Micro had. I sure hope so. And maybe he will start taking those headphones out of his ears, because he is missing crucial advice (we did warn him about the soda, but he didn't hear).
Then came the actual competition (and food). I did rather horribly this time, but the questions (matrices aside) were really fun. Team round too, although I didn't really like the geometry question this time. Too much guessing and checking.
I did my French homework after that, so I missed out on lots of conversation (but I did catch Tybalt showing Argon, Reno, and Summer the projectile launch lab—the one with the moving car—because they were doing stationary target launches).
That is all I really remember for now. Oh, and the bus ride home, but that was self-explanatory and I actually don't remember much from it anyway.
It doesn't work that way, I want to tell them, but that would require actually saying the words out loud, and that is exactly the problem.
A vicious cycle.
I have been wondering lately if I have been turning this blog into a diary. There are so many "thoughts" posts, and not enough "events" posts or "story" posts. So much inner monologue. Like Hamlet.
So to make amends I will talk about math team, as I have promised (many, many times).
. . .
Since our last math meet was also Argon's birthday, Yuma and I tried out this really cool cake mix and whipped cream cookies recipe. Except it turned out to be more like cake. I think it was because we put all the batter on one tray, because we were running out of time, so the resulting glob of stuff was too thick and therefore did not have cookie chewy/crunchy consistency.
Oh well. It was still really delicious.
On the bus ride to Spearheadville, Bryant, Tybalt, and Dino started talking about college. Which reminds me, Penn's ED results are out next Friday! Can you believe it? Less than a week away! It is both exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time, and I don't know (really) which one is winning right now.
Anyway, college has definitely overtaken our lives. Perhaps things will get better in a month or so?
Once there, we found our normal banished-to-the-corner tables, and started our normal soda-talk, commonly known as, "Did you know there is partially brominated fats in opaque-looking sodas?" And then everyone at the table deciding to drink only the transparent sodas. And then Grob coming over and grabbing the one soda with said fats in it.
We had a short-lived discussion on whether Grob will turn out okay after freshman year, as Micro had. I sure hope so. And maybe he will start taking those headphones out of his ears, because he is missing crucial advice (we did warn him about the soda, but he didn't hear).
Then came the actual competition (and food). I did rather horribly this time, but the questions (matrices aside) were really fun. Team round too, although I didn't really like the geometry question this time. Too much guessing and checking.
I did my French homework after that, so I missed out on lots of conversation (but I did catch Tybalt showing Argon, Reno, and Summer the projectile launch lab—the one with the moving car—because they were doing stationary target launches).
That is all I really remember for now. Oh, and the bus ride home, but that was self-explanatory and I actually don't remember much from it anyway.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Revisiting The Past, v.infinity
[I have not forgotten about the math meet, not yet. The post for that is sitting in my drafts right now, and I am thinking about writing that as soon as possible, which, knowing me, may take a very, very long time. But now I know how to solve this backlogging!]
If I were honest with myself, I would realize immediately that the reason I keep going to the past is because I want something from it. I am the first to claim that I do not like my past (it is not a subject I would freely talk about in front of other people, anyway), but I also admit I write about it a lot. Something about it is comforting, and it holds something I am seeking, so I keep coming back to it.
Likewise, I keep on holding on to people who I should have let go a long time ago. I think I have forgotten them, but some way or the other I see them again, and I can't help but dredge up the old ties. This is still novel to me. The idea that people can "go way back." So I am still fascinated by it, ridiculous as it is.
And here I am again. Sifting through old emails, and I can't help but search up his name.
How many times have I berated myself for doing this? Why can't I let go? I do not love him anymore, that much I know. Gone are the gut-wrenching days. I would like to say that this is merely curiosity, or habit, a habit reinforced no less than a thousand times.
The thing is, all of this was so, so ridiculous. I was a naive, misguided idiot back then. I had an excuse (no matter how poor). Do I still have that excuse now?
So much can change in three years.
Yet so much can stay the same. My love (and often hate, too) for clichés stayed. As did that illogical avoidance of sunlight and blue skies. This talking about the past, I think that stayed too.
November makes me remember, though. It could be the dreary cold (I have been in more colder places but they received a brighter dose of afternoon sunlight even in the winters). It could be the past coincidences, but that would be too simple, wouldn't it? Something as simple as that could not possibly be causing me so much grief. Or sorrow. Or just quiet reflection, because the color has already seeped out of what I used to feel, and now there is just a faded resemblance of the past.
But it is December now.
A good month. Filled with festive cheer, and a sprinkling of hope. Glittering ice and fluffy snow. The promise of something magnificent transformed within a night. I am entranced by December's charm, the way it takes away the oppressive but clearly resonating autumn with a wave of its hand.
Too surreal. Much too surreal, and that is why I love it so much. Not—oh, how could it?—because it reminds me of the past as well.
There is a part of me that knows I can never truly walk away. That I am still hanging on to the mementos, subconsciously. My means of daily conversation is proof of that. The way I get home. My double-take on first impressions.
It is all there, however vague it needs to be.
. . .
I am working on my LitEx paper, somewhat, although I do not know at all where I want to go with it. I will have to think of something, and soon, because the outline is due Monday morning.
What do I want to write?
Do I even have a thesis?
I said I would talk about the subconsciousness. I think I want to talk about how the subconscious, complete with its host of prejudices and preconceptions and silly past grudges, is more in control of our decisions than our conscious, logical mind. That is arguable, right?
Although you could rarely persuade me otherwise. Because my past is more in control of me than my rationality is. And in truth this is just an expansion of what I believe, except corroborating it with evidence from texts.
Now I need specific evidence, and nonfiction ones at that.
If I were honest with myself, I would realize immediately that the reason I keep going to the past is because I want something from it. I am the first to claim that I do not like my past (it is not a subject I would freely talk about in front of other people, anyway), but I also admit I write about it a lot. Something about it is comforting, and it holds something I am seeking, so I keep coming back to it.
Likewise, I keep on holding on to people who I should have let go a long time ago. I think I have forgotten them, but some way or the other I see them again, and I can't help but dredge up the old ties. This is still novel to me. The idea that people can "go way back." So I am still fascinated by it, ridiculous as it is.
And here I am again. Sifting through old emails, and I can't help but search up his name.
How many times have I berated myself for doing this? Why can't I let go? I do not love him anymore, that much I know. Gone are the gut-wrenching days. I would like to say that this is merely curiosity, or habit, a habit reinforced no less than a thousand times.
The thing is, all of this was so, so ridiculous. I was a naive, misguided idiot back then. I had an excuse (no matter how poor). Do I still have that excuse now?
So much can change in three years.
Yet so much can stay the same. My love (and often hate, too) for clichés stayed. As did that illogical avoidance of sunlight and blue skies. This talking about the past, I think that stayed too.
November makes me remember, though. It could be the dreary cold (I have been in more colder places but they received a brighter dose of afternoon sunlight even in the winters). It could be the past coincidences, but that would be too simple, wouldn't it? Something as simple as that could not possibly be causing me so much grief. Or sorrow. Or just quiet reflection, because the color has already seeped out of what I used to feel, and now there is just a faded resemblance of the past.
But it is December now.
A good month. Filled with festive cheer, and a sprinkling of hope. Glittering ice and fluffy snow. The promise of something magnificent transformed within a night. I am entranced by December's charm, the way it takes away the oppressive but clearly resonating autumn with a wave of its hand.
Too surreal. Much too surreal, and that is why I love it so much. Not—oh, how could it?—because it reminds me of the past as well.
There is a part of me that knows I can never truly walk away. That I am still hanging on to the mementos, subconsciously. My means of daily conversation is proof of that. The way I get home. My double-take on first impressions.
It is all there, however vague it needs to be.
. . .
I am working on my LitEx paper, somewhat, although I do not know at all where I want to go with it. I will have to think of something, and soon, because the outline is due Monday morning.
What do I want to write?
Do I even have a thesis?
I said I would talk about the subconsciousness. I think I want to talk about how the subconscious, complete with its host of prejudices and preconceptions and silly past grudges, is more in control of our decisions than our conscious, logical mind. That is arguable, right?
Although you could rarely persuade me otherwise. Because my past is more in control of me than my rationality is. And in truth this is just an expansion of what I believe, except corroborating it with evidence from texts.
Now I need specific evidence, and nonfiction ones at that.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
What You Should Never Do
If you're unlike me and wish to not fall into awkward situations, that is. (If the previous statement does not hold true for you, by all means, do whatever you want.)
Never, ever find yourself in a compromising position five minutes before the bell rings for the end of school. Near a door that many, many people use to exit school grounds.
Or, you know, be in any compromising position, ever. Especially not in your econ class.
But I digress.
Anyway. I had a much more emotional post, but I thought that would bring a damper onto an already much-depressed blog, so I will sum it up in one sentence, "My parents think I'm rather apathetic but that's okay." There was much more detailed analysis that went into that post, but said analysis made everything too melancholy for my tastes, so you, as my wonderful reader, now have the watered down version.
Also did you know I am extremely ticklish in all but the only two places people would probably never tickle me in? I never knew that before. Just goes to show you learn new things every day.
Since we're already on random idea-jumping topics, I have decided that I am going to wear a math/science/tech-related shirt every day of the week this week. So far I've worn the varsity math shirt and the robotics shirt, and I have the shirts for the rest of the week all planned out now! I also never knew I had access to so many geeky shirts. This is amazing.
And since we are talking about geeky things, there is a math meet tomorrow! I am so excited. And I will promise that this time I will not skimp out on the descriptions and I will try to actually talk about what happened, instead of simply going over vague things. Although math meets aren't as generalizing-hilarious now that both Mario and Irving aren't here anymore.
