The (Not So) Mediocre Writer

Artsy Music Video #2: Active Child "Playing House"

2011-12-28T18:12:00.000-05:00

So I guess I’ve created the habit of watching “artsy” music videos and making commentary about them in a tumblr post. I heard Active Child first perform at one of M83’s shows in New York. In awe by this particular song, I sought out the band in order to add them to my regular rotation. And like all music I hear, I tend to search out their music videos to get a glimpse as to what this song sounds like to visualization.

At first, I was kind of shocked at how simple the video looked. A close up on a dude’s face with shadows running around his eyeballs. Perhaps he was possessed by a demon? Maybe someone should call an old priest and a young priest. Then, at second glance, I noticed the images behind lead singer, Pat Grossi, included a man in glasses singing his balls off. Who is this balls-singing man in the background? Is that Eric Wareheim in Chrimbus regalia?

Sadly, after doing some research, it turns out be none other than Tom Krell from How to Dress Well.

If only it was Eric Wareheim!

After that scene, I couldn’t figure out if Active Child was being facetious or serious. I mean, come on. Pat Grossi sings this song Mary J. Blige “No Drama” style? Scenes where you can’t tell if it’s Grossi or Krell’s hand caressing the glass in the smoke? There’s even sexy scenes of a lady and Grossi about to get it on. I was really hoping that the woman was Nicki Minaj. It’s kind of difficult to gauge what this video means if people are blurring the lines between sincere and sarcastic.

As I watched the video, I reviewed some of the comments left by fellow Youtube watchers. The one that stuck out the most?

Why do I think this would be 800 times more fascinating if the dudes made out with each other! #heterophobic!?

Perhaps this was the missing link. Perhaps this was the piece of the puzzle that would tip them over the edge, but they didn’t go there. They didn’t want to get into the realm of comedy and keep it as dramatic as possible. However, you’ve got to admit that watching dudes in a cloud of smoke singing about feelings is laughable. Always.

Finally, after watching it 300 times and getting quite bored with this review (which was as spontaneous as this new project), I noticed something within the first scenes of this video. In the entire video, I think Grossi was trying to suppress the biggest urge to just start cracking up. Yeah, it looks like he’s sporting some “Mona Lisa” shit during the close-ups of him sitting in front of the smoke window. A ha! It’s the clue that we’ve been long waiting for. It’s definitely all in jest. It has to be. I feel relieved. I want to stop watching this video now.

Domino's Pizza-Induced Dreams

2011-12-28T11:20:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine once told me that if you eat cheese before going to bed, you’ll end up having weird dreams. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten cheese before bed a la Liz Lemon, but I have had my fair share of foods before bed:

Popcorn with butter and salt
McDonald’s
Buffalo wings flavored pretzel chips
Salami
Egg sandwich
Grilled cheese (there’s the cheese!)
Mallowmars

However, last night, in a fit of hunger, I ate two and a half slices of Domino’s pizza with pepperoni and jalapenos AND some sort of cheesy bread thingy. In the moment, I didn’t care. I was weak. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything of substance that day and I needed anything that I could get my grubby little hands on at one in the morning.

As I laid myself to sleep, I tasted the belch of the garlicky crust on my breath and the hunk of machine processed pizza dough in my stomach. I felt the guilt of eating not only Domino’s pizza, but also the fact that I ate it so late at night. And as I go over the gripes and regrets of having such a caloric fest, my eyes slowly begin to drift and I settle into a dream that can only be induced by eating ravenous amounts of Domino’s Pizza.

The setting was set. I found myself sitting in a horribly uncomfortable chair in stagnant florescent lighting. I was in an office, or so I thought. The computer in front of me showed the program that I used at work everyday, so it had to be an office. However, the program was broken. There were some tech people working on it. Everyone around me leisurely waited for the “go-ahead” from our manager to work again. I got up from my desk and notice that a small chamber orchestra was getting ready to perform. Their practice space was small and still within the awfully lit office space.

I walked over to the first stand violinist and sat myself in the chair next to him. Suddenly, my violin case was on the floor. I proceeded to remove my bow and rosin and began to stroke the bow hairs against the amber sap. It felt like forever since I last rosined a bow; like I was being reacquainted with an old friend from many years ago. It was comforting and relaxing. I didn’t want to stop.

Suddenly, a bell rang. The room began to fill with people as they hurried to get to their seat. The desks disappeared and I was in my high school orchestra room waiting for class to start. An old friend of mine, Paul, walked into the room. He wore his old school knapsack, baggy jeans, t-shirt, and diamond studded earring. He looked exactly the way I remembered him, except a bit more distinguished somehow. I watched him as he moseyed towards a young woman whom I’m pretty sure was the Asian girl that Stu married in Hangover Part 2. I was definitely sure of that. Without even taking another glance at Paul, she removed an engagement ring from her hand and tossed it at him. He didn’t seem upset. He just accepted defeat and put the ring back into its Easter egg green box.

After seeing that display, I walked over to him to console him. He laughed at me and patted me on the back and showed me that he bought his ring at some bargain Korean jeweler; like a Jared’s or something. He laughed and laughed and I laughed too because I felt uncomfortable watching him laugh like a goon. We even high fived each other. Suddenly, I was seated again and Paul placed a pair of big headphones on my head like the ones that Dr. Dre makes. Beats Audio or whatever. You know, those ugly red ones that probably are terrible. He played some dance tune I had never heard before and we laughed along to the fact that he just got dumped by his fiancee.

Then I woke up.

And swore I would never eat Domino’s Pizza again before bed because that was the most randomest dream ever.

Yearly Judgment of My General Wardrobe

2011-12-19T13:05:00.002-05:00

2011 was considered the year where I “risk it or brisket.” Honestly, the outcome for either of these situations is great. You either risk everything or eat brisket. The latter sounds more delicious than the former, but that’s neither here nor there. I would say though that it’s been an all-around “risk it” kind of year. Banner, indeed. Around this time, I take a good, hard look at myself in the mirror and I wonder what I’m doing with my life? Precisely after thinking that, I stare down at my wardrobe and think, “when will you stop dressing like a 4 year old”?

It’s been a struggle for most of my life to develop some sort of style. Most of the time, I’ve spent cultivating other interests like my career or my book collection. However, every year around this time, I always take a look at my wardrobe from the past year and decide if it’s something that I want to keep building on or if it’s something where I’m going to donate most of my clothes to the Salvation Army. I don’t donate to Beacon’s Closet because I don’t want at any time to walk through Williamsburg and say, “hey! that’s my dress that I wore to my senior prom!” No one wants that embarrassment.

This year, I struggle with the same exact issue. I look down at my ratty tank top and cardigan combination (my go-to for pretty much everyday because I don’t like long sleeves) and wonder if this year’s outfit successes have really been outfit failures. I can’t deduce whether or not it’s good because that is the job of some 3rd party perspective who will judge me for my wardrobe. Like Anna Wintour, but hopefully with less attitude so I don’t end up crying myself to sleep at night.

In an effort to figure out what my style is, I have come up with a small look book of ideas. I also found these all on the same site of Korean fashion photos. It’s appropriate because I’m also Korean. That’s how it works, right? They are the following:

1. Cute mess with a positive outlook on life:

I’m the girl a boy will wake up next to. I put on this oversized sweater and my hair in a bun. I go in the kitchen and mess up boiling hot water. I can only wear oversized glasses too because my astigmatism won’t allow for anything else. I like holding props and giggling when the boy wakes up and his hair is sticking up. I also weight 95lbs and have great skin and hair.

2. Sweet and innocent and will make any bad boy a good one:

A lot of vintage clothing goes into this as well as wearing my hair in messy braids. I stare out windows because I’m probably dying of some crazy disease that only cute Asian girls get. Also, I have the uncanny power to turn a bad boy into a good one. He will break down in front of me and cry about how his mother never loved him and then confess that he loves me. Then, I will pass out in his arms and he’ll try to revive me, but the last thing he’ll hear me say is, “You smell like coconuts.”

3. Conservative school girl:

Dressing like this can only lead to one thing; possibly statutory rape charges. Although, I’m way past the age of consent, people would get the wrong idea. Conservative is a good look. Cable knit sweaters, plaid skirts, collared shirts. I can’t go wrong with that and most of my outfits look like that already. Although, there is also the possibility I will never get a date again since everyone will think I’m still in high school.

4. Woodsy girl who likes the outdoors:

I’m all about the cardigans so this fits me easily. I’ll just add a few men’s shirts. Perhaps I can steal a boyfriend’s shirt because I will look incredibly adorable in it. Also, I like play peek-a-boo and running around the forest in a pair of wellies and blue nails. I’m not very woodsy.

After looking over the styles I’ve chosen, I have to say that these are pretty much on par with whatever I’ve got going now except that I don’t look cute doing it. Instead, I look like a bum. I am also not 85lbs so outfits like these will make me just look like a fat chick in clothes too small for her. Sigh. When will I win? When will it be my day to shine in the sun with great skin and brass-colored hair? When can I smile at the camera and make cutesy faces and it’ll be endearing instead of adolescent? In the end, there’s only one thing that I do enjoy doing; dressing like a bum. I pull off bum pretty well. Also, my thighs barely touch. I think that’s a great accomplishment.

That’s me in Paris. I’m the bald guy on the left, not that creepy Asian girl. Pfft. People say I look Parisian. Maybe they’re onto something…

Things I'm Pretty Sure Men Were Born to Do (With Valid Arguments for Each Point)

2011-12-18T17:43:00.001-05:00

Accompany women to parties.
Make women look frail in comparison to them.
Help choose outfits.
Hold purses.
Be sensible (with very valid argument).
Utter words of encouragement.
Kill bugs.
Tolerate mothers.
Pet kitties.
Make breakfast/romantic gestures in bed.

Oh and help with reproduction and whatever.

The First Purchase And Yes, I'll Take It Seriously This Time

2011-11-09T23:43:00.000-05:00

Tons of firsts are scary. Hell, I think it's safe to say all firsts are scary. First dates, first apartments, first time you go to jail...but I'm divulging too much information. But you know what they say. Once you take that first step, the rest of the ride is downhill.

The last time I left you, my doctor told me that my diet was in poor health. I had high cholesterol. In my agony, I ran home and defeatedly threw away all my high cholesterol-driving foods. What I didn't tell you was right after doing that, I went to Paris for a week. Trust me, you don't want to know about the things I've done. Let's just say, they were tasty but very poor for my diet.

Now that it's been more than two weeks since I've returned, my diet is no better nor worse than it was before I left for Paris and before my doctor told me that my veins are putrid and filled with fat lipids that will eventually consume you and you will die...alone...in your apartment. There should be some punctuation in there.

So, it has now become my mission to eat healthy and exercise. Yes. But where to start? I do know where to go for my exercise. Yoga twice a week, biking to and from and then lugging said bike up two flights of stairs. I just need to get myself to yoga. I just need to get my bike down my staircase. I just need to get my ass off of this couch.

What I'm mostly having trouble with is the whole food thing. Granted, I do eat particularly well for a girl in her mid-twenties and living alone and miserable. There are a lot of dips involved. I promise I will throw them away. When faced with a bag of chips vs. a bag of nuts, I probably would go for chips. And since my job requires me to work hard, I usually get home around 9 and I usually eat a frozen waffle. My diet is kind of pathetic, I know, but I'm not a nutritionist. I don't know what I have to do in order to improve it. I can only do what I think I need to do and that is...buy something.

With my current health situation being the way that it is, I decided to look for something that would be useful to me in the future. So, I go on the hunt for some cookbooks. I'm not the type of person who wants to buy a book on low-cholesterol cooking. I'm assuming that the spike in my dietary troubles is because I spend most of my grocery money buying frozen foods that can be quickly prepared during commercial breaks of Parks and Rec. It's better for me to purchase a book that is going to teach me to cook rather than teach me to sit on my ass and watch Parks and Rec.

I head over to Amazon.com. When I was younger (or in my childhood youth. However you want to describe those pre-pubescent years), I used to go on walks through the city. I mapped out a grid called "Bookstore Tour" where I would begin at McNally Jackson in the SoHo and then work my way up Broadway popping into every single bookstore along the route. There really aren't any bookstores on Broadway because they reserve the street for stores like Best Buy and American Apparel, so many of the stores I went to were sub-shoots of the illustrious Broadway. I would stop into the store, marvel at the smell of spine glue and that woody aroma from novels sitting on the shelves. Sometimes, there's that bittersweet scent of freshly brewed coffee because coffee and books somehow just always get paired. That and cigarettes. Ah, that was the life spending Saturdays burning my rent money on books. It became an addiction. It became a release. My addiction got so bad I had to stop buying books in order to start reading them all. Alas, with my depression shopping obsession kicking in, I'm back to the old habits. Also, I'm a fat ass so my habits reach fruition online at Amazon.com. I apologize to independent bookstores everywhere.

