i ain't got no crystal ball, i had a million dollars, but...

A certain someone says that they don't care, they just want something. Everyone knows that is definitely the vaguest, least accurate thing you can say. Because just about no one, at least not anyone with a certain amount of self-respect, would ever just settle. If we all just wanted "something", "anything", then it wouldn't be this hard. The truth is, we have this ideal in our minds, and that is the 'something' that we want.

Like you can say that you just want to be in a relationship, you don't care with who. So the next day, you discover someone you've never considered as anything before suddenly likes you. You'll find yourself completely contradicting everything you said just yesterday, and start forming a montage of excuses as to why you can not be with this specific person. Why? Because this person is probably not the one you dreamed up in your mind. That's why.

They do not resemble the image you conjured up in your mind of the person you want to give your affections to, they do not fit in the picture you imagined, so you automatically push them away. But what do we do with those missed opportunities?

Is the next time we face a similar situation, this time on the other end, karma?

And what do we do about those around us who pressure. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure us to be a certain way, like what they want you to, do what they want you to, the hypocrites who demand too much but reciprocate half-heartedly.

I'm very tired. School wears me out--never getting enough sleep.

So, I'm not quite sure what I'm talking about anymore,

but i'm tired of giving up.

calorie induced temporary joy

I always convince myself to eat things I know I'll regret eating later. Always. If I spent even a quarter as much time thinking about chemistry that I do thinking about eating and not eating, I'd probably be a chemical prodigy and recite Lewis structure and gas constants like the alphabet. Too bad. Today, I bought a pretzel that smelled like semen. Then, I had a cookie. Then, I spent the next two periods feeling guilty about eating the cookie. I got home, ate half of a chocolate bar, and felt bad about eating more than one block (it was a Hershey's) like I said I was going to, so I burned it off on the treadmill, only to eat it back during dinner.

And then, some days I'll make a million excuses about why it's okay to indulge. And I'll promise myself to go running so that I'll burn it off. By the way, tread milling isn't as exhilarating of an experience as I thought it would be. It's more just the same thing as running outside, only minus the scenery (that you don't really enjoy anyway because usually I'm either too tired or too into the running part), the feeling of actually getting somewhere, and recently, the numbing sting of wind and cold.

I didn't go to drama. Planned on playing translator for my grandma, but got home too late anyway. The interim principal is a perpetual nagging oppressor. I miss the drunk one. Well, at least this guy isn't threatening to google our myspaces and punish us for things over which they have absolutely no say in.

School is tedious. I need another vacation already. Well, I guess I'll have to adjust my sleeping pattern sooner or later. It's really not good to go to bed at 12 a.m. and wake up 5 hours later. Not that I don't press the snooze button as many times as possible anyway. My circadian rhythms ( a roughly-24-hour cycle in the physiological processes of living beings) are all messed up, probably from sleeping at 4 a.m. and waking up at 1p.m. all the time. They're supposed to work according to the sunlight-- you sleep at night, wake at day. But over breaks, I'm practically nocturnal.

I've been reading Valley of the Dolls. It's really very addicting. Everyone takes pills in the book. Oh, and I gave myself a French manicure--embracing my ethnic stereotypes. It came out better than I expected. Still, some nails dried weird. Speaking of which, the Sally Hansen Insta-Dri Top Coat doesn't exactly "insta-dri" the nail. But it's a good top coat.

I wish everything in school could be typed. I think I would learn so much better, since then I'd actually be able to read my notes. Plus, in the time it took me to type that entire sentence, I probably would've only written down a quarter of it.

I wonder what it would be like if my parents just let me go out all the time without asking for an M.O. all the time.

Boring? Naaaah.

So besides that, progress is at a standstill.

Determination, Motivation, other words that end in 'ation'.