No more "Irving, BATHROOM?" jokes. Such a pity.
Never, ever find yourself in a compromising position five minutes before the bell rings for the end of school. Near a door that many, many people use to exit school grounds.
Or, you know, be in any compromising position, ever. Especially not in your econ class.
But I digress.
Anyway. I had a much more emotional post, but I thought that would bring a damper onto an already much-depressed blog, so I will sum it up in one sentence, "My parents think I'm rather apathetic but that's okay." There was much more detailed analysis that went into that post, but said analysis made everything too melancholy for my tastes, so you, as my wonderful reader, now have the watered down version.
Also did you know I am extremely ticklish in all but the only two places people would probably never tickle me in? I never knew that before. Just goes to show you learn new things every day.
Since we're already on random idea-jumping topics, I have decided that I am going to wear a math/science/tech-related shirt every day of the week this week. So far I've worn the varsity math shirt and the robotics shirt, and I have the shirts for the rest of the week all planned out now! I also never knew I had access to so many geeky shirts. This is amazing.
And since we are talking about geeky things, there is a math meet tomorrow! I am so excited. And I will promise that this time I will not skimp out on the descriptions and I will try to actually talk about what happened, instead of simply going over vague things. Although math meets aren't as generalizing-hilarious now that both Mario and Irving aren't here anymore.
No more "Irving, BATHROOM?" jokes. Such a pity.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Why X? Part II
To continue on from the previous list, with the disclaimer, once again, that this is merely a parody and not to be taken too seriously:
But my reason for choosing Cornell rests on one simple fact: when I visited the electrical engineering labs, I saw xkcd on one of the doors. Now I know that xkcd is probably the most over-quoted webcomic for any engineering department, but to actually see it on a door? Wow. (We will ignore the fact that the only other engineering buildings I have seen are Princeton's and Penn's, and I have not entered any of these buildings.)
The two-story white library with the teahouse by the side was also nice. I mean, there is only one college library in the entire world that looks like the library in Harry Potter, right? Right? What other school could have possibly come up with such an original idea? Impossible! I also really liked the green armchairs. Except I didn't like their color. Oh, wait, that's one of the official colors of Dartmouth. Never mind, I really liked the green armchairs.
Aside from that I must regrettably say that I have not been on campus, not even once. And that I know relatively little about Duke. As in, I know it is called Duke, and it has a tower, and it offers limited financial assistance to international students, but that is all. I don't even know how many tulips are on campus, although I should know, because that is the other (non-blown-up) picture of campus I have from the brochures and after staring at that for over five times I should probably just start counting the flowers.
I also love the sheer size of McGill. With over 25,000 undergrads to make you feel your significance. And 8,000 grads. Although honestly that is nothing compared to University of Toronto, which has over 55,000 undergrads and 13,000 grads. Now that is huge.
Why Cornell?Despite many, many failed attempts, I have finally managed to visit your campus (although I did, unfortunately, miss the tour). And I must say, Cornell must have my favorite campus by far. What is not to love about a campus that looks like it copied from architectural styles from all over the continent and dumped them all into one plot of land? Especially when you have Victorian-Gothic (please spare me the Harry Potter references), Neo-Classical, and sheets-of-glass-glued-together-modern all within walking distance.
But my reason for choosing Cornell rests on one simple fact: when I visited the electrical engineering labs, I saw xkcd on one of the doors. Now I know that xkcd is probably the most over-quoted webcomic for any engineering department, but to actually see it on a door? Wow. (We will ignore the fact that the only other engineering buildings I have seen are Princeton's and Penn's, and I have not entered any of these buildings.)
Why Dartmouth?I have to say, when I first visited the campus I was instantly drawn in by the Green. Or more like I thought, "This grass is kept in pretty good shape considering it's probably covered under snow for half the year." My lawn, in comparison, looks exactly the same except it receives much less snow (and probably more sunlight). I love grass. Grass is so good for rolling around in and getting bugs in your hair to freak out your mother.
The two-story white library with the teahouse by the side was also nice. I mean, there is only one college library in the entire world that looks like the library in Harry Potter, right? Right? What other school could have possibly come up with such an original idea? Impossible! I also really liked the green armchairs. Except I didn't like their color. Oh, wait, that's one of the official colors of Dartmouth. Never mind, I really liked the green armchairs.
Why Duke?I love all the brochures Duke sends me, especially those with that one picture of the tower during sunrise or sunset or whatever it is. Since I don't really have any other blown-up pictures of campus I will assume that the rest of the campus is just as magnificent, because Duke doesn't have anything to hide, right? They just thought I would enjoy staring at the tower five or ten times, right?
Aside from that I must regrettably say that I have not been on campus, not even once. And that I know relatively little about Duke. As in, I know it is called Duke, and it has a tower, and it offers limited financial assistance to international students, but that is all. I don't even know how many tulips are on campus, although I should know, because that is the other (non-blown-up) picture of campus I have from the brochures and after staring at that for over five times I should probably just start counting the flowers.
Why Harvard?I am not applying to Harvard, nor does Harvard require a "Why Harvard?" essay, so this is not necessary. I am putting it in here solely because otherwise I would be jumping directly to M and I felt the gap was too wide.
Why McGill?I have previously mentioned that there is a cute red-head at McGill who is also extremely nice and helpful, but Yuma might not appreciate that as a reason for why I want to go to McGill. So instead I will talk about the over-ten-stories tall buildings on campus that are not dorms but, well, instructional buildings. Nothing like a skyscraper-like chem building to make me feel like I'm in the city. Especially when four or five firetrucks pull up right underneath it, sirens all blaring.
I also love the sheer size of McGill. With over 25,000 undergrads to make you feel your significance. And 8,000 grads. Although honestly that is nothing compared to University of Toronto, which has over 55,000 undergrads and 13,000 grads. Now that is huge.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Something To Muse Over
As if I don't do enough of that these days. I checked my "thoughts" tab and I have 17 of those pesky things. Talking about various things that quite honestly just repeat themselves over and over again. I have no more original thoughts, just trite sayings repackaged in shiny word wrapping.
I would be sure I am boring people, but I only have five people who read my blog, so there is not much of a problem there. And I missed the disjointed way of expressing my thoughts, because it was so easy to digress forgivingly and hide my thoughts behind beautified words and phrases.
. . .
Stella first transferred to our school in grade nine, and our first impression of her was "bookworm and computer geek." She was the girl who read in all of her classes, going through a book every three days.
I was the girl who read while walking down the halls, narrowly avoiding trees and lamp posts and the tangy metal lockers painted brown-green-blue. Who volunteered at the school library in part so she could get new books before everyone else saw them.
Maybe we were destined to be friends.
Or maybe we were only friends because we sat next to each other in BTT, and I was the only girl in the class aside from her who knew how to code a website.
On the bus ride to Niagara Falls she, horrendously bus-sick, slept on my shoulder, and I wondered, what happened to Nora? Since when had I stopped sharing everything with Nora and hung out with Stella instead? Nora, who was as close to a best friend as I had ever had. Stella, who I now walked home with for lunch every single day.
The week we got back the principal's office called for Nora. She went and did not come back for the day. Later on she told me the principal accused her of changing her (and a lot of other people's) grades in our science teacher's grade-book.
"Do they think that, even if I did change it, I would be so stupid as to give myself a really high grade?"
That was what she said. She thought another friend of hers was responsible.
But I remembered doubting her, even though I would have trusted her just a year ago. And I wondered how that had happened. How I had come to realize she was not all that innocent.
. . .
The first time I went back I met up with Clover and JJ. We watched movies at Clover's house and played some Wii game. Then we walked through the dark roads near Finch and Vic Park to JJ's house. Her parents were still awake, anxious, because she had called nearly an hour ago and forgot to call later.
As for my parents, well, they had no idea I was walking outside at midnight.
There are a lot of things my parents did not know about me. A lot more things they still do not know about me. Late-night excursions outside was only one of them.
But for some reason nearly all of these things involve night-time.
I may have a too-deep love for the night. It is, after all, where my dreams flourish. Entangled. Silvery-black. I have written about dreams, and written about night, and I must have written about hiding things from my parents.
So when we stayed up until three in the morning, watching silly dramas that made no sense and trying hard not to sleep, I should not have felt odd. Not at all.
Not nostalgia. I do not know what that means anymore.
. . .
I can feel it in my throat, first. A tingling feeling that trickles down to my stomach. I refuse to believe it is my heart. It strikes when I am at my house, or else when I am with a friend, or else when I am at a party. It is perhaps envy, I think, but that cannot be so when I am alone. It should not be nostalgia, as I am wont to believe, because how can you be nostalgic in your own home?
House, I mean. How can you be nostalgic in your own house?
But the tingling, breath-taking feeling lingers. It starts to hurt to breathe. I am longing for something, I realize. Desperately longing for something that is not quite there. I am reminded of it alone, or else with friends, or else with strangers. It is there when I laugh. It is there when I cry.
Undefinable. Yet ever present.
I think I want something tangible, because I am too materialistic to want something intangible. I want something I can touch, something I can hold. Something that does not ring in my ears as laughter does. Something that smells sweeter than the crumpled shirt by my bed.
I want it so badly I cannot breathe. I can only want. I let it fall down my throat, and when it passes I am normal again, only left with a faint maybe I should.
Maybe I should. But what is it that I should?
I call it nostalgia, even though it cannot be nostalgia, because how can you be nostalgic when you are still in your own house?
Such a ridiculous notion.
. . .