Over the years, I have created a small wish list of books. Some of which were cookbooks that I have had my eye on. I would marvel at the macro-lensed photo of a tomato or a roast chicken. Now, with my food issues, I have justification for these finds. I add the books easily to my shopping cart. I mean, it's a shopping cart. Just because I add something to my shopping cart doesn't automatically commit me to buying it.

Right before hitting the checkout button, I remembered a few other novels that I wanted to pick up. Also, I didn't want the people at Amazon to think I'm on some sort of food bender. I wanted to look intelligent or at least interested in other things than food. I peruse the different sections. I pick up a novel, I put it down. I look at some cool cameras that I don't really need. I go back to looking at novels and what do I see? The new Murakami novel. Yes, the 800 page monstrosity that one of my favorite authors just recently published is staring me in the face. I immediately add it to my cart because I think a $20 book about abstract thought would definitely feign some sort of intelligence to the Amazon.com people. Take that, you bourgeoisie society! PAH!

After that moment of justice, I added the Mindy Kaling book. What can I say, I love female comedians (or comediennes which makes them sound like French Canadians). "This is it!" I say. "I'm done!"

I head to my shopping cart and notice that I have six books sitting there. "Wow, that must cost a lot of money," I told myself.

The funny thing with the shopping cart on Amazon is the way they hide the total from you. Please review this screenshot:

As you can see, the first thing on top of the page is this great discount that you can get from using your Amazon.com card. That's great! $75! Also looks like the total cost of your order. Then, you see the breakdown of your shopping cart. You can see that I have added a book or two about cooking, the new Murakami and Kaling novels. Woot! Still, where the hell is my total cost. Then your eyes wander to the right. Above the "Proceed to Checkout," you see it. The total cost. In bright red. I am about to spend over $100 on six books.

Suddenly, my heart starts to race. My brow begins to sweat and I wonder to myself, is this fucking worth it? After the entire spiel I've given you; the trip to Paris, my health, going on long walks through the city and all of it culminated to this one point. The moment where I have my mouse hovering over the checkout button and I just can't do it. I can't commit. It's like asking me to give birth to a child. "NOW?! RIGHT NOW!?" keeps on repeating in my head.

The money could be spent on something else. It could be spent on kickboxing lessons that you've been desperately trying to sign up for. It could go to little children in Africa who already survive off of $0.84 a day. You can give it to your sister... Why would you do that?

But as stated before, every first is difficult. Once you take this hit of shopping, you'll be addicted. Soon enough I'll find myself having a really tough time paying rent over a pair of Christian Louboutins. Hopefully, it doesn't get to that point. However, right now. In this moment. These books need to be mine.

I press the "Confirm Order" button and it's done. They're mine. Amazon.com thanks me for helping them. I feel a bit upset mostly because bills are coming up, but hey. Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, right? Right?

Total Cost: $134.91

Depression Shopping

2011-11-07T14:15:00.000-05:00

Whenever I'm having a bad day or feeling a little down, I always find myself making a big old pot of spaghetti with butter, garlic, and heavy cream. I would devour the entire pot sitting in front of my computer and watching episodes of whatever TV show I have been marathoning at the time. You'd probably say, "good thing you're not so upset all the time because that meal will make you fat...fattie."

And you're right. Eating rich foods like that isn't good for your body as well as for your emotional state. If anything, I would find myself sitting in my apartment, covered in cats, and eating nothing but spaghetti deeply coated in animal by-product. Sigh. The thought of depression spaghetti makes me want to make a pot not because I'm depressed, but because I'm hungry.

As expected, it really isn't good for your body. As my doctor pulled up my results from a blood test I took a week earlier, he looked back at me. "It looks like your tests are fine. You have a little bit of a high cholesterol count right now, so stay away from the animal fats."

My heart sank. I couldn't believe it. The one thing that keeps me warm and provide me comfort on my tough days. Cheese and butter; the staples of my single life. Also, probably the reason why I have cellulite on my ass but it doesn't keep me from standing by my kitchen table and cutting off nubs of parmesano reggiano and eating them while watching Hoarding: Buried Alive and contemplating my life choices. The only person I could blame for my high cholesterol is myself (obviously). I took action immediately. I left the doctor's office confident that I can go and change my diet and lower my choesterol to a point that my next visit will cause my doctor to say "eat as much cheese as you can because you're about to die without any of that cholesterol in your body." God, I felt ambitious.

I walked into the door of my apartment. I ran to the kitchen (without taking off my shoes, coat, or purse) and opened my fridge. I stared at the glorious cheese, milk, eggs, and butter staring at me. Oh, my precious little artery clogging consumptions. I ripped them off the shelves of my fridge and tossed them dramatically into the garbage. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as I saw not only my favorite things being thrown away, but the thought of all that money spent on it. Nonetheless, I felt empowered. I felt strong. I felt deeply empty, but I planned on filling that void with something else; shopping.

It's bad enough that when I felt depressed I would make a batch of spaghetti, it's even worse that I put my efforts into now going online and bulking up my wardrobe. I find myself going onto sites, adding a bunch of things to my cart and then leaving the site before I enter my credit card information into the little form. In the past, I could do this easily. I could add 12 dresses to a shopping cart and with the strength of an elephant deter myself from purchasing them. Now, with the loss of my favorite dish, I find it more difficult everyday to stop myself. Thus begins, depression shopping.

To be continued...

More Confirmation That People Should Stop Comparing Me to Zooey Deschanel in that New TV Show She's In

2011-10-24T21:40:00.002-04:00

“My doctor thinks I have inner ear problems,” I explained.
“Well, do you get dizzy, clumsy, suffer headaches, motion sickness, and overall spazzing out?”
“Uh all of my life.”
“Then you probably have had this for quite some time.”
“Shit. I actually have a medical excuse as to why I’ve been such a clumsy loser for my entire life and it has nothing to do with Zooey Deschanel.”

The Writing Process

2011-09-06T21:33:00.001-04:00

1. Suffer something (anything pretty much).
2. Go home and think about killing yourself
3. Instead of actually killing oneself, write it down.
4. Eat burnt peirogies with too much sour cream.
5. Text a friend saying that you've been writing again.
6. Write.
7. Eat a grapefruit
8. Get writer's block.
9. Go to bed feeling like you're a loser.

These Things Take Time

2011-09-05T12:38:00.001-04:00

Every journey must come to an end.
I think it's finally time.

Daily Affirmation

2011-09-01T20:18:00.002-04:00

You are strong.
Perhaps too strong.

Maybe

2011-08-28T22:23:00.002-04:00

"maybe you want a prince?" he said to me.
"maybe I just want someone to save me."

I Am Waiting for You

2011-08-28T22:18:00.001-04:00

And I wonder what you will be like.

Will you be tall?
Will you have dark or light hair?
Will you let me play with it?
Will you help me make dinner?
Will you have blue or brown eyes?
Hazel?
Green?
Will a hug from you keep me from breathing?
Will it fill my lungs with air?
Will it?
Do you happen to be a master of the spoons?
Can you play along to a song?
Is dancing your forte?
Do you like dogs?
Or are you toxoplasma-ed to love cats?
Are you a fan of books?
On top of books?
On top of books?
Will you wear glasses?
And contacts sometimes?
Have you recently purchased a bike?
Can you mix a mean drink?
Ever dance in the rain?
In the snow?
On a hill?
Can you make me laugh when I'm sick?
When I'm better?
Everyday?
Are you an old soul?
Or young at heart?
Do you enjoy going for late night walks?
Can you pretend to speak another language?

Will you love me?
Will I love you?
Just so you know, I do think about you.

These Things; They Sting Then Fade

2011-08-28T16:38:00.000-04:00

I can hear the wind in the trees and the echo of the birds that sing. These things; they sting then fade. I would like to once beat the drum so hard that it breaks. And watch the sky turn to a misty orange cloud. I would like to be held so tight that I hear the bones in my chest crack; the heart beat slow and my breath but a shallow hum. Soon, these things that sting will soon fade.

Failed Interpretations

2011-08-26T14:04:00.001-04:00

"I think I love you."
"What?"
"I think I love you."
"WHAT?!"
"I THINK ABOUT YOU."

Things You Say Make You More Human

2011-08-26T12:36:00.002-04:00

"I love when there's a rainstorm here and the next day the sky is so perfectly blue. It's like it clears all the pollution from the city."

I Can't Wait For...

2011-08-20T12:32:00.000-04:00

1. Cool weather
2. Warm sweaters
3. Cups of tea and biscuits
4. Afghans in all shapes and sizes
5. Brunch style breakfasts every morning
6. Jackets
7. Books on top of books on top of books
8. Feminine perfume
9. Comforters
10. Slow walks in the park with good friends

Words Said But Never Meant

2011-08-08T12:15:00.000-04:00

Top 10 list of phrases used during break ups that never mean anything more than to make the blow a bit less daunting:

10. You'll find someone better.
9. You should be with someone that will treat you like a queen.
8. I have to do this for me.
7. It's not you, it's me.
6. You're better off without me.
5. I will always care about you.
4. You're just not right for me.
3. I can't be with someone this close to my work life.
2. I really hope you can understand.
1. We can always be friends.

No matter how long or how short the relationship was, it still hurts.

Small things

2011-08-07T10:43:00.001-04:00

Small things remind me of you. Like your smell. Like thanksgiving dinner or the outdoors. I can sense in the couch cushions. I close my eyes and dream of you next to me, watching films and laughing together. Sometimes the memory is so intense, I think that I can see you right there. But you're not.

I don't know where you are but I know what you're doing. I just hope that your work will finally be over and I can think of thanksgiving again.

What I can never hold

2011-08-06T10:23:00.002-04:00

Stuck

2011-07-30T00:06:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been stuck at a crossroads? Where you're standing between a good thing and even better thing? The question is not which is good and which is better, but who is good and who is better.

I'm looking down this road and I see two people. Two men. Two wonderful guys whom I've gotten to know very well in the past few months. One where the potential is so great that I can barely breathe thinking about it, but things from our past keep us apart. Another where the potential could be so great that it could end up me falling in love, but things from our present keep us apart.

Two men. Neither can I go forward or move back. I can only diverge and take another path; take another look around and see if there might be someone else. Even if there was a third, what would be the catalyst to keep us apart.

That's where I am right now. I'm just stuck. I can wait around, I suppose, but I've spent too much time waiting around. I want to feel something more in my feet than the feeling of my shoes. To hold. To dance. To embrace. To love.

When will I have to stop waiting?

Night

2011-07-23T11:23:00.000-04:00

Envision me sleeping.

The Last Girl

2011-07-13T19:19:00.000-04:00

"I want to be the last girl," she said to me.

I looked over my left shoulder and then over my right facetiously. "I'm sorry. What?"

"The last girl. His last girl. I want no one else to be with Will. Do you think that I will be his last girl?"

The last girl phrase she keeps referring to is from a conversation we had a few months ago. We were both distraught and both thinking that if we were good enough girls, why weren't we married yet?

We were the type of girls that would finish a man. The one that will let tears fall down his face. His hands would lay open in his lap. He would be defeated. At the last moment, he would look up from his distraught state, say our name, and the words we've been dying to hear. "I'm sorry."

When she brought it up again, I couldn't help but to think over her pros and cons. She wanted to be the finishing touch to a life of debauchery, then she needs to fit the tall order I have placed in my head for Will. Was she sweet enough? Was she generous? Did she nag him or me? Did she come off as too clingy? Too distant? Was she emotionally ready to take on someone like Will or was she only another contender?

The questions bubbled through my mind as she waited for me to answer her own. "Yeah, I think you would definitely be his last girl."

Love in the time of the Internet

2011-07-11T11:27:00.000-04:00

Marni sat on the kitchen floor. Not sat, but curled up into a ball. She wasn't sick and she wasn't hurt, she was just sad. It was the kind of sadness that disabled people; the overpowering feeling that all hope is lost.

She couldn't imagine that one person had so much power over her. She couldn't believe that she let herself feel so deeply for someone who just casually wanted to see her. Suddenly, Will came to mind. She remembered their talks together, how they comforted each other and that fateful night they kissed for the first time and the subsequent awkward silence. They never spoke of it again, yet Marni can see he remembered the kiss as if it happened yesterday instead of months ago.