Speaking of ending, this vacation is at it's end.
The school district really should put in better consideration of its students' needs. Such as the fact that the majority, save for the overachievers and whatnot, have probably put whatever work they were assigned to be done at the very last possible moments of the vacation. So, I was thinking, while reading some things, that I've been "blogging" since I was ten. My habit of creating fake cyber-dentities began at the age of 8 when I was still obsessed with Sailor Moon. I bought the book Valley of the Dolls around the same time, maybe a few years later, and am only now reading it for real, instead of the juvenile skimming of pages for interesting bits. The thing is, I have never actually been able to maintain a blog--as in, I'd start one, post in it daily, sometimes more than once a day, and then, a few months later, I'd forget all about it and start another one, always hoping that this time, I'd stick with it.

I'm pretty sure I have at least seven livejournals out there, a bunch of Xangas, plenty of Bloggers, a TypePad account, a Moveable Type, etc. I'm pretty sure I must have registered with every weblog site there is. Oh, and let's not forget Vox. I really should start writing them down someplace. Someplace that no one will find...

Anyway, recently, I embarked on a hunt for these long lost relics of my internet past, and found a number of them. Most of them are filled with emoticons (:) and :-p frequented the jumbled, rambling paragraphs--the rambling part hasn't changed) "lols" and other phrases I have since stopped using in blogs. It's hard to believe that it's been so long, but the archives do not lie. Although most of them aren't exactly things I want other people to read, it's always amusing to read what you wrote in the past. Like when I found my journals from first grade. They would contain words in the first few pages, and quickly submit to my scribbles and drawings, the pages filled with outlines of my palm.

Through the years, a lot more than my writing style has changed. Oh, but to pause on that for a bit. Everyone I ask claims that there is a specific way I type that separates me from everyone else. Something about the way I "talk" on AIM. I don't know what it is, and neither do they. Oh well. So, tonight, coming back from Uncle Y. (dad's side)'s house, I was thinking how instead of becoming more wild, the New Year's Eves have become subsequently quieter with each passing year. I guess it's because everyone's getting older, and to the majority of the parties involved, "older" means a stronger desire for "peace and quiet". Not that I really mind, it's just that I miss the bubbly and the increased loudness (being that my family is never quiet by normal standards) that New Year's usually brings. I guess it's because Johnny's family was away again this year. It's always louder when they're around.

Speaking of, I'm pretty sure there's a blog out there somewhere from a New Year's Eve a couple of years back, also spent at my cousin's house.


In addition, I used to make lists of all my resolutions. I'd have so many, I would fill a page front and back. This year, I'm not sure I have even one. At least, not one that I'm sure I'd be able to actually keep. Oh, there's the usual of course--lose 5-10 pounds, eat healthier, sleep earlier, try harder in school. The latter I might actually try to stick with. There are AP tests with my name on it that I'll need to actually haul ass in order to pass.

What the hell, might as well make a list for tradition's sake:

- The usual (see above)
- Finish Anna Karenina, A Confederacy of Dunces, and other great classics I've put aside in favor of trashy, guilty pleasure reading.
- but never neglect my reputation for reading the dirtiest book in class.
- Stop procrastinating
- .. or at least, decrease procrastinating. No use in quitting cold turkey.
- Just say it. Instead of deliberating in my head for painful seconds about whether or not I should say it, whatever 'it' is.
- but DO think more before saying stuff to parents--
- try to pick less fights; better to stay on good side, of both mom AND dad.


With that, I'm going to end this and go read Valley of the Dolls.

oh, and last one:
Learn how to punctuate titles already.

Looking back...

Every year, I look back at the year that is reaching its end and reflect. On the things that happened, the things that could have happened, the if's, and's, but's, maybe's. On the coulda, shoulda, and the woulda. Every year up to this, I'd make a list of all the things that happened. This year was no exception, but after all this time, I've realized that so much happens in a year, the events blur together and embed themselves into the mind, swirling together until you're not sure if the memory had always been there, or if it was a new addition.

This year taught me a lot of things. This year made me realize the pain of losing a close friend, I learned to appreciate that tomorrow is not really guaranteed, and the short time we are given must be spent to the fullest, always, not only under threats and adverse situations. I realized that we are not independent islands, but at the same time, we must learn how to be strong on our own. Whoever forbid we ever need to be, but just in case, it is wise for all to develop self-sufficient ideals. This year, I observed the failures and successes of many relationships around me. I was not in one myself, but I've learned a lot, and there were most definitely experiences that I felt so strongly about, they may as well have happened to me.