I still talk to Stella sometimes. She is the same. Bookworm. Computer geek. School-hater. A little bit paranoid. Very much so adorably hilarious. I think that is why we all loved her.
She took onto me because I was slightly more computer-literate than everyone else. Not by much. And because I put up with her rants. In return I learned about the precarious situation I was placing my computers into (the ever-present and ever-imminent bot-net threat), why I should play whatever game it was that she was interested in at the time, and someone to walk home with for lunch.
Where she would complain about vegetables.
And we would both agree that we liked potatoes.
She is the first person I talk to when I am going through my list of Canadian friends. And the one who always responds.
But I have not seen her in years.
I always think I am about to lose her. So close. One of these days she will just be a name, and I will stare at it and never muster up the courage to talk to her again. One of these days I will forget the Toronto skyline, forget the summer bright nights and the TTC through Vic Park-Finch-Don Mills. Where Fairview is. The newly renovated Fairview, all huge and glamorous and confusing.
The feeling in my throat is back again.
I would be sure I am boring people, but I only have five people who read my blog, so there is not much of a problem there. And I missed the disjointed way of expressing my thoughts, because it was so easy to digress forgivingly and hide my thoughts behind beautified words and phrases.
. . .
Stella first transferred to our school in grade nine, and our first impression of her was "bookworm and computer geek." She was the girl who read in all of her classes, going through a book every three days.
I was the girl who read while walking down the halls, narrowly avoiding trees and lamp posts and the tangy metal lockers painted brown-green-blue. Who volunteered at the school library in part so she could get new books before everyone else saw them.
Maybe we were destined to be friends.
Or maybe we were only friends because we sat next to each other in BTT, and I was the only girl in the class aside from her who knew how to code a website.
On the bus ride to Niagara Falls she, horrendously bus-sick, slept on my shoulder, and I wondered, what happened to Nora? Since when had I stopped sharing everything with Nora and hung out with Stella instead? Nora, who was as close to a best friend as I had ever had. Stella, who I now walked home with for lunch every single day.
The week we got back the principal's office called for Nora. She went and did not come back for the day. Later on she told me the principal accused her of changing her (and a lot of other people's) grades in our science teacher's grade-book.
"Do they think that, even if I did change it, I would be so stupid as to give myself a really high grade?"
That was what she said. She thought another friend of hers was responsible.
But I remembered doubting her, even though I would have trusted her just a year ago. And I wondered how that had happened. How I had come to realize she was not all that innocent.
. . .
The first time I went back I met up with Clover and JJ. We watched movies at Clover's house and played some Wii game. Then we walked through the dark roads near Finch and Vic Park to JJ's house. Her parents were still awake, anxious, because she had called nearly an hour ago and forgot to call later.
As for my parents, well, they had no idea I was walking outside at midnight.
There are a lot of things my parents did not know about me. A lot more things they still do not know about me. Late-night excursions outside was only one of them.
But for some reason nearly all of these things involve night-time.
I may have a too-deep love for the night. It is, after all, where my dreams flourish. Entangled. Silvery-black. I have written about dreams, and written about night, and I must have written about hiding things from my parents.
So when we stayed up until three in the morning, watching silly dramas that made no sense and trying hard not to sleep, I should not have felt odd. Not at all.
Not nostalgia. I do not know what that means anymore.
. . .
I can feel it in my throat, first. A tingling feeling that trickles down to my stomach. I refuse to believe it is my heart. It strikes when I am at my house, or else when I am with a friend, or else when I am at a party. It is perhaps envy, I think, but that cannot be so when I am alone. It should not be nostalgia, as I am wont to believe, because how can you be nostalgic in your own home?
House, I mean. How can you be nostalgic in your own house?
But the tingling, breath-taking feeling lingers. It starts to hurt to breathe. I am longing for something, I realize. Desperately longing for something that is not quite there. I am reminded of it alone, or else with friends, or else with strangers. It is there when I laugh. It is there when I cry.
Undefinable. Yet ever present.
I think I want something tangible, because I am too materialistic to want something intangible. I want something I can touch, something I can hold. Something that does not ring in my ears as laughter does. Something that smells sweeter than the crumpled shirt by my bed.
I want it so badly I cannot breathe. I can only want. I let it fall down my throat, and when it passes I am normal again, only left with a faint maybe I should.
Maybe I should. But what is it that I should?
I call it nostalgia, even though it cannot be nostalgia, because how can you be nostalgic when you are still in your own house?
Such a ridiculous notion.
. . .
I still talk to Stella sometimes. She is the same. Bookworm. Computer geek. School-hater. A little bit paranoid. Very much so adorably hilarious. I think that is why we all loved her.
She took onto me because I was slightly more computer-literate than everyone else. Not by much. And because I put up with her rants. In return I learned about the precarious situation I was placing my computers into (the ever-present and ever-imminent bot-net threat), why I should play whatever game it was that she was interested in at the time, and someone to walk home with for lunch.
Where she would complain about vegetables.
And we would both agree that we liked potatoes.
She is the first person I talk to when I am going through my list of Canadian friends. And the one who always responds.
But I have not seen her in years.
I always think I am about to lose her. So close. One of these days she will just be a name, and I will stare at it and never muster up the courage to talk to her again. One of these days I will forget the Toronto skyline, forget the summer bright nights and the TTC through Vic Park-Finch-Don Mills. Where Fairview is. The newly renovated Fairview, all huge and glamorous and confusing.
The feeling in my throat is back again.
Friday, November 26, 2010
How Far I've Gone—And How Far I Still Have To Go
There is no way the title will fit into the small amount of space the link allows. I am being verbose, as usual. And there is a certain satisfaction to that—to just typing, or saying, words without thinking about their meanings. I have been doing that a lot, muttering phrases over and over again not particularly because I believe in them, but because I like the way they sound in my mouth, the rhythm, the comforting fact that I am saying something and the sound is resonating in my ears.
For someone who is completely musically challenged, I do have such a fondness for rhythms, beats, and rhymes.
Something about today reminded me of Dray. I forgot why—and I don't think it has to matter. I just remembered the roller-coaster ride he pushed me into. I don't remember how many times I had said "I'm sorry" even though I knew deep down it was not my fault. All I had wanted was to be able to talk to someone about things I was afraid to say to anyone else, and what better person than someone who seemed to understand and yet would never assign these thoughts to a physical being?
If I had to apologize to get him to stay, then I would. I had thought I would. Do whatever it took.
But I am such a selfish person. I want to think that I can sacrifice everything for someone else, but that is not true. And it was just as well. He was not really worth my effort, and two years later, I had stopped constantly searching for his presence.
I am mentioning this now because I think I am tumbling into a similar kaleidoscopic frenzy. This time with someone who is much, much nicer—and sometimes, honestly, I wonder what he sees in me. What am I really like to the outside world? Am I presenting an over-idealized version of myself by hiding my cynical (thank you, Cynthia, for introducing me to the word) side with my smiles?
I don't ever want to let go.
I am afraid, plain and simple. I am afraid that if I let go, I will never be able to hold on again. I am holding his hand and I think to myself, "This is it. This is all I ever want." I am walking down the hall and I wonder if I would be willing to freeze time and preserve this moment for eternity, because I am afraid that if I stumble on, I will somehow through my clumsiness break that delicate bond we share. And I am very, very clumsy. Much too so.
But when you step over the limit, momentum will bring you onward even if you don't consciously forge ahead anymore. And I can't stop myself. I am falling. I don't know how long I can hold on now (not to mention I have almost nonexistent arm muscles). I don't know how long my eternity will last.
Here is where I freeze. I know all the words. Live in the moment. Loved and lost is better than never having loved at all. But the words are failing me. I am hearing them, somehow here, somehow there, and they do not make sense anymore. They are mere sounds in the background. Rhythms, beats, and rhymes.
I am tired now. Tired but oh so happy. So I want to go on, because I am afraid of lingering behind and eventually being forgotten. I want to go on, wherever this may take me.
Do I have what it takes?
Does it even matter?
Especially because of all things, I should not be afraid of the prospect of a broken heart anymore. Not me, not anymore. Not here, not now, not ever.
Because I still have so much more to go.
For someone who is completely musically challenged, I do have such a fondness for rhythms, beats, and rhymes.
Something about today reminded me of Dray. I forgot why—and I don't think it has to matter. I just remembered the roller-coaster ride he pushed me into. I don't remember how many times I had said "I'm sorry" even though I knew deep down it was not my fault. All I had wanted was to be able to talk to someone about things I was afraid to say to anyone else, and what better person than someone who seemed to understand and yet would never assign these thoughts to a physical being?
If I had to apologize to get him to stay, then I would. I had thought I would. Do whatever it took.
But I am such a selfish person. I want to think that I can sacrifice everything for someone else, but that is not true. And it was just as well. He was not really worth my effort, and two years later, I had stopped constantly searching for his presence.
I am mentioning this now because I think I am tumbling into a similar kaleidoscopic frenzy. This time with someone who is much, much nicer—and sometimes, honestly, I wonder what he sees in me. What am I really like to the outside world? Am I presenting an over-idealized version of myself by hiding my cynical (thank you, Cynthia, for introducing me to the word) side with my smiles?
I don't ever want to let go.
I am afraid, plain and simple. I am afraid that if I let go, I will never be able to hold on again. I am holding his hand and I think to myself, "This is it. This is all I ever want." I am walking down the hall and I wonder if I would be willing to freeze time and preserve this moment for eternity, because I am afraid that if I stumble on, I will somehow through my clumsiness break that delicate bond we share. And I am very, very clumsy. Much too so.