Then, the swell of pain rushed to her chest again. It's funny how the feeling of being in love is similar to the feeling of having your heart broken. Perhaps the pain goes to separate chambers of your heart. Left side is for love, right side is for out of love. Left side for what you imagined to be a lifetime of happiness, right side for what you imagined would happen if someone took your heart out of your chest and made you watch as he shot a beebee gun at it. Marni felt the latter and as painful as the former felt at first, the latter hurts much more.

She picked up her phone. It slept silently next to her. No calls. No texts. No emails. She proceeded to go on Facebook, a social media she promised she would never use for evil. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. She searched for Will's profile. He instantly popped up as she typed W-I-L. She was met with his smiling face in that timid pose he likes to make; head down, smirking off to the side. It was that day a group of us went to the park together. She took the photo and remembered him even noting, "Facebook!" afterwards.

She then proceeded to Ken's page, a mistake she greatly regretted. Before she even had a chance to peruse his profile or the photos of each other together, she noticed the change in relationship status. "Ken Wilder has changed his relationship status from engaged to single."

Marni's eyes filled with the hot feeling of tears as she tossed her phone across the kitchen. She watched as it landed on the floor and smashed into pieces. She felt the pang of pain in her chest once again and proceeded to scream.

In the City of Confusion

2011-07-11T04:34:00.001-04:00

Right now, I have no idea where I'm going. I have no idea where I'm coming from and I definitely have no clue as to where I am. I'm lost, confused and a bit disappointed.

You may think that I'm just talking about a career path, but my job is just a job and I don't stress out about such things.

We sat on the boardwalk of a beach out in Rockaway. Our bellies full of pulled pork and plantains, we amused ourselves with the natives on the beach. We were people watching which is always fun. Since our last meeting, there was an unspoken awkwardness between us. I remember it clearly.

"I don't want to get too serious"
"I like you too much"
"I can't separate the two"
"I don't want to be in a relationship"

The words sting like a bee, jabbing at my skin. It made it hard to swallow. For a small second, I was back where I was with a different guy in the same circumstance. How can someone like you so much that the best thing to do is keep away?

It took me a while to let this sink in; to process and when it finally did, my body collapsed. There is a bitter disappointment when you're not allowed to have what you want. I've tasted it before and I feel another tasting coming along. It makes you sad; just very sad.

Sadness leads to confusion and while we sat on the bench by the beach, I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure if hand holding was appropriate. I couldn't tell if nuzzling my head between his arm and body was alright. I couldn't tell if an innocent kiss on the cheek was ok or considered going a bit too far. I was lost and I hate feeling that way. What became appropriate? What would still give the illusion that I am alright but at the same time feel like I'm not?

However, the day was long and hot and sticky so perhaps sitting too closely would have been uncomfortable. I just kept thinking back to how he felt. How he thought I light up the room and how his heart would race. I smiled at him pretending a little to not make him feel terrible. I have to admit I'm still a little sad. What upset me most was the thought that perhaps The Smiths song was playing too many times on repeat in my head. "please please please let me get what I want. Lord knows, it would be the first time."

I just kept on reminding myself and thinking back to the evening not too many evenings ago. Instead of feeling the sting of utter disappointment anymore, I just smiled and said "I'm happy. We don't need to make that complicated."

I smiled again at him. The sunlight fell across his face as it set. We got up from the bench and proceeded home.

Wasting time

2011-07-04T16:48:00.001-04:00

We were in love or at least I thought we were. It wasn't until I met his friend Lisa that I had this sinking feeling. It came suddenly and too frighteningly. She smiled. "Oh, this is my friend Lisa," he said to me. She took up my hand and shook it lightly; the kind of limp handshake that shows a lack of confidence.

"This is that ex-wife I was telling you about."

She laughed infectiously and lightly hit his chest with the back of her hand. Staring at them was like staring at a married couple. Their kinship was strong. They shared inside jokes that no one else understood. They spent nights on the phone telling each other their most intimate secrets. They slept platonically next to each other and quite possibly shared a drunken kiss or two waking up with regret the next morning. "It's so nice to meet you. Junior tells me about you all the time!"

"Junior?"
"It's Lisa's nickname for me. It's because I remind her of an ex beau."
"And thats why we would never work out. You and I. We would just end up breaking up!"

They laughed together. I forced a smile on my face dreading the day he will declare his love for her and leave me. It was the moment I knew he didn't truly love me. Not like he loved her. No, he was just wasting time. He was waiting for the right moment. He was searching for pieces of her in me.

It's a sad moment when you realize that your lover would much rather be in love with someone else. Bittersweet, I would say. Bitter because of the inevitable stab in your heart. Sweet because you are reaffirm that love truly exists; just not for you and him.

Suddenly, my phone began to buzz in my back pocket. As he and Lisa exchanged more laughs and stared lovingly into each other's eyes, I looked down to see a text message from Will.

I need 2 talk 2 u. Free?

Then, I remembered something more complex than the current situation. I remembered that I too was just wasting time. Was this the text message I had been waiting for? Was this the moment I knew would finally arrive? Would I finally get to share intimate secrets with someone that I love?

I couldn't concentrate on the fact that Ken was calling my name. "Sarah? Sweetie, are you ok?"

I looked up at my wasted time and smiled sweetly. "Yes. Well, no. It looks like I may have to go and attend to something. I'm sorry, but you guys go ahead and have dinner. Lisa, it was very nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too."

"Sarah, is everything alright?"
"Yeah. Just a friend who needs to talk. I'll call you tomorrow."

I turned around and walked towards the front door. I took my phone out and replied back. "Yes, Will. I was just wasting some time."

2011-06-30T16:12:00.000-04:00

She has a particular way of feigning normality. Although she is suffering inside, she keeps her mouth closed.

"How come I didn't hear this from you? How come I heard this from someone else?"
"I don't know."

It infuriated him. He hated that she wasn't the first person that she ran to whenever the news was bad. She kept herself distant; as far away as possible from anyone that could keep her still. Yet, somehow he wished he loved her more.

Life Just Got More Suck

2011-06-30T13:58:00.001-04:00

Never Be the Same

2011-06-30T13:49:00.000-04:00

I keep cluttering my Facebook with referential music and images that I should be keeping here. Enjoy.

My Bed is Sinking

2011-06-27T09:31:00.000-04:00

A few years back, probably too long to remember, I noted on my blog that my bed is like a boat sailing across the sea of the city. I used to lie in bed and dream about a day where I could be happy floating around on the sea. I could almost feel the ocean breeze on my face.

Now, my bed is sinking. Literally. The mattress sinks in the middle and makes me think how am I going to survive floating in the water too deep for my feet to touch the ground?

Fireflies

2011-06-20T12:44:00.000-04:00

We find ourselves in parks almost every time we go out. However, for the first time this summer, the fireflies were out and singing the praises of a warm evening in new York city.

There were no words of emotions, just pleasant conversation in the park. There was no pressure to say what we want to say, yet at the same time my head reeled with the thought of what we were heading towards.

We discussed the finer points of Charlie Brown and our compatibility level increased from sorta relatable to completely. How can he know me so well? How does he have all these similar interests but at the same time still contrast? I had my suspicions before. I worried over never having anything to talk about. I feared the awkward silences. There were silences, but they were awkward.

We sat close together. He put his arm around my shoulders and we argued whether or not Lucy and Linus were brother and sister. As the evening became more prominent, we sat in another park and watched the fireflies blink like a beacon from a lighthouse. I thought to myself in a quick instance, could this be some beacon of hope?

Work in Progress

2011-06-17T17:42:00.002-04:00

We passed out on the living room floor. I fell to my knees from the booze coursing through my veins and eventually ended up on my back. He threw his shoes off and took the space next to me. His roommate took the time to remove the air mattress, the extra pillow, and the additional comforter for his living room boudoir.

We laid on the floor breathless like corpses. Our legs splayed across each other creating a chaos of denim. The lights blared above our heads as we closed our eyes. The evenings events including drinks and informal conversations and knee tapping underneath the bar table concluded in this final state. There was so much to be said between us. We both knew there was something there and nothing at all. There was the thin line between friendship and whatever dawns beyond that. The question that lied ahead was, do we want to risk it all and walk towards it?

I heard his breathing get deeper as the smile on my face began to dissipate from exhaustion. My arms strapped into the tight jacket around my body, I heard the floorboards creak. He moved closer towards me. He placed his head on my chest and I smelled a hint of fruity shampoo. He moved his arms around my waist and hugged me close like a doll from his childhood; gripping me for fear of the dark and for fear of the moments we were moving our bodies closer towards. I remembered the late night conversations about what we feared and what we braved past. We whined about our lack of a love life and how we would find someone for each other. We felt like siblings fighting over who would buy the next beer. He always played the kind gentleman. "You're such a good guy," I would tell him.

"You wouldn't think so if you knew what I've done."

He pulled me across the floor with his strength and I moved my head towards his. We laid on the cold hardwood with our eyes closed, our noses barely touching and the warm breath of his exhale grazing my lips. We kissed; harmless at first and then a bit more volatile. He pulled my body close to his and whispered, "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself."

Can't sleep

2011-06-14T01:14:00.001-04:00

For some reason, I can't fall asleep tonight. It may have been from the late Thai iced tea, or it may be the thoughts quickly filling my head today.

After an extravagant dinner of oysters and lettuce wedges, we walked to the park. We sat down in the deep darkness and watched the few people out jogging go by. In this moment, I could feel our forever. The feeling of being comfortable with someone, where you can wrap your arms around him and listen to his heart beat quicken. "what's on your mind?" he asked.

I instigated the question. My sighing finally read as some sort of disparaging thought. "I'm scared is all."

"what are you scared of?"

I couldn't muster up the exact feeling, but I notice re abundant amount of fear rising slowly to my throat. "I'm afraid that I'm going to be heart broken. I still have my wall up. I'm not ready to lower it."

Just then, he put his arms around me and squeezed. "I know how you're feeling. I'm scared too."

A quick sigh of relief on my part. Him being much older I assumed he was the old pro at the relationship game. However, he felt the same way. And thats good. Sort of. "I know you have your wall up. I've had my heart broken numerous times and my wall is much higher than yours." I look at him with furrowed eyebrows. "you know what I like the most?" he continues.

"what?"

"how much I like talking to you. How comfortable I feel telling you things."

I smiled. "I bet you tell that to all the girls."

A small smile from him. "actually, no. Usually I just shut down. I get so frustrated by what i want to say and just end up saying nothing. I don't seem to have that problem with you."

In that one sentence, I can see a small glimmer of his vulnerability. Even though he appears to be strong he fears the lonesomeness that tends to sink in. The deep sighs and lonely nights get to even the most independent personality. It's almost the one thing humans cannot live without; that person who can understand you. Suddenly, I feel closer to him and almost how we may not have the same tastes in music or movies, we both share this great void that desperately wants to be filled. We don't want to be alone anymore.

We watch the bikers and runners and dog walkers make their rounds trough the track. The evening brings with it the cool breeze on this abnormally cool summer evening. I hug him and listen to his heart beat again. "I can hear your heart beat," I said.

"oh yeah?" he asked. "It's racing. It's because of you."

You're cute

2011-05-20T14:21:00.002-04:00

You need to stop saying that.
I'm sorry, but I feel like you don't hear it that often.
I don't.
You should. You're cute.

Trials and Tribulations of An Urban Gardener

2011-05-16T12:21:00.000-04:00

Let's face it. I have a black thumb. I will never be able to grow anything other than my own height which I can't help because well, I'm good at eating.

But when it comes to taking care of plants, that's a different story.

It's as if I am the harbinger of death. The darkest of creatures come to kidnap your children and expose them to capricious behavior. They come out the other side as a small, meager thing that may be dying of some unknown illness and perhaps hungry for more blackness. You may be bold enough to say that they have been to the Black Lodge and I'm their Bob (Twin Peaks reference. Please watch).

And as hard as I try, as many plants that I do buy I always happen to kill them. Is it from the immense amount of love that I give them? Is it from the carefully planned drownings of their poor roots in water and hugs and kisses? Or is it perhaps that I am doomed to kill all that I love. Please don't let it be the latter. I don't think I would be a happy camper if my future husband (or boyfriend, let's not get ahead of ourselves) were to die at my hands.

Either way, these poor saplings have been determined to live even with my heavy petting and overenthusiastic staring at them while they grew. I even brought them to work because I don't get any natural light coming into my apartment. Perhaps this is also the reason why I undergo extreme melancholy all the time.

You could say that I'm like a plant. I need water and sunlight and I want to be able to convert carbon dioxide to oxygen. I can flourish at the best moments of my life and without the proper nourishment, I tend to wither away into a small mass in the middle of some dirt. These plants are my babies; my cross sections that have been cut from my cloth and breathed life into them. Ok, that last statement makes me sound like Adam in the Garden. I am not Adam.