I collected another anthology of quotes that will follow me for a while, I met people I don't know how I survived without knowing before, and I realized, finally, that it's not always wise to trust unconditionally. I realized that you may love your friends, but at the end of the day, you must love yourself, too, enough to defend yourself against any criticisms that others may pass against you. I realized that family is a whole other level from friends. Family is the people who will support you no matter what, family are the people who will piss you off in every way you could possibly imagine, but who you will still unreasonably love at the end of it all. Friends, though, are the family we choose. I have become closer to many this year, and I am thankful for every single one.

Every year, I superstitiously associate the New Year with a whole smörgåsbord of "new". However, this year, I've learned that like nail varnish that lingers stubbornly at the corners of your nail, tiny flecks of pigment clinging to your cuticle, the past does not disappear, it merely makes way for the future. A simple, obvious message, perhaps, but one that is hard to fully comprehend and accept.

This coming year, I've no idea what to expect, but I know I will have the people I love behind me, in front of me, all around me, because a new year may stand for new starts, but it also stands for further reinforcement of the old.


Who knows if this will be the year when love finally comes to me, or if I'll suddenly become extremely immersed in my schoolwork (most likely not), but whatever is there, I can't wait.


Here's to another fantastic, wonderful year, more spectacular than the last.

love is like a butterfly, hold it too tight, it'll crush, hold it too loose, it'll fly away.

PROCRASTINATION.
always catches up to me. I've yet to do anything that I had planned on completing before the week's end. Now, it's Sunday, and I continue to waste time. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to regret this by the time it's Tuesday. Okay, so it's almost 2008, and here I am again, I'm pretty sure that I'm tired of this unrequited business. I've started so many various blogs on this thing, I've got to keep better track of my virtual identity. Anyway, I still have a ton of stuff, but why get started on it when I can just wait until the last possible second?

i am selfish i am wrong i am right i swear i'm right

if i shut my eyes tight enough,
your face will fade away,
replaced with another,
one more pleasing to me.

if i close my heart away from you,
its possible to pretend that
this isn't reality,
just a passing dream.

if i slip between your fingertips,
perhaps i can salvage
what isn't too damaged to mend.


souls dipped in saccharine lies
will emerge dripping with falsity,
just like those with freshly painted
truths on their lips will
break the surface clean of sin.

a cut barely deep enough to break skin,
will not bleed enough to stain,
but when the skies open up to darkness,
the stinging cold of rain
will slice through all pretenses.

washing away facades and made up faces,
the truth will fall through
like a loosely secured floorboard,
careful where you step
you might lose your balance.


Blah, I've been having such writer's block,
but I have all these beginnings and scraps and pieces brewing in my mind.
but none of it is coherent, and it's mostly just puzzled together into nonsense.

anyway,
I spent an hour and a half doing my nails, and waiting for them to dry.

led by your scent to fairer climes at last.

People like to tell people of a certain age, say thirteen to nineteen, that they aren’t fit for the real world. That they are “too young”, that they are “teenagers”, that they are “naïve”. They like to assume that innocence is synonymous with these years, which in actuality are tumultuous and exposes many of us to the most explicit situations we will ever find ourselves in. Our parents, our teachers, our esteemed town officials will say to us, “Make the right choices—hang out with the right crowd.” Their preaching is prefixed with dos and don’ts. As we ourselves grow older, we look backwards to the thirteen and fourteen, and fifteen and sixteen year olds, wondering when it became okay for them to be living the life of a twenty-two year old. We frown upon the barely developed girls wearing low-cut shirts, too-short skirts, and provocative amounts of makeup. We wonder why people start acting older at younger and younger ages each year. What we forget is that at that stage in our own lives, we were doing things that those older than us also disapproved of. We thought nothing of it. It was the thing to do, it was modern, it was normal. Falling in love was something that was highly sought after, and we all had high hopes for it.