But when you step over the limit, momentum will bring you onward even if you don't consciously forge ahead anymore. And I can't stop myself. I am falling. I don't know how long I can hold on now (not to mention I have almost nonexistent arm muscles). I don't know how long my eternity will last.
Here is where I freeze. I know all the words. Live in the moment. Loved and lost is better than never having loved at all. But the words are failing me. I am hearing them, somehow here, somehow there, and they do not make sense anymore. They are mere sounds in the background. Rhythms, beats, and rhymes.
I am tired now. Tired but oh so happy. So I want to go on, because I am afraid of lingering behind and eventually being forgotten. I want to go on, wherever this may take me.
Do I have what it takes?
Does it even matter?
Especially because of all things, I should not be afraid of the prospect of a broken heart anymore. Not me, not anymore. Not here, not now, not ever.
Because I still have so much more to go.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving
I am thankful for a lot of things I don't really say out loud. Like I am thankful for the fact that I lost my blue and green pen. And I am thankful for my lack of balance when performing simple tasks such as walking in a straight line.
Oh, wait. I'm supposed to be thankful for good things, right?
Well. I am thankful for all of my wonderful friends (and ex-friends made not-current friends solely due to the lack of ease of communicating back in a pre-Internet era). I am thankful for my parents and their awesome sense of humor (even if I don't understand it half the times because they are very heavy on Chinese proverbs/idioms/folk lores/whatever else). I am thankful for Yuma for killing my sleep monsters (they have, unfortunately, been revived as of late).
I am also thankful for the delicious lemon meringue mini pie I helped to make yesterday. And by help I mean "force mini pie crusts into cupcake pan." It was good. Even though I don't really like lemon filling, or meringue.
I am thankful for my wonderfully hard bed because it is really huge and can fit two people on it even though there is only one of me. (I am also thankful that my window is really, reallylow large, but that is another story.)
And I am thankful that I will be getting a new laptop soon. Sony. Hopefully bright blue.
Oh, wait. I'm supposed to be thankful for good things, right?
Well. I am thankful for all of my wonderful friends (and ex-friends made not-current friends solely due to the lack of ease of communicating back in a pre-Internet era). I am thankful for my parents and their awesome sense of humor (even if I don't understand it half the times because they are very heavy on Chinese proverbs/idioms/folk lores/whatever else). I am thankful for Yuma for killing my sleep monsters (they have, unfortunately, been revived as of late).
I am also thankful for the delicious lemon meringue mini pie I helped to make yesterday. And by help I mean "force mini pie crusts into cupcake pan." It was good. Even though I don't really like lemon filling, or meringue.
I am thankful for my wonderfully hard bed because it is really huge and can fit two people on it even though there is only one of me. (I am also thankful that my window is really, really
And I am thankful that I will be getting a new laptop soon. Sony. Hopefully bright blue.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Why X? Part I
From my personal experience, colleges like to ask, "Why -insert relevant school name here-?" Supposedly to weed out the students who have absolutely no idea why they want to go to a certain school and just picked it arbitrarily.
Well, I'm sorry to say this, but I am such a student. I mean, yes, I know why, say, I want to go to Penn or MIT, but why Williams? Why Dartmouth? Why University of Narnia?
(Okay, I would attend the University of Narnia for obvious reasons. But I digress.)
Anyway, I thought I might answer this question for a few schools that come to mind. To, well, get my brain flowing and to get these thoughts out of the way. (Disclaimer: None of these are exactly true. They are merely exaggerations and parodies.)
Don't get me wrong, I am all for views—I am a budding artist, you see, but I am a bit nearsighted. If I painted things that were close enough for clarity for most people but not close enough for me, my paintings would be all blurry and people would think I am an Impressionist, which I am not and never will be. But if it is far away enough, then everyone sees the view blurred and my poor eyesight is only a private matter between you, me, and the rest of the blogosphere.
I also absolutely adore (note the alliteration?) Brown's brick red walls that scream, "Hey, look, we want you to drown in this color that is the worst for your eyes!" Because I wear glasses and feel rather self-conscious about it, and would prefer it if everyone else could wear glasses along with me (although I suppose contacts would defy the point).
Aside from that, Chicago also has the most unique essay questions ever, which must be a representation of how unique the school is as a whole. And Chicago does not have an engineering school, so I can successfully crush my parents' dreams that I will become a second-generation engineer by attending this school and pursuing a major in caffeine studies instead.
The fact that if you walk for five minutes you will reach the other end of the campus is also a good thing. When I have hit the snooze button for the twentieth time in the morning and realize that I only have ten minutes to get to class, I would rather be able to spend five minutes putting on my make-up and five minutes dashing to class instead of all ten minutes dashing to class. It's always good to be prepared and look your best, right?
Well, I'm sorry to say this, but I am such a student. I mean, yes, I know why, say, I want to go to Penn or MIT, but why Williams? Why Dartmouth? Why University of Narnia?
(Okay, I would attend the University of Narnia for obvious reasons. But I digress.)
Anyway, I thought I might answer this question for a few schools that come to mind. To, well, get my brain flowing and to get these thoughts out of the way. (Disclaimer: None of these are exactly true. They are merely exaggerations and parodies.)
Why Amherst?From the moment I heard about your "thousand acre view"—and yes, it is a "thousand acre view," not a "thousand acre playground for all to use"—I have realized that Amherst is the perfect school for me. What other school could possibly provide me with a small campus and a view that I will most likely never experience up-front?
Don't get me wrong, I am all for views—I am a budding artist, you see, but I am a bit nearsighted. If I painted things that were close enough for clarity for most people but not close enough for me, my paintings would be all blurry and people would think I am an Impressionist, which I am not and never will be. But if it is far away enough, then everyone sees the view blurred and my poor eyesight is only a private matter between you, me, and the rest of the blogosphere.
Why Brown?I love Brown's idea that as eighteen and nineteen year olds, we can be responsible enough to choose our own futures. I mean, it's not like we're the bunch of kids who routinely binge-drink and throw up for fun, right? I love this sense of trust placed into me. I am all for trust. Trust is good because then no one ever suspects me when something bad happens.
I also absolutely adore (note the alliteration?) Brown's brick red walls that scream, "Hey, look, we want you to drown in this color that is the worst for your eyes!" Because I wear glasses and feel rather self-conscious about it, and would prefer it if everyone else could wear glasses along with me (although I suppose contacts would defy the point).
Why Chicago?Chicago has got to be the most unique school ever. It has coffee shops on campus! I cannot survive without my daily coffee in the morning. There is this annoying guy who always tries to harass me in the mornings but when he sees coffee in my hand he somehow thinks that I will dump it on him (which I could, but I am not that mean) and therefore runs away. So coffee is vital, and I am glad there will be plenty available on campus.
Aside from that, Chicago also has the most unique essay questions ever, which must be a representation of how unique the school is as a whole. And Chicago does not have an engineering school, so I can successfully crush my parents' dreams that I will become a second-generation engineer by attending this school and pursuing a major in caffeine studies instead.
Why Columbia?I love Columbia's miniature campus! Mini-things are all the rage these days, and the fact that Columbia's campus is so small will be such a hit! When I go to parties and people start bragging about their small campuses, I will only have to say, "I go to Columbia," and everyone will hush in awe and jealousy.
The fact that if you walk for five minutes you will reach the other end of the campus is also a good thing. When I have hit the snooze button for the twentieth time in the morning and realize that I only have ten minutes to get to class, I would rather be able to spend five minutes putting on my make-up and five minutes dashing to class instead of all ten minutes dashing to class. It's always good to be prepared and look your best, right?
Friday, November 19, 2010
Hi, My Name Is Awkwardsauce
My new favorite sound is "uuuuuggghhhhhhhhh." I like to say it until I run out of air and all that's left is a clicky sound that escapes from my throat (before I turn blue and gasp for oxygen).
But first things first. In English today, we were reading the next part of Hamlet, when we came upon this line by Hamlet, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." After much analysis, Mr. Littney said, "When you guys go off to college, you'll meet these kids who have never been outside their home state before, and you can say to them, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' and they will hate you even more."
I don't know how he says these things with a straight face.
Also, the movie makes the ghost's appearance so weird, awkward, and freaky all at the same time. And the blood oozing out of the king's ear? I'm beginning to think this is an R-rated movie.
Oh, and, Cammie had fabulous purple shoes today. I love all of her shoes, although I have to admit I loved the sequined one better. It made the floor sparkle.
I would like to expand further on the title of this post, but that would involve revealing secrets I am probably not at liberty to say, so just trust me on this one. I am extremely awkward. And did I mention I am awful at maintaining my balance? Absolutely awful.
But I am pretty good at alliterations.
That is good.
I also now have a functional scanner, so I am able to scan in my art and possibly post them on here, instead of relying on my utexas-trained mouse-drawing skills. I mean, you can only get so far if your main objects of practice are free-body diagrams.
So maybe you'll get to see picture-logs of stuff that happens in my day soon. Maybe. Maaaybe.
But first things first. In English today, we were reading the next part of Hamlet, when we came upon this line by Hamlet, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." After much analysis, Mr. Littney said, "When you guys go off to college, you'll meet these kids who have never been outside their home state before, and you can say to them, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' and they will hate you even more."
I don't know how he says these things with a straight face.
Also, the movie makes the ghost's appearance so weird, awkward, and freaky all at the same time. And the blood oozing out of the king's ear? I'm beginning to think this is an R-rated movie.
Oh, and, Cammie had fabulous purple shoes today. I love all of her shoes, although I have to admit I loved the sequined one better. It made the floor sparkle.