After bringing my plants to the office, I felt a good chance that they would survive. They will be well taken care of and the amount of carbon being released into the air there will be good eating for my little kinderlings. A few weeks later, the results are dismal. The mint plant I purchased started to grow mold on its little stems and leaves. In a frenzy, I threw it out before my friend told me that there was a remedy to cure its illness. You can see the great mother I would become from that particular example. The moment one of them is sick, I'll just toss them out..erh, I mean, send them away...er, you get the idea.

The next went my other mint plant which was then reduced down to a small cutting as the entire plant died. Now, it grows slowly from its new beginnings, but without its little spots and possible illness to come. I have my eye on this one. I will try not to automatically toss it the moment any signs of trouble begin to appear.

The last one, basil, is keeping strong. It's got its issues and it's not as thriving as it was a few weeks ago, but it's still alive. I hope that it will survive..and be edible. Because what good are kids if you can't eat them. That sounded terrible.

Alas, my trials and tribulations are a one-day-at-a-time thing. Everyday I walk into my office, I take in a deep breath and rain over my plants the carbon dioxide nourishment they need. I water them, I tell them that they look beautiful even though they have some equivalent to leprosy. I think I'm doing a good job. I think...

Oh gosh, is this the same thing that most parents go through? You know your kid is kinda not the perfect thing that you wanted to be born, but you love them anyway. And the moment they get sick, you are riddled with the guilt of smoking those two or three weeks prior to learning that you're pregnant? Even if they are just sick with the chicken pox. I feel some sort of motherly guilt. Is there such a thing as motherly guilt? I'm starting to hyperventilate.

Anyway, if these guys don't work out then maybe herbs are not my thing. Perhaps I'll be better off growing flowers which are prettier and more fragrant than bombing your office with the scent of basil in the morning. I've already got my moon flowers budding. Hopefully they aren't cramped in their tiny space. Well, if they die too, I've got plenty more where that came from.

A Self-Deprecating Lifestyle

2011-05-16T11:53:00.000-04:00

I can't even spell the word. Deprecating. De-pre-cate. What is with this word that makes me want to punch someone in the face. If you walked up to me on the street and said the word "deprecate" (which, btw, I can't use in a sentence because I know no other way to say it unless it's self-deprecating), I would body slam them to the ground and point my finger in their face. I would also say something like, "don't you dare say something like that to a lady!" Obviously, I would also be a bit over-dramatic.

But back to the topic at hand. Deprecating. Self-deprecating. Disapproval of self. Do you hate yourself so much that you need to disapprove of the life you have created? Why does your life suck in the first place? Isn't being alive good enough for you? Why are your standards so damn high?

I don't know about you, but it feels like this is the word of the year. Perhaps even the century or the generation. People hating themselves because they aren't good enough. Geez. Who made you the judge of your own life.

I thought about this the other day. I was walking out of the shower and staring at myself in the mirror. As I was brushing out the tangles from my hair, I started to talk to myself in the mirror. "You know you've failed, right? You're not going to be a writer. You're going to end up being some wife in the suburbs making cupcakes for the bake sale and caring about things like soccer because your kid wants to play. You hate soccer. Who the fuck have you become?"

Normally, when you have these kind of mirror-self talks it's supposed to be much more uplifting. You're supposed to say things like "you will accomplish the things you want to accomplish!" or "the grass is always greener on the other side!" or even "bread, milk, cheese, whiskey." However, I feel that it has taken a turn for the worse.

Is it because of my age? I am approaching the #30 in a few years and it's almost been 10 years since I graduated from college and I'm sitting in my apartment alone watching the Food Network and typing in a blog no one reads. So, it's no wonder that as I stared at myself in the mirror, I began to cry. Suddenly, I'm in the middle of a complete breakdown in my bathroom...naked. This wasn't a good look. No, this looked like a scene from some terrible film where the main character is somehow harassed and the harassment eats inside of her like a meal worm inside of a dead body. Oh yeah, I looked like an idiot.

Then, there's the constant reminder that I need to chill out and roll with the punches. Not everything is going to go the way that I planned and that's fine with me. I forget that I'm the age that I am and that eventually someone will recognize my genius and say, "hey, this girl needs a book out."

Well, at least that's what I hope.

Perhaps self-deprecation can only come off funny to someone else because it's not their lives. However, sometimes I find myself laughing and then succumbing to tears because of the accuracy of her words. When did it become OK to hate yourself and then let people audibly laugh at you about it?

Viewing the Cherry Blossoms

2011-05-02T15:08:00.000-04:00

For the last three or four years, I've told myself that I would make the effort to go to the Cherry Blossom Festival at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. It was either because I was lazy or the trains weren't working that I would put it off. But finally, I made the effort to get on the 2/3 train and head into a part of Brooklyn I never go to.

When I got on the train, I knew I was going in the right direction from the large group of kids and parents sitting adjacent to a couple dressed in the full cosplay regalia. (For those who don't know, cosplay is costumes usually influenced by characters from different anime and/or manga). I approached the Brooklyn Museum stop and stepped off with all the kids and crazy blue hair. I didn't even consult my phone for more directions, I just followed the crowds of people walking towards the garden. I handed my ticket to the security guard in front and walked down a fenced path. It was as if they had planned to keep the garden secret from you. The fences almost made the surprise a little bit sweeter. I walk down the path and find myself in front of a coy pond and right in the middle of the pond was a red archway complementing the green trees and bright blue sky.

The archway invited me to the rest of the garden. I couldn't help but to feel that this was the entrance to another world; a place that cherished tradition, but still maintained the forefront of pop culture and technology. I was transported to another time and to another place. I was no longer in Brooklyn, but in the gardens of Paris or perhaps Japan. Either way, I felt welcomed.

Once I found Michelle, we began our adventure amongst the Cherry Blossoms.

Besides the myriad of trees, the day offered many different cultura events. Two amongst the many was a taiko drum performance and a traditional tea ceremony. Even the performances felt delicate. The movements were slow and graceful almost mimicking the movement of the trees against the breeze. Each step was meticulously taken, purposefully handled with a careful demeanor. The methods were practiced with the utmost amount of dedication I have ever seen. These people love their culture and want to share it with everyone else.

The women in the second photo here take a moment of silence as we took a moment to honor the lives lost during the great tragedy in Japan within the last couple of months. The understanding felt mutual to everyone who watched the tea ceremony take place.

I've been convinced for years that even though New York is the center of culture and art, it still lacked the respect for its past. However, it seems as though the past this city longs to remove from its history is being replaced by the traditions and culture of the people who migrate here. We are at the same time all and one.

Also in honor of the Japanese Relief, many people contributed their folding techniques to make as many paper cranes as possible. The vibrant, colorful birds strung against this fence are to be donated and sent to Japan. It is the city's way to demonstrate our love and good wishes to those who have lost and are recovering. Michelle and I arrived too late to participate, but we snuck around to see the handiwork of very caring New Yorkers.

And then, there were the cherry blossoms. I can't justly describe to you how unbelievably beautiful it was to stand underneath rows of trees covered in rich hues of pink and white and green. The branches covered the sky leaving little light to protrude through the masses of decadent color. The petals flew from their graceful homes amongst branches and into my hair instantaneously making me feel as beautiful as the flowers above me. I stroked the green leaves and felt its silky texture on my fingertips. They are just as delicate as the flowers. It was if they understood you, wanted to lend you an ear and place an arm around your shoulders. Perhaps even give you a hug. Yeah, a hug would have been a nice ending to this gorgeous day.

Naturally, I can't end a post on such a serious note. I'm a goof and I had to show you. So, I present to you my first encounter with dango. I ate dango. I love it. Dango is: sweeten sticky rice cake flavored with different natural ingredients. Yummy.

More photos here.

This is the year Tina dropped the cake (twice)

2011-04-12T00:38:00.003-04:00

For my friend's birthday, we went to eat doughnuts, macarons, and fatty biscuits with gravy (or at least I did). We also went to shoot some guns before a fabulous authentic NYC meal at Hill Country BBQ. No, it's not authentic. It's New York. We make the best of what we've already got.

First, we shoot the guns. It was man sweaty in there and being that we were two girls in a man's cave, it was really sweaty and man-like. We were pretty dainty in comparison to the other folk there.

The magazines we used were for a .22 rifle. We both got 100 rounds each. As we sat and filled our magazines with their ammo, my leg started to shake in anticipation for shooting a real gun and not something that is connected to your television.

After some very brief instructions, we were put on the range. My palms were sweaty from nerves. I couldn't help but to think things like, "what if I shoot myself? What if I shoot my friend? What if the gun backfires and shoots my eye out!?" It is obvious I have seen A Christmas Story way too many times.

The growing thought that this can all end badly kept on going through my mind as I loaded my magazine into the rifle and pulled the trigger back. I placed my finger on the safety and released. I placed the rifle up to eye level, held my breath and squeezed the trigger.

The first shot wasn't so bad. It was almost like getting bumped in the shoulder by some rude subway rider. After that, it got much easier. However, my eyesight being poor I could barely see the target. So, my first round and first shot at the target yielded some pretty miserable results. Michelle, on the other hand, took archery when she was in high school so she's used to weapons that launch some deadly at a target. She was a natural. I eventually got the hang of things.

Our instructor and owner of the gun range, Darren, did a marvelous job keeping us entertained. We were very grateful for the ability to come by and shoot off some of the frustrations we faced in our lives. We can't thank him enough for introducing us to this new experience.

However, we don't want to gush too much. After we had hit a few targets, Darren came into the range with a challenge for both of us. He taped stirring straws to the backs of a target. He said, "a little friendly competition. Let's see if you can slice right through this straw from 50 feet away or the back wall." Michelle and I gladly accepted the challenge.

The thing about Michelle and I, well, if you challenge us, we're going to do it. And guess what, we did.

I lopped off the top half of my straw from 50 feet away.

Michelle got the bottom half. Suffice it to say, she was smart to cover her face because you can just see how terribly warm it was in the range on my oily skin.

As we rapped up the adventure and helped out a bit by cleaning up all the empty shells, we profusely thanked Darren for his great hospitality for showing us the range and how to protect ourselves at night. With the taste of sulfur in our mouths and gun residue on our fingers, we headed towards Doughnut Plant for some well deserved treats.

After walking around the city for an hour longer, we made it to dinner at Hill Country BBQ (not to be confused with Hill Country Chicken. There is no fried chicken at the BBQ. I was deeply disappointed). Once we arrived, we sat down and proceeded to partake in a grand old American tradition; all you can eat meat and sides.

"I came here once before," Michelle's sister, Rachel, said. "Except I came with a guy who said not to order any sides because they were too expensive and just to eat meat."

"Was this on a date?" I asked.

"No."

"Good, because if that was I would have left. I would have said something like, 'then I'm going to go find me a man that likes his sides no matter what the cost!'"

I think the most hilarious portion of this meal was the fact that there was an abundance of tiny Asian people sitting at our table. I would say out of a table of 10, six were tiny Asian girls all who could fit about a fistful of food into their tiny stomachs. We manage to expand beyond the realm of possibility with the idea of eating as much meat and sides as you want for one set price. We also found it hilarious that there was an abundance of small Asian people throughout the restaurant. What can I say, Asian people love their meat? It is quite true. I do love meat.

We all laughed, but then began a feast of epic manly proportions. (Cue the best footage I've ever seen of "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana).

Looking at these images make me nauseous after the fact. Afterwards, there was the epic cake almost-disaster. That's right, almost-disaster. Apparently, what happened was that Tina tried to help Rachel bring the cake over to the table and in the process dropped it on Rachel's lap. Luckily, the damage wasn't too bad but it did burn a deep scar into Michelle's mind as the cake that almost didn't make it.

In the end, we all fought over who would get the smallest piece, yet still regretted chowing down on the scrumptious mango cake made by cute Filipinos. We all went home with full bellies, a bit of heartburn and a toothache.

Happy Birthday, Michelle. I gotta say, it was a good one this year!

More photos here

What to Say About Barbados

2011-04-06T14:33:00.000-04:00

I'm having trouble trying to write this post regarding my recent visit to the island of Barbados. Besides missing my flight on Wednesday and having to reschedule my hotel check in for the next day, the trip went on without a hitch. There wasn't any problems with hidden fees or headaches from getting to the airport too late. I could just tell you the same thing I told everyone else.

"It was fun."
"It was relaxing."
"I had a great time."

I suppose these phrases don't fly when it comes to the Internet or to blogs. Actually, it shouldn't fly with real chats with people either because it's a lazy way of not describing something as great as a trip to Barbados.