Adults like to assume that “children”, as they refer to us, have no idea what real love is. They like to say, “You’re too young to fall in love.” What they don’t remember is that from the day we are conceived, we begin to learn of attachment. As embryos, with not even a full identity, we come to depend upon our mothers’ bodies, feeding off their nutrition, learning to live together. When we are born, we cry for affection and love, becoming attached to our parents. We come to recognize their touch, to slowly register the unique tones of their voices, their facial expressions. We come to know these people who care for us, and this is the burgeoning of our true first love. As we progress through the years, we learn a different kind of love. The kind of love that comes from absolute trust in a friend, in a companion who talks to you, and gives you the much needed time away from hectic stresses of everyday life. Young girls would spend hours upon hours concocting the perfect prince charming, daydreaming of white weddings and breathtaking wedding gowns. They would indulge in Disney Princess movies, twirling and dancing, fancying themselves a fairy tale character. They would play dress up, wearing their mother’s jewelry, feet swimming in a pair of heels, awkwardly making their way down the hallway, their imaginations rampant. Once these young girls grow into young women, their ideals may conform to that of their peers, as well as what they feel is required of a girl their age. They begin to dress a certain way, to talk and laugh flirtatiously, hoping to catch the attention of a boy, or two, or three. At this point, their fairy tale dreams have been pushed to the back of their minds, making way for a new kind of fantasy.

This kind of fantasy is the dangerous kind, the kind that results in unplanned pregnancies and shattered ideals for the future. New ideals are born, and dreams are altered, if not altogether evicted. It is the enticing kind of “being bad” that makes us all want to do it. Every kiss feels rebellious; every touch is another exciting step towards adulthood. We are all reaching for independence, of being treated like we’re all grown up, ready to do what we want. Not for a second do we think about exactly what growing up means—the responsibilities, the day-to-day routines that take the place of our spontaneous, childish antics. All we want is the sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

Those of us who feel left behind, loveless and lonely build up insecurities and frustrations. We spill our hearts out over the liquor and beer we unlawfully consumed, letting it burn our throats and slur our speech. For some, a rendezvous with alcohol is a chance to finally let go, and be honest for once. For others, it’s an excuse to reach for the nearest comforting body. Still others will enter a state of distorted consciousness, not quite understanding exactly what they are doing, saying out loud every thought that enters their impaired minds. We go home, maybe a little heartbroken, thinking that every rejection will be the end of the world. After time, the real growing up begins. You begin to realize that it’s okay to lose. It’s okay to experience the stinging slap of being turned down, because you’ll be okay. Like a paper cut, it’s a shocking kind of hurt. At times, it may not hit right away, but when it does, it hurts more than much deeper wounds. The next day, it becomes just another memory, something you cringe at the thought of, but no longer hide from. Perhaps, like a scar, it lingers, and we might softly trace a finger along it, recalling the incident that led to its existence. Every scar, every cut, however, is a learning experience. It serves as a souvenir of the flesh that, like a highlighted section of text, conveys a main idea, a lesson learned the hard way.

Sometimes, for the ones who do find love, or something like it, it becomes a necessity, like water and oxygen. We come to need our alleged ‘other half’ more than food, more than anything in the world. We trick ourselves into believing that it would be okay if the entire universe ended, as long as we still have them. We push away everything that doesn’t have to do with them, turning a deaf ear towards those who oppose us. We lash out at anyone who tries to tell us it’s not real. ‘It is real’, we will angrily protest. ‘It’s real and it’s going to be forever’, we inform them. We say it over and over again, until we have completely persuaded ourselves in to believing that any other scenario would be impracticable. We think we are going to marry every one we go out with—every one is “the one”, every one is “true love”, every one is the first time. I’ve never felt this way, we say about each ‘true love’. It would be too cynical to say that this is a permanent condition. Certainly there are times when the lucky ones do find forever. There is that sweet love that everyone is jealous of, that everyone prays and wishes for. Even the pessimists, the “love isn’t real” types look to the stars, daring to open their hearts to fate. At eleven-eleven, the lucky ones thank whoever it was that led them to this wonderful, magnificent person that they can’t picture their lives without. At eleven-eleven, the lonely hearts will clasp their hands together; close their eyes, and whisper to all the entities above, “Please, send me true love.” To find this kind of love so early on feels like winning the mega million dollar jackpot. It’s almost too good to be true, but we scowl at those who try to tell us so. If ignorance is bliss, then young love is absolute ecstasy.