I would like to expand further on the title of this post, but that would involve revealing secrets I am probably not at liberty to say, so just trust me on this one. I am extremely awkward. And did I mention I am awful at maintaining my balance? Absolutely awful.
But I am pretty good at alliterations.
That is good.
I also now have a functional scanner, so I am able to scan in my art and possibly post them on here, instead of relying on my utexas-trained mouse-drawing skills. I mean, you can only get so far if your main objects of practice are free-body diagrams.
So maybe you'll get to see picture-logs of stuff that happens in my day soon. Maybe. Maaaybe.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Obviously, It's The Mustache
This is why Ophelia loves Hamlet so much, even though she knows Hamlet, as the prince of Denmark, will most likely marry one of his cousins instead of a "commoner" like her (she can be an aristocrat to some extent, though, as her father serves the King).
Because Hamlet has such a hot mustache.
At least that was the reason Mr. Littney gave us, as we were watching our version of Hamlet today (it's apparently the best DVD version that adheres to the text, although I am not sure which version it is except that the guy who plays Hamlet also plays Iago in the version of Othello that I watched last year).
I have to say, the whole premise of Hamlet requires a lot of willingness to accept otherwise rather ridiculous events. It does make the play rather humorous, and maybe Shakespeare was aiming for that, but honestly I would never believe it if someone told me, "Hey, that ghost won't talk to me, but he'll probably talk to the other guy."
Also, I saw way too many sex scenes from the movie for my comfort. Way too many.
I still love my English class. We had bagels yesterday, thanks to the wonderful efforts of Tabby and someone else (I forgot who). Food is always good, especially in the mornings, and especially bagels.
Plus, talking about whether Gertrude is an idiot or a whore is always fascinating (I think that she would have had no choice in the matter of her marriage, especially if she wanted to stay alive, although it can be argued that if she hated her situation she could have gotten Hamlet to just kill the king, so I don't know).
I would love to talk about my English class all day, but I did promise I will be productive, so I shall have to go back to work.
Because Hamlet has such a hot mustache.
At least that was the reason Mr. Littney gave us, as we were watching our version of Hamlet today (it's apparently the best DVD version that adheres to the text, although I am not sure which version it is except that the guy who plays Hamlet also plays Iago in the version of Othello that I watched last year).
I have to say, the whole premise of Hamlet requires a lot of willingness to accept otherwise rather ridiculous events. It does make the play rather humorous, and maybe Shakespeare was aiming for that, but honestly I would never believe it if someone told me, "Hey, that ghost won't talk to me, but he'll probably talk to the other guy."
Also, I saw way too many sex scenes from the movie for my comfort. Way too many.
I still love my English class. We had bagels yesterday, thanks to the wonderful efforts of Tabby and someone else (I forgot who). Food is always good, especially in the mornings, and especially bagels.
Plus, talking about whether Gertrude is an idiot or a whore is always fascinating (I think that she would have had no choice in the matter of her marriage, especially if she wanted to stay alive, although it can be argued that if she hated her situation she could have gotten Hamlet to just kill the king, so I don't know).
I would love to talk about my English class all day, but I did promise I will be productive, so I shall have to go back to work.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Interviews, Take Three
Okay, fine. Take two was my Penn interview, in which my interviewer said, "I have to write a paragraph or two about you to give to the school, so what do you want to talk about that you haven't mentioned in your application?"
Quite literally.
It's almost as bad as McGill's major scholarship's essay prompt #3, namely, "Write a letter of recommendation about yourself in 3rd person."
Ginny is a good student. Ginny does not like talking in 3rd person. Ginny thinks this is enough fooling around.
So onwards to take three, my MIT interview. Courtesy of MIT's "please contact your interviewer before Dec. 10th if you are applying regular decision," or something along those lines, I had a nice surprise when my interviewer contacted me in mid-October.
But anyway. We met at Starbucks, and luckily it was not as awkward as Ariadne had described it, namely because there was this group next to us who was talking animatedly and thus did not really notice us. We talked while my interviewer took notes, and then I waited while he took multiple phone calls (one in some language that I was pretty sure was not English, and two from his daughter who I think was close to missing some sort of deadline for applying to med school and was panicking—also, Gretchen, you should've gotten my interviewer, you could've talked so much more about med school and stuff).
All good stuff. I mean, what could go wrong during an interview? (Cue lots of little kids running up and down the cupcake display, screaming in delight every 20 seconds. Yes, this really happened.)
I had also asked Yuma to meet me at Starbucks (some time after my interview), so when I was done I looked around for him, but he wasn't there yet. So I went downstairs, bought a cup of hot chocolate, and went upstairs again to see if I had somehow not seen him.
Now imagine interviewer guy staring at me oddly. And me awkwardly going downstairs again, where, thank goodness, I found Yuma coming up the stairs (apparently he had gotten lost while biking down some street I have never even heard of before).
Later on, we (mostly Yuma) discovered that another guy was up there being interviewed. By my (well, I guess he's not mine anymore) interviewer. What fun.
To make up for the week of weird (I use the term loosely) interviewing, Yuma and I sat outside Starbucks for an hour actively confusing Brian, who was asking for senior write-up help. Which, by the way, I have decided I am not going to write. But I do need to order the yearbook soon.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Fires and Gas Leaks
I am not sure which one it is (if it is any one of them), although I am leaning towards the latter. Mainly because nothing smelled burnt (I know the smell would also be there with the gas leak, but I am overlooking that part). Gretchen fretted over her notes for nothing, which, in the long run, is good because her notes are safe (for now).
But it was a small waste of a free-lunch-hour. Not that I did anything really productive anyway. I spent most of first lunch talking with Clay about Candide and museums, and then Yuma came along and we started to put up posters for the shoe collection NHS is hosting. But it was nearly second lunch by now, and since we were hungry, we just went down one hallway that was conveniently on the way to lunch and stapled posters on any bulletin board we could find, including the one in the music corner (also, thanks to Clay's height, we managed to staple a poster on the board above the doors when you're walking from the art wing to the music area).
We spent around fifteen minutes eating during second lunch (and also congregating with Tea, Gretchen, Dora, and Brunhilda) when the fire alarm went off. I was just done with my lunch (my lunch-eating speed has increased dramatically over the years, and I think it also applies to any-food-eating-speed as long as the food isn't too cold or hot), but unfortunately, I did not have my jacket with me, so it was a very cold wait outside. Offset slightly by the warmth Tea provided (that Bruney was not willing to take part in).
Five minutes into third lunch, we were allowed back in. Everyone else went back to their classes, and Yuma and I stayed behind for Clay to finish his lunch. Then, we circled another hallway and stapled some more posters along the way to the English/SS learning center.Completely out of convenience because there were lots of bulletin boards in that particular hallway.
The rest of the time was spent (for me, at least) reading some of the 40+ new updates from my 100+ blog subscriptions. And printing out an article for Middle East, which I should be reading and infecting with marginalia now, instead of typing this.
(P.S.: Before I go, I'd like to take this opportunity to announce that I have painted my nails three different colors, instead of two. I really like the shiny silver. Also, as I was walking down the hall to get my jacket, the girl who sits to the side behind Yuma in English—I don't know her name—told Clay that she never realized he was that tall, since she usually sees him sitting down in class. And Joss said he will probably go to the next Science Bowl meeting, since he won't have rowing anymore.)
But it was a small waste of a free-lunch-hour. Not that I did anything really productive anyway. I spent most of first lunch talking with Clay about Candide and museums, and then Yuma came along and we started to put up posters for the shoe collection NHS is hosting. But it was nearly second lunch by now, and since we were hungry, we just went down one hallway that was conveniently on the way to lunch and stapled posters on any bulletin board we could find, including the one in the music corner (also, thanks to Clay's height, we managed to staple a poster on the board above the doors when you're walking from the art wing to the music area).
We spent around fifteen minutes eating during second lunch (and also congregating with Tea, Gretchen, Dora, and Brunhilda) when the fire alarm went off. I was just done with my lunch (my lunch-eating speed has increased dramatically over the years, and I think it also applies to any-food-eating-speed as long as the food isn't too cold or hot), but unfortunately, I did not have my jacket with me, so it was a very cold wait outside. Offset slightly by the warmth Tea provided (that Bruney was not willing to take part in).
Five minutes into third lunch, we were allowed back in. Everyone else went back to their classes, and Yuma and I stayed behind for Clay to finish his lunch. Then, we circled another hallway and stapled some more posters along the way to the English/SS learning center.
The rest of the time was spent (for me, at least) reading some of the 40+ new updates from my 100+ blog subscriptions. And printing out an article for Middle East, which I should be reading and infecting with marginalia now, instead of typing this.
(P.S.: Before I go, I'd like to take this opportunity to announce that I have painted my nails three different colors, instead of two. I really like the shiny silver. Also, as I was walking down the hall to get my jacket, the girl who sits to the side behind Yuma in English—I don't know her name—told Clay that she never realized he was that tall, since she usually sees him sitting down in class. And Joss said he will probably go to the next Science Bowl meeting, since he won't have rowing anymore.)
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Interviews, Take One
It went well, suffice to say. I wish to say no more on the topic anyway.
Instead I will talk about my day, prior to 3pm. In multi this morning, Tea brought some problems from the previous Math Prize contest (oh, I don't think I've mentioned this before, but this Saturday Tea and I are going to participate in this really neat-sounding contest—that is, if we don't get lost on the subway first). The ones that Tea had not already solved were hard. I should probably do some practice problems, but I need to squeeze in the time first.