I could go about writing out a list of the highlights of the trip. It can go on about how crystal blue the water was for the Atlantic Ocean. I can write about how even though people would honk at you, it's not in anger. Honking on the island is a sign of respect, greeting, and love for your fellow neighbor. I can also go on about how the food was kind of terrible. I mean, it was quite delicious. The spices were delicate and not too spicy and the fish was caught that day, grilled in front of you by a woman that could be your mother and served with enough carbs to feed a small soccer team. Then this may not entice you as much as the idea that every day in paradise is bright, sunny, and hot.

However, these are the same things you can say about any tropical island that you visit. You can say it about Jamaica, Bermuda and even Cabo. However, Barbados had a particular magic about the island. The only major fast food chains is one they've created themselves (Chefette) and KFC. It could be the lack of sidewalks around the area that we stayed. It made me feel like I was back in Paris trying to keep close to the buildings without getting hit by the cars. Speaking of which, they drive on the right side of the car and on the left side of the road. It's not the first time seeing this kind of driving, however, I still find it a bit jarring especially when you're used to the reverse.

I think what enticed me the most was the island's ability to keep all its traditions. Even as the new hotels go up (none of which are big commercial chains. They are all independently owned), the old buildings remain the same. Even if you build a house out of wood and a less-than-firm foundation, once you have the money to build the concrete ground then you can go ahead and move your entire house (the old wood one) from the old location to the new one. Nothing is torn down. Nothing vanishes overnight and thrown into the history of the country.

It just goes to show that this country is deeply immersed in its own culture and traditions. Even though the grocery stores are riddled with sugary snacks from America and England, people try to maintain the same lifestyle that has kept their hopes high through occupation and then through their freedom.

What am I trying to say is that all in all, it was beautiful.

For more photos, check out the flickr.

Sex. Pop Culture. The Ways of the World.

2011-03-29T00:21:00.185-04:00

A co-volunteer at the bookstore and I happened to have a great conversation regarding pop culture, technology, and how obsolete it's all become. We went on about the current event; a Q&A with Sasha Grey. In the midst of the heated conversation, I brought up a specific question; if things like Sasha Grey and Vice Magazine can make light of sex and ambiguity nowadays, would it exist if they didn't?

He quickly ran over to his bag through the crowd of people engaged in the conversation Sasha Grey was having; her justification for taking off her clothes, her wants to be an artist, her drive to "breakthrough" from the adult film industry. He came back with a book in hand (which doesn't seem as strange when you work in a bookstore) called The Golden Ass by Apuleius

He said, "this is the last surviving book to come out of Rome in its entirety during that time period. It is also a smut book." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the only surviving book in its entirety was about men and women and their obsession with sex.

He then said, "this has been around forever. This kind of lifestyle and society's views of sex have been around since the Roman Empire."

I rebutted, "yeah, it's always been around, but has it been as prevalent to the world as much as something like Vice Magazine? What was a sub-culture during that specific generation has now become the defining moment of that decade. What will our generation be remembered as? The one that made sexuality even more relevant than in the generations past."

Then it occurred to me that our generation, in all its visceral glory, will be the one that remembers that 18 images on a page is much faster reading than standing in front of a painting at the MET. That sex is merely an act between a man and a woman in order to fulfill some basic need. That what took time and effort to accomplish will only take a few minutes on the Internet.

And the idea that sex has been around forever and has been exploited forever just goes to show our own human nature. No matter what the generation and no matter how much you will want to deny it, life cannot survive without sex. We wouldn't think twice about our own temptations if someone way back in the day didn't decide to sketch a woman's naked figure on some cave wall.

But life has much more meaning to it than to reproduce. It is our free will that keeps us from cycling over and over again like a butterfly. We no longer are born, live, and die. Instead, we have made it a point that between life and death we would accomplish something that no one has yet to do even in its smallest dose. However, in all of our rebellion and in all of our trials and tribulations, one thing remains to be prevalent in every single generation; sex.

Sasha Grey sat on the stage going on about her artistic endeavors and her lifestyle choices. How even though she is in the forefront of her own career as well as the blossoming idea that sex sells everything you could ever imagine, it is still just a small portion of what our society finds acceptable. We always discount the millions of Americans who don't understand the state of the world; that sex as well as other vices are somewhat understood and a bit integrated into our normal daily lives. It is what makes up the human experience. It is what deeply connects us to society even though most of society rejects it.

I couldn't help from thinking about what makes up the human experience anymore. My co-volunteer went on to say, "we have been exposed to so much in a small amount of time. It's only going to get more and more advanced and I welcome it. If I become obsolete and if the things I'm interested become obsolete, then throw me by the wayside. For example, I want to see the publishing industry go down just to see what it would be like."

And he had a major point. It's almost apocalyptic to think, but to actually imagine something as old as the publishing industry fall because no one cares about reading books anymore or because books have been reduced to a 5x7 computer screen would be quite amazing to watch.

Human experience is now to watch the destruction of an old building in order to make room for a condo. The human experience makes us gentrified. It is loss and turmoil because in the generations past it wasn't this way. It's like a drug that you keep needing to do more of. You can't stop and the flow of drugs won't stop until finally we all are met with our timely deaths.

Yet, we cast off what to be in our nature to procreate and contain it only within the bedroom. However, free will gives us the opportunity to make art about it, write books about it, and put videos of it up on the Internet. It never changes, it only matures and with time it has become more than just an act between two people. It has become artistic, exploitative, and to some people a constant craving for pleasure.

As much as I want to relax and think it's just sex. It's got to be more than just sex. It's intimate and personal. Even though many people would rather find it as a function for procreating or getting out some basic need, there is a required amount of bonding between the two parties. For as long as it has been around, it has gone through the same dichotomy that I'm talking about now. Some will regard it as simple while others will regard it as erratic and personal. Either way, it makes us connect and in turn makes up a part of the human experience. It is our want to find someone and connect with them that keeps sex a talking point throughout the generations. Notice how it's a "want" over a "need". We don't need to be with someone, we just want to be.

While Sasha Grey signed her name across a photo of her own chest, my co-volunteer walked up to her and explained why The Golden Ass is a representation of how even though it was written a thousand years ago, we are all still very much obsessed with sex and preserve this very primal and notable act and how women like herself maintain this preservation with pornography and exploitation. She signed it hesitantly without actually understanding the inside joke between him and I. That no matter what the generation and no matter how quickly the world moves towards better and faster means of technology, one thing will always remain the same. Sex will always cause controversy and will also always be revered.

Vintage Signs

2011-03-28T15:14:00.001-04:00

In an effort to decorate my apartment, I have been taking a look at some vintage signs to hang around. It's just to be a bit funny. Metal signs are always funny:

Perks of Being a Lady in the Big City

2011-03-21T12:45:00.002-04:00

free admission to bars and clubs on Wednesday nights
fat free frozen yogurt with all the toppings you can want and pay by the gram
enough shoe stores to keep you abreadth of all the latest trends
cute puppies in store windows
cupcake street carts
massive man-made parks in the middle of a booming metropolis to sit and watch men jog half-naked in the summertime. (Disclaimer: this can also be a bad thing. I would say 80% great and 20% not-so-great).

Perks of Being a Lady in the Big City...on Her Period

Bad fashion trends to bad mouth
Dunkin Donuts
Sofas with big screen TVs that play episodes of "Say Yes To the Dress" while you cry over a pint of ice cream about why you're not married yet.
cute puppies in store windows
cupcakes EVERYWHERE
parks to yell at half-naked men jogging and blaming them for letting yourself go.

It's already a tough job to stay positive in a city that feeds off negativity and passive aggression, but it don't make the job any easier when it's that time of the month. You must be thinking, "ew, Simone. Please don't talk about your period right now."

Listen, I'm not going to make you suffer through a conversation about how my legs look fat and how much pain I am in right now (I can barely type this). Instead, I'm going to focus on the good. Because that's what I'm striving to do. Focus on the good in the city of indifference. The good thing about this is that I'm not pregnant (which isn't a concern if you're not having sex in the first place). Another good thing is that if the pain is really unbearable like it is today then you can call out of work and your boss will understand. If your boss is a woman, she will definitely understand. If your boss is a man, he'll be so freaked out by what that means that he'll let it slide every time.

Another really great thing is that you can pretty much eat anything you want. Anything. Well, at least it's a perk for me because I'm eating slices of lavash bread covered in peanut butter and chocolate chips with a huge mug of coffee and potato chips as a garnish. It's ok to eat all this crap because next week your body will be back to fighting fit. Also, migraines are a really good excuse to eat chocolate.

Finally, the best thing about this situation is the fact that I can sit at home, watch romantic comedies and curse at my screen and no one will judge me. Maybe my neighbors, but they've already deemed me as an old biddy with no social life.

However, to keep a positive attitude especially when you're stuck for a week in granny panties is not to deny yourself the comforts you are used to. To deny yourself something simple like a warm chai latte or a doughnut may just cause the Earth's crust to shatter into a million pieces and have you fending off people like they were zombies trying to attack you. Comfortable shoes come in handy at moments like this. I've always been afraid of a zombie attack. That's why I wore sneakers most of my high school career.

Even though your mood is bad and the weather sucks and you much rather destroy all of mankind for the grievances you take on because of Mother Nature, I kind of let that all just slip away. I woke up early this morning and powered through two hours of agony to finally make it to the other side smiling. I've already set up the itinerary for my "Sunday" and I plan to see it out. Even though my wound has yet to heal (I had sliced my finger open the other day with a butter knife), I'm going to go to the bookstore tonight and shelve some books and drink soda and peruse the fiction section. Hopefully this week I will not be thrown into the dungeons of the sub-basement again and go through a dead man's life collection of biographies and copies of the Torah.

I've already planned for a doughnut, some coffee, a trip to the yarn store and the kitchen supply store because they all make me feel better. I'll be damned if a little rain and my pissy mood will get in the way. Now, time for me to find a comfortable pair of jeans. Maybe I'll stick with a dress and low heels. Yes, that way I don't feel like murdering someone because I'm just so damn uncomfortable.

Cooking in the Heat

2011-03-17T23:16:00.000-04:00

When it comes to summer, I find myself making more meals at home than eating out. It may be because in the winter I am lazy and just want to lay on my couch and watch Food Network and the Cooking Channel and order greasy Chinese Food.

Alas, the summer is a time for great produce. Even though the winter does carry around the "heavyweights" (squashes, potatoes, heavy greens, etc), the summer is all about light, flavorful dishes that require very little work and much enjoyment. This summer, one of my goals is to dedicate it to honing in on my culinary knowledge. Already honing some cooking tips and tricks from my favorite channels and a palate that wishes to know more, I began to compile a list of books I would love to buy within the next few months. The end of winter is coming and the beginning of one of my favorite hobbies is about to start up once again.

Up on the list are these great books:

5 Ingredient Fix by Claire Robinson. I tried one of her recipes back a few years ago for Rosemary and Bacon wrapped Pork Tenderloin and it came out divine. She knows how to make great flavorful foods without all the fuss of mixing sauces and adding different ingredients. It feels like this would be something that will make entertaining easy. I love the idea of bringing people together for a great meal and casual conversation. I hope to have more of them in the future. It will also be great to add to my small collection of cookbooks I've got going.

Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It and Other Cooking Projects by Karen Solomon. I've always wanted to know how to make simple items like butter or how to make my own mayonnaise so I don't have to go and purchase it in the supermarket. It's an old process of jamming, pickling and curing and I'm actually pretty interested in figuring this fun craft out on my own.

The Bread Baker's Apprentice by Peter Reinhart. This book may be a little too advanced for me, but the idea of baking my own bread intrigues me. I was at the grocery store the other day and in order to lower my calorie count especially on items like bread, I took a look at the ingredients list. Every single loaf of sliced bread on the shelf had some amount of high fructose corn syrup in it. Now, I know that some breads do contain a small amount of sugar, but not all and it can be done without it. So, in order to eliminate that small intake of sugar I devour every morning with peanut butter (sugar free, organic), I've decided to bake my own bread or at least try to bake a loaf or two over the summer. I also want to see what it feels like to make something that comes so readily available in the same vein as pickles and jam.

And finally...

Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck. I know this story has been played out (literally) by Julie Powell, but her culinary journey is only one story. I'm not going to challenge myself to complete all of her recipes from this book, but I hope to master some of them and keep them as tools to use for future meals.