Somewhere close to one’s twenty-something birthday, the thought of aging any more sends a shudder down the spine. Every frown becomes a new enemy of their faces, no longer as firm as they used to be. They swear gravity is getting the best of them. Sometime during the last decade, it became the norm for a woman of forty to look much younger than a woman of twenty or thirty. Sometime during this last decade, it became commonplace for young adults ages eight to twelve to engage in activities that would make the elderly people of this age clutch their hearts and gasp for air. Slowly, it is getting to the point where it is no longer taboo for little girls and little boys to know what sex is before they even know their times tables. The educational television programs are replaced by mindless, brain-numbing shows that are reminiscent of how one might picture an acid-trip. Obesity, not the alphabet, is the main concern of these producers, who wish to make Santa Claus resemble the ‘after’ picture instead of the ‘before’, and demand the cookie monster to exchange his cookies for celery sticks. These people are the same ones who encouraged everyone to indulge in McDonald’s just half a decade earlier. They want to retire Elmo from Sesame Street, as if the furry red creature is any more harmful to children’s wisdom than shows with talking appliances.

With each passing generation, the polished, shiny lives of celebrities inch closer to center stage. Already we make exceptions for anyone with a name we recognize, excusing them from the law all because they once appeared for a nanosecond on our favorite show. We flatter them with attention, begging for their signatures, for a picture, for anything. We immortalize them with merchandise, putting their faces on all kinds of paraphernalia and attaching their names to products in hopes of attracting consumers. It is becoming harder and harder for the optimists to defend the intelligence of this country, and every crisis only supports the talk of critics, fueling foreign nations’ hatred for our homeland.

So what, exactly, do we have to believe in anymore? If love hurts us and makes us cry, and money has upstaged morals, then what do we have left? We are all striving for happiness. Some of us give up too soon. Some of us wallow too long in self-misery until we begin to drown in it, losing our way, unable to find the surface. Those who are willing to put aside the failed attempts, brushing off the dust of rejection, soldier on. They gamely push against the current, struggling through the fierce winds of misfortune. We find things to be thankful for, develop remedies for unhappiness, manage to make ourselves smile, and search for ways to make others okay, too. Faith has almost completely been pushed to the back burner, and many of us scoff at the silly religious propagandists who try to sell us their beliefs. We haughtily shut our ears to their sermons, sitting only in church to gain the status of confirmation. After that, how many will dedicate the same amount of time? Regardless, it is crucial that we harbor hope. When Pandora released the demons that plague the world, she also let out hope. Though overpowered and outnumbered, it fights hard in the hearts of people everywhere. It keeps us going when we think there is nowhere left to go, carving out hope-shaped boxes in the obstacles that impede our paths. It slowly melts away the negativity that, if left alone, will take the shape of our souls and trap us forever in its hold.

Of all the age groups, people have the most misconceptions about teenagers. They say we do not know, that we can’t possibly know, what it’s like. We retaliate with this same attitude, accusing the adults around us of being oppressors, keeping us from freedom. What we forget to do is appreciate that they are merely trying to protect us from the destructive decisions that attempt, at every opportunity, to seduce our highly impressionable minds. Many succumb to the beckoning of this powerful siren, turning to all things that our D.A.R.E. guests warned us to beware of. Neither side can be completely right, because those who claim to have been there can not possibly know what it is like for their children. At the same time, those of us who are still ‘there’, still in the midst of living through it, must remember that there is no way for us to know everything. We must confess that sometimes older really is wiser. But to those who choose to fool themselves into thinking that we do not know anything, that we are “too young”, please understand you are hardly letting yourself see the whole picture.

-Christine Zhao, December 2007.