Some time later (this time warp features a momentum physics lab, a really productive bio period, and a lunch consisting of pumpkin pie and pad thai), I was stuck in French, encore. I tried to focus, really, but it was just not going in. But I did catch part of the ending to "La Belle et le Bête," before the really dramatic part was cut off by the bell. Such is life.
I also spilled silver nail polish on my quarter-grades-release-form. Apparently that means I should apply to "make-up school," if there even is such a school. I think it would just be a class under some broad major such as theater production or something (note my ambiguity: I know nothing about this subject at all). I have to admit, Clay does not make the best of jokes, although it's cute in its own way.
On the bus ride home, a group of guys were trying to get this guy who I shall now arbitrarily name Kirk (the go-to name for guys I will never again mention) to do something with a poster. Their exact words involved "freshman" and "gift," and Kirk was (I think quite rightfully) suspicious.
The guys said everything was fine, and Kirk replied, "No way. I can sense a prank when I see one, and that's definitely a prank."
So the guys unwrapped the poster, and apparently it was perfectly fine (I didn't see, I sat in front of them).
Still. Doesn't this just scream, "Hey, there's something wrong here!"
I really should learn how to drive soon, and escape all of this craziness.
Instead I will talk about my day, prior to 3pm. In multi this morning, Tea brought some problems from the previous Math Prize contest (oh, I don't think I've mentioned this before, but this Saturday Tea and I are going to participate in this really neat-sounding contest—that is, if we don't get lost on the subway first). The ones that Tea had not already solved were hard. I should probably do some practice problems, but I need to squeeze in the time first.
Some time later (this time warp features a momentum physics lab, a really productive bio period, and a lunch consisting of pumpkin pie and pad thai), I was stuck in French, encore. I tried to focus, really, but it was just not going in. But I did catch part of the ending to "La Belle et le Bête," before the really dramatic part was cut off by the bell. Such is life.
I also spilled silver nail polish on my quarter-grades-release-form. Apparently that means I should apply to "make-up school," if there even is such a school. I think it would just be a class under some broad major such as theater production or something (note my ambiguity: I know nothing about this subject at all). I have to admit, Clay does not make the best of jokes, although it's cute in its own way.
On the bus ride home, a group of guys were trying to get this guy who I shall now arbitrarily name Kirk (the go-to name for guys I will never again mention) to do something with a poster. Their exact words involved "freshman" and "gift," and Kirk was (I think quite rightfully) suspicious.
The guys said everything was fine, and Kirk replied, "No way. I can sense a prank when I see one, and that's definitely a prank."
So the guys unwrapped the poster, and apparently it was perfectly fine (I didn't see, I sat in front of them).
Still. Doesn't this just scream, "Hey, there's something wrong here!"
I really should learn how to drive soon, and escape all of this craziness.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Chill, Duuuuuude
When I walked into my English class today, I was the only one in the room except for Mr. Littney (well, okay, Mario walked in a couple seconds later). Mr. Littney was writing something on the board, which I made out to be our latest in-class "assignment," which was to write about our experiences with listening to our audio books.
At the bottom, Mr. Littney wrote, "Low stress, 10 points." Along with something else that I don't remember, but most likely along the same lines.
Eventually, people started trickling in and started reading the assignment on the board. Or more precisely, they all chose to read the second part rather than the first, which was the actual assignment.
Then, Sergio started laughing. Confused, I turned to look at the board, and saw that Mr. Littney had added this line:
"Except for Dino. He should be stressed."
The rest of the day was less interesting, save for perhaps Kathrya's eyebrow-wiggling (and Julie's response), or the ten minutes or so I spent with Cheshire today (I spent a good part of my time trying to think about what I could say and now I have a topic + there is something with me and talking about social studies related subjects lately).
Minor issues with today:
My ankle hurts. Still. Actually, I think it's getting worse, but maybe that is just my impression. At any rate, I am glad I did not wear my high heel boots today. That would have been even more painful.
Also, I need to do something about the awkwardly inopportune situation situations. Or just walk faster. Either way should work.
And, my Chicago interview tomorrow! To be fair, I don't really care about Chicago (not as much as some other schools, i.e. Penn), but it is still an interview and I hope everything will turn out great. Hopefully.
So all in all, not that many issues. It could have been much worse.
. . .
Still no story update today. Will it help if I link Beauty and the Beast instead?
At the bottom, Mr. Littney wrote, "Low stress, 10 points." Along with something else that I don't remember, but most likely along the same lines.
Eventually, people started trickling in and started reading the assignment on the board. Or more precisely, they all chose to read the second part rather than the first, which was the actual assignment.
Then, Sergio started laughing. Confused, I turned to look at the board, and saw that Mr. Littney had added this line:
"Except for Dino. He should be stressed."
The rest of the day was less interesting, save for perhaps Kathrya's eyebrow-wiggling (and Julie's response), or the ten minutes or so I spent with Cheshire today (I spent a good part of my time trying to think about what I could say and now I have a topic + there is something with me and talking about social studies related subjects lately).
Minor issues with today:
My ankle hurts. Still. Actually, I think it's getting worse, but maybe that is just my impression. At any rate, I am glad I did not wear my high heel boots today. That would have been even more painful.
Also, I need to do something about the awkwardly inopportune situation situations. Or just walk faster. Either way should work.
And, my Chicago interview tomorrow! To be fair, I don't really care about Chicago (not as much as some other schools, i.e. Penn), but it is still an interview and I hope everything will turn out great. Hopefully.
So all in all, not that many issues. It could have been much worse.
. . .
Still no story update today. Will it help if I link Beauty and the Beast instead?
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Organized? Me?
One of the math teachers who was also a club advisor of mine once said that she tutored a kid in middle school who was really disorganized, so she also taught him organization skills. She then went on to say, "I'm sure you're really organized. Girls usually are."
The other variation I've often heard is, "You must be really organized, since you're doing so well in school."
Both of which, I will prove to you today, are completely untrue. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
Proof #1: I have a huge stack of papers that consists of notes and handouts from all seven classes that I take this year. In no particular order. It has been steadily growing, despite my attempts to throw away things that are no longer relevant (i.e. tests and notes from a month ago).
Proof #2: I use the empty spaces in my assignment book as scrap paper for math and physics problems. Even if I have a notebook. Needless to say, I never write my homework in said assignment book.
Proof #3: I just cleaned out my blue backpack a while ago, and in one of the pockets, I found dry bread.
I don't even know where that came from, or why it hasn't turned moldy yet (I haven't used that backpack in almost two years, so the bread must have been there for at least that long), or what it's doing in my backpack, of all places. I dumped everything into the garbage can, but it took forever to get the crumbs out. Well, at least after half an hour's work, I have transferred everything from my original bag to my new backpack.
Of course, the laws of entropy will soon ruin all of the energy I've invested, but at least for now, everything is good. Neat. And too heavy, so I will probably have to return a few books to lighten the weight.
Anyway, my point was, not all girls and/or all people who are doing well in school are organized. Simply untrue. I am living proof.
(Also, yes, this entire post was mostly written just to talk about the elaborate process of cleaning out my backpack. And to also mention that I have bought two new bottles of nail polish—East Village blue and Prince purple—so I am very excited to start decorating my other binder.)
. . .
Unfortunately, no story tonight, because I need to study for the cell communication (I keep on envisioning cells using cellphones) and mitosis test tomorrow. Or more like, at least finish the homework.
The other variation I've often heard is, "You must be really organized, since you're doing so well in school."
Both of which, I will prove to you today, are completely untrue. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
Proof #1: I have a huge stack of papers that consists of notes and handouts from all seven classes that I take this year. In no particular order. It has been steadily growing, despite my attempts to throw away things that are no longer relevant (i.e. tests and notes from a month ago).
Proof #2: I use the empty spaces in my assignment book as scrap paper for math and physics problems. Even if I have a notebook. Needless to say, I never write my homework in said assignment book.
Proof #3: I just cleaned out my blue backpack a while ago, and in one of the pockets, I found dry bread.
I don't even know where that came from, or why it hasn't turned moldy yet (I haven't used that backpack in almost two years, so the bread must have been there for at least that long), or what it's doing in my backpack, of all places. I dumped everything into the garbage can, but it took forever to get the crumbs out. Well, at least after half an hour's work, I have transferred everything from my original bag to my new backpack.
Of course, the laws of entropy will soon ruin all of the energy I've invested, but at least for now, everything is good. Neat. And too heavy, so I will probably have to return a few books to lighten the weight.
Anyway, my point was, not all girls and/or all people who are doing well in school are organized. Simply untrue. I am living proof.
(Also, yes, this entire post was mostly written just to talk about the elaborate process of cleaning out my backpack. And to also mention that I have bought two new bottles of nail polish—East Village blue and Prince purple—so I am very excited to start decorating my other binder.)
. . .
Unfortunately, no story tonight, because I need to study for the cell communication (I keep on envisioning cells using cellphones) and mitosis test tomorrow. Or more like, at least finish the homework.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Hindsight Is A Spiteful Kid
The main problem with wanting to prop up your vanity (or just being over-eager in general) is, well, sometimes you wish you hadn't. Really. Not that, I, uh, have any experience in this field or anything. Uh-huh.
But I would like to take this opportunity to note that my ankle does not like me. I was walking from the dining counter to the kitchen counter when my left ankle decided to writhe in pain, and naturally I almost toppled over. Needless to say, it was not fun and resulted in me hobbling on the other leg for a long time (because I was afraid to see if my ankle was okay afterwards).
I have weird joint problems (as Tea nicely pointed out). That I will admit. This ankle thing could be related to my habit of sitting on my ankles, although it does not explain the relative lack of pain in my other ankle, unless I usually only sit on one ankle. I don't know—and I don't want to find out, because that would mean more ankle-sitting and possibly more pain.