I know what you're probably thinking. This isn't going to be one of those food blogs where all you read is about me and what I ate that day. That's boring. I have a journal for that kind of thing. No, what I've always wanted to accomplish with writing and with blogging is to reach out to the world. It's like finding a support group. You get up at the podium, you state your name, you tell your story. We all sit around and listen as you speak and you bare your soul. That's what I love the most about writing. There are no secrets. You can't hide behind words. What you see is what you get. People come up with metaphors and critiques later on. It's cut and dry and when you bare yourself so openly in a forum where the billions of people on the planet can read, well, you want to at least tell the truth. In the end, all you hope for is one person to stand up and clap for you. (hi mom).

I'll See You In My Dreams

2011-03-15T11:21:00.000-04:00

I went to the bookstore this evening to work my shift. Ok, that last sentence makes me sound like a stripper, but I promise you that I haven't taken up stripping for charity (although that sounds like a good idea and it would make the charity a lot of money even if it does exploit women).

The past few weeks of volunteering have been fun, but a bit strenuous. I help customers find books, help them with sales, and shelve mounds and mounds of books on the American Civil War. I forgot how tiresome working in retail can be, but I'm not complaining. This is for a good cause.

This evening, I thought it would be a bit easier than others. After a pep talk from the manager on duty, we were set out to do our own tasks. Four of us were taken down to the sub-basement to sort through donated books.

It's kind of hilarious to get to this sub-basement. You would think that a sub-basement would be somewhere between the ground floor and the basement. Sadly, it is not. It's below the basement; so low that you almost start to think that you are deeper underground than corpses. You can imagine their backsides if you looked up and if you were into that sort of thing. However, not many people think about being deeper than six feet underground. We forget that little tidbit especially when we ride on the subway.

Alas, I was below the low. I was closer to the Earth's core.

I reveled in the thought as we went through the boxes and boxes of old, donated books blasting old school Jewel and No Doubt. Most of them were from publishers of novels that had been sitting on editor's shelves for way too long. We sorted, packaged and divided up the books donated to us. The pile was endless. We ended up making a small dent, which gave us a sense of satisfaction.

I reached into the next cardboard box and pulled out a book on art critique. Inside the front flap was an article from the New York Times Art Section from 2009. I thought that perhaps this was something that the donator had left in the book prior to giving it to us, so I just threw the article away and placed the book in the appropriate section. Then, the next book had the same thing; a book with a corresponding article from the New York Times Art Section from 1995. Then, another book with a corresponding article from the New York Times Book List from 1987.

It was a timeline of events. Books coordinated with its review and release date from the New York Times. In my intrigue, I kept searching through each book for four more boxes finding novels purchased back in the 1970's with articles and mementos (one book had a wedding announcement with the word "song" circled in regards to a song sung at the wedding reception. There was an arrow with the title "I'll See You In My Dreams"). It was as if I had stumbled upon a person's life recorded by the books they have purchased and the memories they provided.

Suddenly, that reveling feeling disappeared and what was fun turned to sadness. I didn't feel like someone going through books and picking out the good ones. No, I was rifling through the life of a dead person, liquefying the assets and trying to see what would make a good dollar. It was probably the decision of the family members who decided to donate all of these books, unknowingly throwing away a collection of epic proportions that their deceased grandmother or grandfather had kept since they were young. All of these periodicals and novels, mostly biographies and celebrity stories, thrown to the wolves of charities to be divided and sold separately. It just felt sad to me. I couldn't see how the family didn't notice that these books meant a lot more than just leisurely reading.

I know it's not my duty to judge a person's decisions, but it made me feel like I was working in an orphanage for lost books and abandoned stories and memories. Well, at least we are providing them with a good home.

Barbados Essentials

2011-03-12T12:44:00.000-05:00

In two weeks, I'll be heading to tropical Barbados for Spring Break. No, not really. I'm going to get away from the dreary city and have a bit of fun in the sun.

However, every trip needs its essentials. Here are mine:

A new carry-on bag (my old one is starting to get a bit ratty)

A cute straw hat

Cute shoes

And a bathing suit (obvy)

Experiments with Hollandaise

2011-03-07T14:21:00.000-05:00

I didn't know it would be this easy to make hollandaise sauce. Granted, the idea of an entire stick of butter and three egg yolks sounds kind of decadent to me, it was absolutely divine.

In lieu of making hollandaise, I decided to invite my sister over for Monday Brunch (my new favorite brunch day) and made Eggs Florentine (poached eggs over a bed of sauteed spinach on a mulit-grain English muffin) as well as steamed some asparagus. Because what screams for hollandaise? Some sweet old asparagus.

And Julie Powell is right. You beat those eggs into submission over a double boiler with hot water, lemon juice, butter, and cayenne and salt. In my experience, I should have used an electronic beater because after whisking those eggs, I pulled something in my shoulder. Well, that's not true. My shoulder does hurt, but it's probably from some intense yoga workout and not creating delicious hollandaise.

I will make this again, but next week will be something even more adventurous. Perhaps a bit more French?

Excerpt

2011-03-05T11:28:00.002-05:00

When it comes to gentlemen, their preference in women does not come down to the bitter detail. They look at the whole package. From the leg line up to the eyes, men find women in some way intriguing. They find their steps mysterious and their actions even more erotic.

When it comes to women, it's quite the opposite. Instead of gazing at the bodice of a man with great fervor as a man would with a woman, women find themselves attracted to bits and pieces of a man. One has great eyes, the other has great hair, even a great ass. Women also have the tendency to look beyond the surface of a man to evaluate whether or not he is worth the time and effort she is about to commit to him.

They must have a great personality, a good sense of humor, and a healthy dose of intelligence. They must also be able to take care of themselves and care for others and most importantly love their mother. Men, on the most part, do have a high standard they need to live by in order to satiate the needs of a woman.

In the Animal Kingdom, it is the male who needs to impress the female. They will fluff their feathers. They will fight other males and then the one who survives is considered the one worthy enough to procreate with the female of whatever pack they are from. But that's also the thing with the Animal Kingdom; reproduction is what is in mind while the human race not only wants to find a partner who will create little versions of themselves, but also find someone who will make them happy for the rest of their lives.

However, humans are fickle. Humans have the ability to pick and choose the qualities that they want in a partner. It's not about who is the strongest and who can survive and who would make a good mate. It's about who will make a good partner to live out the rest of your life with.

Humans are so inconsequentially predictable. Words like "death", "forever", "one" scare the living daylights out of us because we don't know how to compute that in our heads. Butterflies live for a day and that's considered eternity to them. We have a good 100 years before we die and we are always anticipating the end around every corner. So, in order for us to be happy we need to have someone to be happy with. We need that person who will hold our hand when we die so that we don't feel like we're about to leave this world alone.

But the fact of the matter is, we are alone. That hand you are holding won't be there on the other side. That warmth of another person's arm around your shoulder won't carry over to whatever happens to you when you die. It's the idea of dying alone that scares us, but what is even more terrifying is dying next to someone you had lukewarm feelings for.

So we put up these impossible standards. We throw together our list of attributes we want in someone. We want to feel like it won't end up being the only person on the planet and we buy into that thought. Yeah, that significant other will help to procreate and keep humanity from going on and on, but our lives are set the same way that the rest of the Animal Kingdom works. We live, we reproduce, we die.

It's a sad realization, but it's something that has come up in recent days. It's riling in me mostly because after watching old friends get married and grow up, my brain just wants to do the same. While women and men nit pick to find who will be the best person to spend their life with, they are missing the single point that no one can hide behind. We are all just very lonely and we all just want to stop feeling alone.

Good brunch

2011-02-12T19:19:00.000-05:00

Brunch at Chez Simone

Looks Like Luck is Shining Down On Old Simone Jung

2011-02-12T18:53:00.000-05:00

After going to Housingworks to get my volunteer schedule coordinated and sign off on working for a good cause, I stopped into Dean and Deluca. I figured I would reward myself for the good deed I'm about to embar in with a great cup of coffee and the reward of helping people.

I can feel myself incessantly smiling at how great I feel. Even though I have yet to begin my volunteer work, just the thought of helping those who can't help themselves excited me (and not in a sexy way). I couldn't wait to begin working. I didn't even realize that the first possible day for me to work was Valentine's Day. That doesn't make me depressed at all.

I walked down the street in the bitter cold Saturday morning with the sound of the wind whistling between the buildings in Soho. I couldn't feel a thing. My cheeks were warm and my heart as full as a girl who kissed her crush for the first time. As I made my way, I just imagined all the great things that I can do with the experiences from volunteering like working with them to have skill learning classes. We can have people learn to knit or make greeting cards. We would give back to the community and helping out the world. I feel kind of like Michael Jackson. I don't want to touch little kids though, that's gross.

I walked up to Broadway and helped an old woman hold the door open into Dean and Deluca. The giving just doesn't stop. I made my way into the store and was time warped from my feeling of doing good for the world to feeling like a rat in a French restaurant. There was classical music playing in the store. The only grocery stores I've ever been to played really bad pop music like Ke$ha and old school Britney Spears. This was all so new to me.

As I made my way over to the coffee bar for my cup, I veered to the right as my peripheral vision caught some stunning bouquet of flowers. There wasn't a single carnation in sight. I peered over at the produce to find romanesco broccoli and mushrooms. So many mushrooms!

I couldn't contain myself. I needed to focus otherwise I would end up with a bunch of groceries and my bank sending me email alerts saying that I have overdrafted from my account again.

I headed over to the bar and ordered my drink. The man who helped me wore a chef's jacket and a cute little paper hat that made him look like a professional bread baker and not a barista. "One latte, please."

"Sure. Is regular milk ok?"
"Yeah!"

Now, before I go on. Let me tell you something about whole milk and other high cholesterol foods. Over the past few weeks, my food budget has been sacrificed for other things and the only stuff left in my cabinets were Kraft Mac and Cheese and some cans of tuna fish. It's not a pretty sight, but let me tell you that if I had to sustain the rest of my life with this suff, I will die in a few months. Thankfully, my priorities are back in alignment and I will be buying human food soon.

After grabbing my coffee and feeling like a samaritan, I went back home.

Yeah. You thought there would be some crazy plot twist. But let me tell you something, bro. There's nothing wrong with having a good day once in a while.

Tweaked A Conversation With My Sister

2011-02-07T20:37:00.000-05:00

"Oh, so they caught that scammer."
"You mean the guy from Nigeria who needs your help?"
"No, the dude that would bump into you, drop his needle, and say 'Yo, that's my diabetes meds. You owe me money.'"
"Wait, what guy is that?"
"The guy. He would walk up to you, bump you really hard in the chest and then drop a syringe on the floor. He would then start yelling at you about how you dropped his diabetes medication and you owed him money."
"Oh, I've never heard of that."
"Well, the cops finally arrested him."

We stood patiently for the subway train. A few minutes passed. I begin the conversation again.

"Wait a minute, people would fall for that? They would give this guy money if you bumped into him and he dropped his medication? I would have said something like 'not my problem.'"
"Yeah. People would fall for that. Some people would actually be like, "well, then let's get the cops and figure this out with them.' To that, he would say, 'oh yo, I'm sorry. It's my mother's birthday...'"
"But there are actual people who gave him money?"
"Yeah."

The train pulled into the station. She and I sat down next to each other. A man with a bike sat across from us.

"Sometimes, he would carry around a pair of fake Gucci sunglasses and then bump into you. He would drop the glasses on the floor and then say 'you made me drop my sunglasses. You owe me $500."
"Uhh...I would just walk away from him."
"Funny thing is, he would run right after you. A friend of mine got chased down the street by him. He snuck into a store and got away from him."
"Geez. This guy sounds crazy and he's running the stupidest scam I've ever heard."
"Yeah, the cops finally got him."
"Wow. Good then. I can't believe that people actually would fall for his trick and give him money."
"Yeah, well Greg (her boyfriend) actually fell for it and gave him like $20."

I gasp inaudibly to myself.

"Are you saying that Greg was dumb enough to give him money."
"Yeah, but it was when he was 18 and just moved to the city. He was scared."

I pause.

"So, he's been scamming people since 2004 and they just caught him."
"Yeah."
"Shit. I should try that."

Knitting Projects and Tea

2011-02-05T19:34:00.000-05:00

I haven't been doing much writing these past few weeks. I've attempted to begin a few different blog posts about my contempt for Valentine's Day, my new found adoration for Anna Karenina and how much this weather is making me depressed. However, I couldn't really get the words out on the page. Sometimes that happens and when that does, I tend to change my creative brain over from writing to knitting or crocheting.

I've already made two cowl scarves and still waiting for my next big paycheck to finish a cozy for my radiator. I'm concerned I'm turning a bit into a cat lady because of all the time I've been spending at home. Sadly, so many events have happened within the past three weeks that my brain can't function properly. My thoughts are all jumbled and they are always someplace else. I have been thinking nonstop about a certain situation that I'm in now and as much as I enjoy the fact that I have some male attention, I'm so scared shitless about it.

Sigh. Let's just say that I'm pretty new to everything that is happening and I'm trying to heed my cousin's advice regarding dating. I don't want to go into it any further, but it definitely changes my perspective on the things that I'm used to. I invite the challenges ahead in with an open mind like I always do, but some decisions that I make are going to be harder than others.

And with that, I present to you last weekend's reclusive activities:

Great tea my cousin bought for my birthday

So nice, I photographed it twice.

Also, here's my project thus far. One more paycheck will do the trick.

Maybe I've Gotten Better Grammatically?

2011-02-04T22:52:00.000-05:00

I found my old blogs from when I was a senior in high school and all throughout college. I realized tonight that I have been blogging for more than ten years. I still don't have a book out. Here's a post from my senior year of high school:

So, I've been thinking that once I get into my college, I'll be set. I'll leave Commack and never look back.

Right now I have this feeling that everybody hates me. that's why i had teh movie orgy. Unfortunately, it just led other people to hate me because i didn't invite them or they made up some lame excuse to be mad at me. I don't think I care anymore. I'm going to leave and never look back, why would i care about people that put an effort into their lives to hate me. It's just a waste of fucking time.

I'll be off, maybe for good. Never to come back. I don't want to see the familiar faces of Commack ever again. Of course, there's my family that I adore and love more than anything but seriously, all the friends you've had in high school won't really matter in the real world. They are just there to satisfy you until you leave and make new friends. Friendships that will last forever because they're not the ones you've grown up with all these years.

I'm going to Paris this summer. I'm going to fall in love with the city and never come back. I will write in Paris and live in Paris. That was my plan from when I was younger. I want Renee to come with me, she'll be happy.

Solitude, has gotten the better of me. I'm so happy sometimes to just be alone from the world then other times I want to feel warm hugs and experience dreams that will never come true. Maybe I want to just get out of this country, move to France. Learn very bad french and live happily. WEll, happier than I am now.
Sometimes I stare into space and I don't know what I'm thinking. I've already written out two applications. They're going into the counselor tomorrow. I feel my future starting out already. I've already left Commack. i'm on that plane to Paris. I'll live a poor life but I will know what real life is then.
I love the fall. The trees bend a different way. Maybe because they know the sun is going to be closer this time of year. They make frail shadows in the nighttime. Black against black, it feels like gray. Almost as though the morning light is about to shine.

Do you think I'm a dreamer? If I see things taht don't really exist? And I want to be young forever. Never to grow up? Would it be difficult to understand that the price of dreaming is lonliness? I don't think so. Remember, I'm on that plane.

Sooooo....not much has changed since then. Instead of Paris, I live in Brooklyn. I'm alone. I still love being alone. I moved out of my old hometown. I speak terrible French. I still love the Fall and I do still love Paris.

Does this mean that I haven't had the worst of New York get the better of me? Plans are in the works to start a new adventure. Maybe I should write about how I hate the city and want to move to the country. Perhaps that will come true. Stay tuned.

How Was Your Weekend?

2011-02-01T12:42:00.000-05:00

Have you ever felt so socially awkward that you have no idea how to function? You know the social cues. You know how to handle certain situations, yet when the moment comes that you need to express yourself or say something all those cues and rules and regulations somehow go out the window. And all you're left with is just this empty awkward space.

I walked into the office this morning with a good attitude and a tired face. Coworkers came up to me and asked me how I'm doing and how my weekend was and I so promptly told them. Somewhere between telling them about my weekend and getting my second cup of coffee I forget that I'm supposed to also ask them about their weekend.

It's probably not a big deal to them that I forgot. We had a discussion about weekend things, but then I forgot to give them the cue to go ahead and tell me about theirs. Then, they go ahead and start without me asking. And then I feel awkward and weird that I forgot to ask them and then we stand there with our cups of coffee in hand and nothing coming out of our mouths.

It's a long running issue that really isn't an issue, but when you bring it up in blog posts and conversations, then you know it's an issue within yourself.

And this is me blabbering on about myself. Perhaps this is where I get hit with my conundrum. My brain doesn't function normally so I forget to ask people about their weekends and then they think that I'm so full of myself that I can't think to ask them how it went and then forced to go ahead and tell me without having gotten the cue that it's alright, I want to know about your weekend.

So without further ado, how was your weekend?

Part of Something Whatever

2011-01-27T12:49:00.000-05:00

He looked stunned. He wasn't expecting her to disappear quite abruptly. He stared vacantly at the half-opened dresser drawers and lifeless hangers on the floor. All that was left was that scent; the sweet scent of her perfume she would liberally douse her skin. The calming scent of sandalwood and vanilla. It would puncture his nose and filter through his throat. He would never forget that smell.

Falling for the same woman

2011-01-10T22:15:00.000-05:00

She moved quickly. One minute completely enamored in my affections and then the next lavishing in someone else's adoration. I didn't want her to find out. I didn't want her to know about Cassandra, but her sources told her. I made the mistake of talking freely to them. I've always had such a big mouth. I was so excited to finally find someone who would understand me. I didn't think it would cost me her love.

She had mentioned once before how she found me ridiculous. She laughed at my attempts to woo her as if someone had already fed her that cheesy line or sent her that same bouquet of flowers. You know, the one with the baby's breath and blue carnations. She played the game much better than me and I was the seasoned pro. In the end, we both lost or at least I would like to die thinking that we both did. In the end, I think I lost her more than she lost me.

If you love a girl that will toss you around and eventually break up with you, then you grow a thick skin. You are calloused and when the next girl comes along you do the same exact thing. You date her and treat her like gold as she treats you like crap. I'm a masochist.

But Claire isn't a bitch. She's far from it. What I was trying to do was tame a wild animal. Claire is free, that's her problem. Yeah she'd leave me in the end, but it won't be because I had a disagreement. It won't be because she tried to throw a punch and I threw a chair. It would be because she felt trapped by me. She would eventually realize that I wasn't the lion, but the hunter in lion pelts. I got out safe.

Yes, it's safer to date a bitch than to date a free spirit.

Patti Smith is a Witch

2011-01-06T10:58:00.000-05:00

Went out for dinner. Didn't feel like sitting at home and making myself food.

Today was quite a strange day. I can't actually put my finger on it and I can't describe the feeling. It just feels weird. There was a lot of gossip in the office and a lot of strange events, but for some reason I just can't say them out loud as if saying them will make the world implode.

There are a lot of "can'ts" today. It's not that I can't. I could, but I don't want to.

I have been devouring Patti Smith's book. I can't seem to put it down. Sadly, reading the book also has its negative effects. It reminds me daily how lonely I am. Patti Smith met Robert Mapplethorpe at two chances encounters; at two very different intervals in her life. One was when she moved to New York and the other in the store she was working part time.

Each time, he had this strange look. He seemed different and I can tell this just by reading her description of him. He even was able to buy the one item she admired in the entire store she was working at the time. For a city where romance almost seems to be dead, somehow it resurrected itself for them.

And the depression deepens. It's this strange pull in your stomach from something attached to a string coming out of your mouth. Somehow what the string is trying to pull out is caught on its way through your chest cavity and in your heart. That's the best way I can think of to describe this sense of loneliness.

I sat at the table eating both Patti Smith's words and a fried pork cutlet filling the void between my ribs and in my stomach. Patti Smith might be the only person in existence that has ever fallen victim to true love in New York City and it wasn't written by Nora Ephron. This might constitute her as a witch. Someone who conjures up potions and makes the most reality-driven city into her own private playground.

Of course, the first years she lived here she lived on the street. She had no one and no one had her. She learned to survive. She learned to stand on two feet. And right when it may look like her life would be a series of endless days surviving in a city that will reject you until you decide to go home, Robert finds himself buying a necklace.

Perhaps that's how the universe is supposed to reward you. You stay alone. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. You remain alone. You learn to tie your shoelaces, you learn to ride a bike, and you learn that you can't eat spaghetti everyday of the week. You're not just learning how to survive, but you are also going out and living your life. No holds barred. No one telling you that you can't or you shouldn't.

Well, there probably will be people that actually say this last comment, but the point is that you don't listen to it. You learn to get along and at the same time you march to the beat of your own drum. It's as if those two worlds that were so separate in high school came together within the person you want to be. You rebel, but it's against your own rules. You follow the law, but you still jaywalk across the street. People always say that you can't live within an extreme. Be completely one thing or be the other. No, that makes you closed minded. That makes you ignorant. You make compromises. For some reason, life is comprised of the number of compromises that you make.

So, what's the outcome? What satisfying quality do you get for surviving on your own? Well, it would probably be the satisfying quality of surviving on your own, but perhaps also the luxury of having to survive alone. But first, you gotta spend a lot of evenings alone eating fried pork and mashed potatoes.

DOA Stands for Dead on Arrival

2011-01-04T12:15:00.000-05:00

My neighbor who lives in the apartment below mine died. Not only did she die, but she was found dead in her apartment by her boyfriend. As gruesome as that sounds, I'm sort of not surprised. I should be a bit more sympathetic to the situation, but I'm not. I don't know why.

More so, I feel a bit of callous growing on me. It's as if the mean streets of New York have finally taken its toll. The veil of anger and resentment and overall bitterness from living here seems to somehow overpower my good will and better judgment. I also feel a hint of jealousy.

It happened on New Years. Well, I think that the woman was dead for quite some time, but her body was found on New Years. She lived alone and when her boyfriend came over to visit her for a New Years' kiss, he was greeted with the love of his life void of both life and love. She was dead. That's a scary picture to walk into.

I couldn't imagine what it would be like to come home from a long day of working and find your loved one dead. I don't know how the body looked and I'm not sure how things were handled, but my imagination runs wild and I can't help but to picture it in my head.

The police mentioned nothing to me. Passersby just gawked at the scene, muttered something underneath their breath and proceeded forward with whatever New Years plans they had. I did the same. I figured that the police were there, the situation would have been handled and I hoped that nothing too bad happened. How insensitive and naive of me.

And now, a few days later, I find that the woman who lived below me was a Williamsburg institution. She helped build a garden in the park. She contributed back to society. She did something with her life before it tragically ended. She may not have been an actress or a famous musician, but she was someone and that meant something to the people of this town.

Even in the smallest way. Even if all she did was put a few flowers in the ground and make a park a bit more livable, she did it because she wanted to, not because she was forced or felt like she had to in order to get her recognition. The only word to describe the feeling I have right now is foolish. Foolish for me to believe that she was some senseless drug addict who would have strange men going in and out of her apartment. Foolish to believe that DOA stood for "Department of Agriculture" and she was being busted for illegal grow operations in her apartment. Foolish for saying that she was crazy and weird and a bitch for knocking on the ceiling for making too much noise.

It's actually kind of funny how your perspective of someone changes the moment they die. Someone that you could have hated can suddenly be a saint in your eyes. Like Michael Jackson. The moment he died, the families who accused him of sexually molesting their children came out of the woodwork and took it all back. He is martyred and all because he died.

Thinking about it, does that mean that all atonement for the acts made in the time you are on Earth are settled when you die?

I haven't lost a lot of people. I have never seen a dead body and no one close enough to me has died that I feel completely devastated. I did lose a friend I have never met but inspired me to keep going a few years back. A woman who lived below me died. But even though these people weren't close to me in that sense, does it make it any less tragic? The number of people who die throughout this city within a day is too high, but is losing them a shrug off the shoulder or a tragedy forever?

The people who were close to them will feel complete devastation while those who only watch it on the news will feel remorse for a few fleeting seconds before changing the channel to watch some redundant reality TV show. Maybe it's not just me who is coated with callous. Perhaps we all need to have a bit of thick skin if we are going to survive. If not, then perhaps we will all end up DOA.

High Road/Low Road/Lack of Coffee Stream of Consciousness Thought Pls Disregard This Message

2011-01-03T12:51:00.000-05:00

My current set up looks like this:

A moleskine journal
A Sharpie Pen
A copy of Just Kids by Patti Smith

Much to my dismay, my current set up kind of lacks in some basics like perhaps some coffee or a burning cigarette. I should have a glass of scotch or whiskey and a scornful look when I hear the word "love."

Perhaps I should be all Woody Allen and get myself a typewriter and just write words on pieces of paper, but that wouldn't be environmentally friendly of me. Plus, I've already got the notebook and pen so what good would a typewriter do. But then again, I'm not a neurotic whose been in therapy for the past thirty years.