Anyway. My mom and I went to Crumbs today, because two of my interviews to come (the early decision/action ones) will occur there. My mom's theory was that we should have a "mock interview" there and see how things go, since I am generally not good around strangers. Instead, the entire journey turned into a "What do you want to do in the future?" talk, but this time with a delicious apple pie cupcake, as opposed to the ordinary talks. My mom's idea of my future (and probably my dad's too, since they think remarkably alike) is that I have three choices: financial whatever, engineer, or doctor. (Okay, so I could have expanded upon the "financial whatever," but then it wouldn't rhyme.)
She is leaning towards doctor. Something about stability and lack of need for aggression.
We are going to Starbucks tomorrow (did you know I have never been to Starbucks, ever?) and figuring out what the second floor will mean for awkwardness in terms of interviews (Ariadne said it was pretty awkward since no one else was talking). I think I will get a hot chocolate tomorrow. Or whatever looks good. Any recommendations?
Also, in light of all the issues going on (primarily mine, but also everyone else's), I have decided that I need to take on a more optimistic, plan-oriented way of approaching things. Of course, I know it's not going to work out that way (I should know, the last few times I tried planning something always just happened), but I am setting some basic guidelines and then letting things roam. I have a December plan (if it ever will happen, that is). And plans are at least something to go by, when everything else is just so chaotic.
. . .
"You are Rena," he said, without any charm. Charm was not needed for those who were desperate enough to see him. "Changed, no doubt. How is the family?"
"Good," I replied. "Everyone who is alive is good."
"You mean yourself?"
So he knew. It should not have been surprising—after all, Allison Saint-Cross knew everything—but a part of me still wished he had not known, that I would be able to bring some shock into his hardened composure. I took his outstretched hand and allowed him to guide me inside the house out of habit. I knew the house better than he did, I had in owned this place with my childhood dreams. But habits, too ingrained in the mind, were hard to break.
"I thought I saw him the other day," he continued. "In a silver robe so characteristically his style. I thought, for once, I was wrong."
The unspoken words stung. Allison was never wrong. It could not have been Ciel. Ciel was—he was—I stared into Allison's eyes. "He came to you last, he must have wanted something from you."
"If he did, he did not tell me."
"Liar! You know very well what he wanted, you probably even gave it to him!"
"No," Allison said. "I meant, he did not come to see me. Not on that day."
"But he said he would," I said. "He told me that was where he was going. And everyone saw him in town, on Bayon Street, and everyone knows that if he was on Bayon Street then he must be—"
"Fate is here too, why don't you ask him?"
He was angry now. He had to be. Allison never mentioned Fate unless he was upset—he always preferred to ignore Fate's existence, as much as possible. I took my hand from his and leaned against the wall. "Fate. Is that why? Because you think Fate has to do with this?"
But I would like to take this opportunity to note that my ankle does not like me. I was walking from the dining counter to the kitchen counter when my left ankle decided to writhe in pain, and naturally I almost toppled over. Needless to say, it was not fun and resulted in me hobbling on the other leg for a long time (because I was afraid to see if my ankle was okay afterwards).
I have weird joint problems (as Tea nicely pointed out). That I will admit. This ankle thing could be related to my habit of sitting on my ankles, although it does not explain the relative lack of pain in my other ankle, unless I usually only sit on one ankle. I don't know—and I don't want to find out, because that would mean more ankle-sitting and possibly more pain.
Anyway. My mom and I went to Crumbs today, because two of my interviews to come (the early decision/action ones) will occur there. My mom's theory was that we should have a "mock interview" there and see how things go, since I am generally not good around strangers. Instead, the entire journey turned into a "What do you want to do in the future?" talk, but this time with a delicious apple pie cupcake, as opposed to the ordinary talks. My mom's idea of my future (and probably my dad's too, since they think remarkably alike) is that I have three choices: financial whatever, engineer, or doctor. (Okay, so I could have expanded upon the "financial whatever," but then it wouldn't rhyme.)
She is leaning towards doctor. Something about stability and lack of need for aggression.
We are going to Starbucks tomorrow (did you know I have never been to Starbucks, ever?) and figuring out what the second floor will mean for awkwardness in terms of interviews (Ariadne said it was pretty awkward since no one else was talking). I think I will get a hot chocolate tomorrow. Or whatever looks good. Any recommendations?
Also, in light of all the issues going on (primarily mine, but also everyone else's), I have decided that I need to take on a more optimistic, plan-oriented way of approaching things. Of course, I know it's not going to work out that way (I should know, the last few times I tried planning something always just happened), but I am setting some basic guidelines and then letting things roam. I have a December plan (if it ever will happen, that is). And plans are at least something to go by, when everything else is just so chaotic.
. . .
Allie's All About Apathy (part III)
"You are Rena," he said, without any charm. Charm was not needed for those who were desperate enough to see him. "Changed, no doubt. How is the family?"
"Good," I replied. "Everyone who is alive is good."
"You mean yourself?"
So he knew. It should not have been surprising—after all, Allison Saint-Cross knew everything—but a part of me still wished he had not known, that I would be able to bring some shock into his hardened composure. I took his outstretched hand and allowed him to guide me inside the house out of habit. I knew the house better than he did, I had in owned this place with my childhood dreams. But habits, too ingrained in the mind, were hard to break.
"I thought I saw him the other day," he continued. "In a silver robe so characteristically his style. I thought, for once, I was wrong."
The unspoken words stung. Allison was never wrong. It could not have been Ciel. Ciel was—he was—I stared into Allison's eyes. "He came to you last, he must have wanted something from you."
"If he did, he did not tell me."
"Liar! You know very well what he wanted, you probably even gave it to him!"
"No," Allison said. "I meant, he did not come to see me. Not on that day."
"But he said he would," I said. "He told me that was where he was going. And everyone saw him in town, on Bayon Street, and everyone knows that if he was on Bayon Street then he must be—"
"Fate is here too, why don't you ask him?"
He was angry now. He had to be. Allison never mentioned Fate unless he was upset—he always preferred to ignore Fate's existence, as much as possible. I took my hand from his and leaned against the wall. "Fate. Is that why? Because you think Fate has to do with this?"
Friday, November 5, 2010
Funny How It Just Is Like That
I walked upstairs to put my coat in my locker this morning and heard the bell ring for the 10-minute warning. My bus had been relatively early (compared to the past few days), and I still had time to go to the Chinese thing Dora asked me to go to yesterday. I thought about going, but in the end, I decided on not going. Not with what I had been musing over for the past few days, anyway.
I went down the hall, hoping to see someone else I had in mind, even though I knew he would not be there. He had never been there on Fridays. And even as I walked past the door, I thought, "No way. I'm deluding myself."
And there he was.
I backtracked a few steps and went in, said hi. Made all the formal and non-formal greetings. It was such a normal conversation, on such a trivial thing, and it was just so relieving. I wanted that—I had missed that. He left when the 5-minute bell rang, and I left too, after a while, and I saw Micro and we talked about social studies (and our shared social studies teacher).
Yesterday, I moped about not knowing what I wanted. Confusion, yes. It is still muddled. But I do know, at least in part, what the things I want feels like. And being able to talk to Micro about the most ridiculous and pointless things felt like one of those moments.
The eyes too. I can't forget the eyes, and yes, it's the other stuff that counts, but I can't forget the eyes.
Not feeling guilty, that helps too.
Our greetings are less awkward now. A small improvement. And it somehow meant all the world to me. (Although it's still in less-than-ideal situations, where we find ourselves, that is. It always is, for some reason.)
In French, I knew I had lost it again. Any semblance to rational thought. A prelude, to when I would have to pull up those rusty French skills because I could not stop at the door. I should have known better, but when invited, I just could not stop.
The insane. I don't like insanity, because it is so infuriating most of the times, but I would rather be insane than nothing at all.
I asked Clay about California, wanted to know what it was like. More laid-back, he said. Northern California, at least, especially San Francisco. He is more of a west coast person. I always think I am more of an east coast girl, not just because I have lived here for the longest, but also because I dream of letting go and being free, but I never quite am. Tied back by traditions, you might say. The good old South Carolina, maybe even Charleston, made (more) famous by homeboy Rhett Butler.
I am getting a normal backpack for Monday. No more of this nonsense. I wish I could have some more time to talk to Argon, because I miss those moments dearly, and I even miss the illogical logic Reese always sprouts. His hand-motions. The way he always manages to exasperate and amuse me at the same time. And even as I am writing this, I know this is an easily solved problem. I shall just have to spend more time with them, all other consequences be damned.
Meanwhile, I am glad for Fridays, for how it just turned out like that.
. . .
No story update today. I'm bad, I know, it's only been the third day, but I really need to finish homework as well, and do lots of other things I promised myself I would.
. . .
On a more cheerful note, we worked on proofs in multi today, as Gretchen has already mentioned. Proof by mathematical induction. Number theory. Argon has a number theory binder full of really interesting notes, and I had borrowed it for a long while but never cracked down on any of it. For an entire year. I just said to myself, "I'll get to it one day, one of these days," and it never happened.
But now we are learning about it, and I am happy.
I also need to stop turning my back to Mercle in econ (also, who came up with such a name?). That I need to remember. I like him a lot, so he should not be ignored, even if it was unintentional. From now on I propose to sit properly in my seat, unless Mr. Wollen is going to write on the board behind me. In econ, we also compared water bottle designs and the demographic/socioeconomic group each design targeted. I volunteered my Hint water bottle, and Mr. Wollen said, "See, that's the exact same product, but packaged so it'll sell for more."
"No, it's not the same," Ali said. "That water's flavored."
"Oh," Mr. Wollen said. "Then you can justify paying more for it."
Not really. It doesn't taste that good. Not enough sugar. But I guess I should have known, since it does say on the label that it is unsweetened.
Oh, there was also frisbee today. I had considered not going, but I went anyway. There were only five of us, but it was still fun. Elaine came too, although she could not stay for too long, and she left before a real game actually began, but we threw frisbees around for a while.
. . .
Pandora is getting better at predicting my preferences now.
And that is the end for today.
I went down the hall, hoping to see someone else I had in mind, even though I knew he would not be there. He had never been there on Fridays. And even as I walked past the door, I thought, "No way. I'm deluding myself."
And there he was.
I backtracked a few steps and went in, said hi. Made all the formal and non-formal greetings. It was such a normal conversation, on such a trivial thing, and it was just so relieving. I wanted that—I had missed that. He left when the 5-minute bell rang, and I left too, after a while, and I saw Micro and we talked about social studies (and our shared social studies teacher).
Yesterday, I moped about not knowing what I wanted. Confusion, yes. It is still muddled. But I do know, at least in part, what the things I want feels like. And being able to talk to Micro about the most ridiculous and pointless things felt like one of those moments.
The eyes too. I can't forget the eyes, and yes, it's the other stuff that counts, but I can't forget the eyes.
Not feeling guilty, that helps too.
Our greetings are less awkward now. A small improvement. And it somehow meant all the world to me. (Although it's still in less-than-ideal situations, where we find ourselves, that is. It always is, for some reason.)
In French, I knew I had lost it again. Any semblance to rational thought. A prelude, to when I would have to pull up those rusty French skills because I could not stop at the door. I should have known better, but when invited, I just could not stop.
The insane. I don't like insanity, because it is so infuriating most of the times, but I would rather be insane than nothing at all.
I asked Clay about California, wanted to know what it was like. More laid-back, he said. Northern California, at least, especially San Francisco. He is more of a west coast person. I always think I am more of an east coast girl, not just because I have lived here for the longest, but also because I dream of letting go and being free, but I never quite am. Tied back by traditions, you might say. The good old South Carolina, maybe even Charleston, made (more) famous by homeboy Rhett Butler.
I am getting a normal backpack for Monday. No more of this nonsense. I wish I could have some more time to talk to Argon, because I miss those moments dearly, and I even miss the illogical logic Reese always sprouts. His hand-motions. The way he always manages to exasperate and amuse me at the same time. And even as I am writing this, I know this is an easily solved problem. I shall just have to spend more time with them, all other consequences be damned.
Meanwhile, I am glad for Fridays, for how it just turned out like that.
. . .
No story update today. I'm bad, I know, it's only been the third day, but I really need to finish homework as well, and do lots of other things I promised myself I would.
. . .
On a more cheerful note, we worked on proofs in multi today, as Gretchen has already mentioned. Proof by mathematical induction. Number theory. Argon has a number theory binder full of really interesting notes, and I had borrowed it for a long while but never cracked down on any of it. For an entire year. I just said to myself, "I'll get to it one day, one of these days," and it never happened.
But now we are learning about it, and I am happy.
I also need to stop turning my back to Mercle in econ (also, who came up with such a name?). That I need to remember. I like him a lot, so he should not be ignored, even if it was unintentional. From now on I propose to sit properly in my seat, unless Mr. Wollen is going to write on the board behind me. In econ, we also compared water bottle designs and the demographic/socioeconomic group each design targeted. I volunteered my Hint water bottle, and Mr. Wollen said, "See, that's the exact same product, but packaged so it'll sell for more."
"No, it's not the same," Ali said. "That water's flavored."
"Oh," Mr. Wollen said. "Then you can justify paying more for it."
Not really. It doesn't taste that good. Not enough sugar. But I guess I should have known, since it does say on the label that it is unsweetened.
Oh, there was also frisbee today. I had considered not going, but I went anyway. There were only five of us, but it was still fun. Elaine came too, although she could not stay for too long, and she left before a real game actually began, but we threw frisbees around for a while.
. . .
Pandora is getting better at predicting my preferences now.
And that is the end for today.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Going Down The Memory Lane
I do not do this willingly, oftentimes. Remembering the past is something that happens because I had, in my past self, left behind mementos for my present self to come across. Precariously. Because even the smallest things can trigger memories that do not belong—should never have belonged.
Today I was cleaning out my inbox, per usual, when I saw that I had a lot of drafts just sitting there. I opened them up one by one, trying to see if there were any I could delete. And of course, there were those I had previously mentioned in another cleaning-out-inbox moment, but there were other things too. Stories from once upon a time. Fragments of words—sentences—thoughts. Things I used to believe in. And maybe still do.
And a few recurring themes.
Confusion is one of them. I always write when I am confused. Count this as one of those times. I write about loss, and about getting lost. I write about regrets, and trying not to regret. Sometimes, I write about death. Usually I just imply it. I write about things I do not understand but wish I understood.
I write about real life, I just had never quite noticed it. I write about real life packaged in shiny wrapping paper made up of lies. Freshly embellished. Until all of the rough edges are hidden, and all of the raw emotions are curtailed, and all that is left is a neatly polished piece that is faintly reminiscent of reality.
Writing is just as much a lie as it is a reflection on the truth. And I must say, I relish in the lying as much as I do the truth-telling. It, in its own magical way, protects me from reality. So I write. A lot. In my continuous search for that perfect "real" that is not "reality." A safeguard.
But I am rambling. Digressing into the uncharted waters of my mind. I must have written about that as well.
. . .
This because I am not the perfect person I think a part of me envisioned myself to be. The other part scoffs at perfection. But none of that matters now.
I think what matters now is: I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. Again.
If there ever was a first time to begin with. And I was recently asked whether I would rather all of it never existed, this funny business with the past. Would I? I have asked myself that. Oblivion. Forget this ridiculous dream so as to forget the torturous crushing of hope. I think it can be boiled down to that.
But there is no what if? in this world. Another reason I dislike the past.
. . .
Paradoxical, of course, because I am dredging up the past with this.
. . .
Today I was cleaning out my inbox, per usual, when I saw that I had a lot of drafts just sitting there. I opened them up one by one, trying to see if there were any I could delete. And of course, there were those I had previously mentioned in another cleaning-out-inbox moment, but there were other things too. Stories from once upon a time. Fragments of words—sentences—thoughts. Things I used to believe in. And maybe still do.
And a few recurring themes.
Confusion is one of them. I always write when I am confused. Count this as one of those times. I write about loss, and about getting lost. I write about regrets, and trying not to regret. Sometimes, I write about death. Usually I just imply it. I write about things I do not understand but wish I understood.
I write about real life, I just had never quite noticed it. I write about real life packaged in shiny wrapping paper made up of lies. Freshly embellished. Until all of the rough edges are hidden, and all of the raw emotions are curtailed, and all that is left is a neatly polished piece that is faintly reminiscent of reality.
Writing is just as much a lie as it is a reflection on the truth. And I must say, I relish in the lying as much as I do the truth-telling. It, in its own magical way, protects me from reality. So I write. A lot. In my continuous search for that perfect "real" that is not "reality." A safeguard.
But I am rambling. Digressing into the uncharted waters of my mind. I must have written about that as well.
. . .
This because I am not the perfect person I think a part of me envisioned myself to be. The other part scoffs at perfection. But none of that matters now.
I think what matters now is: I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. Again.
If there ever was a first time to begin with. And I was recently asked whether I would rather all of it never existed, this funny business with the past. Would I? I have asked myself that. Oblivion. Forget this ridiculous dream so as to forget the torturous crushing of hope. I think it can be boiled down to that.
But there is no what if? in this world. Another reason I dislike the past.
. . .
Paradoxical, of course, because I am dredging up the past with this.
. . .
Allie's All About Apathy (part II)
My first memory of Ciel was of his piercing red eyes. It was my favorite memory of him too, because in that memory he was calm. Solemn, yes, but not annoyed. I must have been four then, and he seven. We were in the study, and Ciel was writing something on the parchment laid out on the desk. I was too short for the chair and could not see what he was writing, so I asked him.
"None of your concern," he said, but it was without animosity. It was merely a response meant to stop me from distracting him. Later on, he would add the more biting words, but for now, he had not donned the cruelty children often had.
And it must have been this time when Allison Saint-Cross entered the study, his hands stuck in his pockets. Over the years, he and Ciel would often meet to discuss things that came with monetary value but was more often measured in lives and livelihoods. But for now, they were only friends.
If even that.
Allison saw me and said, "He's crazy, that brat." He was a few years older than Ciel, and had thought he earned the right to call him nicknames. Ciel looked up and frowned.
And it was now that I wondered why I did not have any memories of Ciel before this particular moment. It did not seem like a memorable occasion, nor was it any natural time for Ciel to enter my life. He was just there, and I had just accepted him into my life, even if he had never accepted me into his life.
When I climbed down the mountain and got to Bayon Street, I asked a few people if they knew of a store that sold wishes. They all pointed me down the street, where I found a small two-story house juxtaposed with the towering marble buildings so typical of Anna Marie. He was there already, waiting for me.
Allison Saint-Cross still had his dazzling green eyes, although he had grown his hair out longer, and it now trailed in wispy black strands down his head. He held out his hand and bowed slightly, so that his tall frame stretched and crinkled his shirt. He had the expression of a bitter man who refused to accept defeat. An expression I must have mirrored, because he laughed when he saw me.