I have been obsessively devouring Patti Smith's book this morning. I haven't come to any conclusions regarding her writing style, but I know for sure that I can't put it down. Let's just say that I have been up since nine, still in my pjs with halitosis growing in my mouth and without a drop of coffee in my stomach. I can really go for some food or something like that, but I won't do so until Patti Smith says that it's ok. I mean, she was a starving artist. What am I? A well-fed and clothed writer? Yeah, it doesn't work. Where's the suffering in that?

But as I write this blog post, I start to feel a tinge of a headache coming on from the lack of coffee and my stomach beginning to growl from the lack of food. I mean, Patti Smith is just one of my newer favorite authors at the moment. I can go without having to have her tell me what to do, right? RIGHT?

Inspiring as my simplistic set up might be, I must admit that these two black books and a black pen aren't the only things driving me right now. Also, I've been having this crazy obsession with really badly made indie romance films about the strangest things. You know when people tell you that "it's been done before"? Well, I would like to argue this concept right now.

The other day, my sister and I were sitting on the subway on the way back to Queens for New Years. We do it every year. We go see our family. We eat a lot of food. We watch a lot of TV. There is also a bit of respecting of your elders in there as well. It's a celebration for the New Year.

Please disregard that digression as I continue with the story.

We sat on the train discussing the many politics of art, movies, and culture. One of the many topics of conversations was no matter how many movies we watch or the many different styles of art there are, we can't get enough. We want more and with more, there's always the outcome that it's just the same old boring storyline recycled.

Sadly, this is true. God only knows I've seen my fair share of romantic comedies with the some basic plot:

1. Boy meets girl
2. Boy is retarded and loses girl
3. Girl does something stupid and needs to be reprimanded
4. Boy forgives her anyway
5. They kiss
6. The end.

This is a pretty decent outline of the sort of thing you see all the time. You have to admit it. Admit it. Even though the basic principles of the story are as such, it's the way the dialogue is written or the camera angles used or something Darren Aronofsky decided to meddle with that makes it more than just a romantic comedy. That's what makes you go back to watch another one. Well, it's probably that and some gratuitous sex scene where you can see a bit of nip.

The same general concept can be said about stories. So, in that general sense, I'm taking the concept, wrapping it up in a little bow, calling it "my pet" and marketing the shit out of it. Also, following in the footsteps of my repertoire of female comedy writers and all around bad ass bitches, I'm not taking the low road. No, the low road is for losers.

So with a bunch of black books, some crazy obsession with pititful indie romances and perhaps the threat of starvation in my arsenal, I think I'm on the road to writing something pretty decent. Or readable.

Now, time for my first cup of coffee.

Soft Blooded

2011-01-01T12:47:00.000-05:00

It's a new year. Can you believe it? It's as if something took me by the throat and dragged me across the past few months. People always take the time on the day before New Year's to reflect on their life in the past. Me? I only see the muddled colors of my future. I only say it's muddled because they have yet to make anything coherent other than be the future.

I feel optimistic. I feel it more so than the past year and I feel like something big is going to happen this year that hasn't happened ever before. Perhaps I'll get married. Perhaps I'll finally get rid of K's stuff. Perhaps I'll finally grow a plant. Who knows. The anticipation of all the great things that will happen makes me so excited I can't sit still.

But then I think about it again and why is it that we make all these great plans for the new year on the first day of January? Couldn't we just make these resolutions any old time of the year? Why does it have to be on the first?

Then, I keep thinking to myself of the resolutions I sort of made for this year and instead of looking at them as resolutions, I am setting out to make them goals for the year and hopefully by the year 2012, my goals will take me further than I've ever imagined.

Happy New Year.

Trying Really Hard Not To Blame Fate

2010-12-30T15:55:00.000-05:00

"There are signs all around us."

You hear this phrase a lot. If you do, you start to wonder if it's even really true. If it really is true, then that means that the simple things in life are considered signs such as the way your yoga mats are stacked underneath your kitchen table. Or the way soy milk sometimes clots in your coffee and make it look like miso soup. It's supposed to be fate. You are being signaled by some outside force that you can't see or hear or touch and this force is telling you something drastic is going to happen to your life. Or not.

Most people only tend to see the signs they want to see. It's as if they are creating their own fate and according to some non-believers, that's the way things work. If people create their own fate, then blaming fate at the end of the day for not having the greatest job in the world or not talking to the guy you like is just blaming yourself.

I think of these things as I stare deeply at the signs that are all around me. A simple email, a character in a movie, even the mise-en-scene has some message for me. It's all telling me that my life is about to become one heck of a rollercoaster ride. I just don't know it yet. It's almost as if you're in a fight with someone and they take that cheap shot at your face. You look the other way and then the next thing you know, you're on the ground huddled up in pain. Thanks for hitting me in the face, signs.

As I watch the film "He's Just Not That Into You" for the millionth time this year, I come to the conclusion that signs are bullshit. Fate is something that we create ourselves yes, but there isn't some mysterious state called Fate pushing you towards what you are supposed to be doing. Granted, this sort of goes against the greater judgment of God and all the deities in the world, but thinking about your fate, well, that's just down right depressing. It's even more so if you're sitting at home like me and writing in a blog rather than writing real pieces that will give me the fame of other independent novelists in Brooklyn have. Oh yes, I want that fame even if for the fleeting moment that it passes by. I want to grab it by the tail, rub my face in its fur and say "take that, fate! I'm not a screw up."

Also, if we are fated to be with a certain person the amount of time spent at home and waiting for that certain someone to arrive will take generations until they actually do. You can't will your phone to ring. You can't wait for fate to tell you that it's time for you to make the move. You just got to do it; even if it goes against every fiber of your being.

After all, you don't have fate to blame. You can only blame yourself.

Wearing Camo and Fighting Fate

2010-12-28T14:01:00.000-05:00

Why do depressed people listen to Phil Collins? It's like the moment you break up with someone, you need to go and put on Genesis, cover your face with your hands, fall to your knees, and weep. It's as if you cannot be sufficiently upset about something unless you hear the lulling voice of Phil Collins singing.

I have to admit that listening to Phil Collins can make you feel a bit morose. However, there are two scenarios that go through my head when I listen to this man. For this example, I will reference to the song "Against All Odds."

The first scenario I see in my head is that of a battlefield. There are soliders being shot and killed. I see bombs blowing up in the background and apparently in my head, this is the final scene of any war movie. This is the part when people start to cry at the body count and when mothers make their children revert their eyes because it is so graphically violent.

The second scenario I see in my head is the final scene of a movie when the guy (yes, the guy) finally breaks down from losing the love of his life and realizing that life will no longer be the same without them in it.

In summation, the two scenarios go hand-in-hand. Like the infamous Pat Benatar quotes, "love is a battlefield". Phil Collins not only goes well with a love scene, but also a scene about war because in the end, are we not fighting for what we love?

I imagine that any relationship is a battle in the great war called Life. Yes, that sounds terribly corny, but that's the only way you can really describe the feeling. You get wounded. You need time to heal. You recover and once you do, you're back in the trenches. It's an endless battle and even if you have won the battle, the war just begun. I can just envision women wearing their Manolos and heavy mascara sporting camo and a rifle. They run straight towards the enemy with no fear in their voice, but much fear in their eyes.

However, is there a point when the battle exhausts you of everything you have and you need to take a break otherwise you'll end up impaling yourself with your own knife? When does the cat stop chasing the mouse?

I must be one lazy cat because suddenly the mouse seems so much further than I thought. My heel has broken off my shoes and my gun is out of ammo. In the battlefield, I would much rather be sitting in the tent than riding in the trenches, well, at least in my current circumstance.

After many months of fighting and trying to come to some conclusion, I find myself feeling like the dude that just lost the love of his life. Well, except for losing anyone but my own pride at least. Time for me to bow out. Time to raise the white flag and start from the beginning again. I'm not getting any younger.

I Paid for Additional Shipping

2010-12-26T19:07:00.000-05:00

I never pay for additional shipping costs. Most of the time I just wait patiently for the item to arrive. However, with the masses of snow and the painful fact that I don't own a steady pair of boots to last through a winter finally made me succumb to buying them.

They were pricey, but I'm hoping to be one of those satisfied customers that will shrilly say "oh, I love these boots."

Here's to hoping. Now, time for the annual watching of Little Women.

Remnants of a Life Perpetually on Pause

2010-12-26T12:56:00.000-05:00

These past few weeks have been nothing but an emotional rollercoaster. I have gone from happy to sad to miserable. To joyful to woeful and back again.

It's not my fault that I go through this rollercoaster. You can't go ahead and blame the weather or hormones or any of those natural things that come into a girl's life and decides to fuck shit up.

No, this is all because of a boy; a boy who emptied his entire life on me and without meaning to be a burden also brought along with him the sadness and utter disappointment I had been harboring for him for the past few years.

And I don't want to make a big stink about it. I don't want to fuss or fight or mutter another word about the situation. I have said my peace. These past few weeks have been riddled with disappointment and the moment a gleaming beam of light shined through the mass of dark clouds over my head, there he was again determined to snub that light out.

Writing has come to a standstill, which is pretty bad if you made it a goal in your life since you were 12 to be a writer. However, a good friend of mine gave me the clues into becoming a novelist. Well, maybe he gave me a clue but I came to the conclusion. It doesn't matter when it happens, but that it does happen.

Most of my friends are reaching that point in their life where they can't blame ADD for their absence of a career. The time is now or never and many of us think, "if it hasn't happened now, then it won't happen ever."

So, I guess the answer for me is...now.

Dreaming in Christmas

2010-12-26T12:28:00.000-05:00

Christmas was yesterday and the festivities in my house were just as fun as it was when I was kid. I love the feeling of warmth and family around me. The night before we went to Rockefeller Center to see the tree. Well, at least I went to Rockefeller Center to see the tree. My family was waiting for me on the side street buying Japanese sweets.

As I turned the corner on Fifth Ave towards the haloing angels, I saw the tree and for the first time in the entirety of my life felt nothing. I didn't feel nostalgic, I didn't feel happiness. I just saw a massive tree with dangling lights and the number of tourists cramped into one space. I stared and I saw nothing but a massive fir pummeled and goldfished and completely pointless.

The tourists, they loved it. They stood around taking rounds of photos and celebrating their Christmas Eve in the cold amongst the many other tourists shopping on Fifth Ave because that's just the fashionable thing to do.

The tree looked small. it was as if it could sit in the palm of my hand and make for an excellent ornament for my fridge or even posted on the front of Christmas card. But as a tree? It just didn't measure up.

And perhaps I only saw it this way because of my pessimistic mood. Perhaps it really was spectacular and grandiose and worth the $500 round trip tickets from the middle of America. Perhaps it really does mean Christmas and for some reason on my part, it just didn't mean the same thing to me as it did when I saw it for the first time.

I turned the corner towards the side street where my parents stood waiting for me. In a fleeting moment, all I could think about is how much I've become a New Yorker and how much I envy being a tourist.

Don't Worry, I'll Write Something Soon

2010-12-24T10:56:00.000-05:00

To the two people who read my blog: I'll be writing again. Soon. Hopefully.

And maybe something more profound rather than why I am single.

I Know I'm Not Japanese

2010-12-01T20:21:00.000-05:00

But I would like this:

And this:

With this:

For Christmas.

Or send me to Japan.

It's Been A While. Loneliness, My Best Friend.

2010-11-21T21:38:00.001-05:00

It has been quite some time since I've written something. It was as if my mind was muted. I didn't have anything to discuss, or to brag about, to boast, or even to whine. I was alive and that was pretty much all that was of me. I kept on living my days out this month like that of an assembly line. I woke up, I went to work, I ate, I came home, I sheltered myself in my bedroom, I went to bed. And slowly this progressive assembly line became my daily routine and like all routines, it became as much fun as a root canal. I removed my personality. I took out my emotions. I turned cold. I didn't want anything to do with life for the past few weeks.

Suddenly, I began to devour books. I read and I read and I keep on reading even if my eyes are tired. And as books go, I began to spit the words back out onto a page. The words formed sentences and paragraphs and phrases and dreams suddenly began to appear. I started to feel the warmth return to my cheeks, the happiness in my thoughts start to be a bit happier and I didn't feel like I was crumbling underneath the massive stone I have placed on my body.

And how did I achieve this feeling of wonderment and joy? I told my roommate I wanted him out of my house.

It appears to the average person that this sounds cruel. Why would you throw someone you've known for the past few years out of your house? To satisfy your own desires? To make way for new forms of life to etch themselves into your skin? The answer is no to all of these. The same went for the conversation I had with him. "Why do you want me out so bad?"

"I just can't do this anymore," I replied.
"What? Is it so you can have your space back to yourself? Big whoop."

I didn't say a word after that. I remained silent. I didn't know exactly how to explain it at the time that I said those things, but now I do. My sister actually explained it a bit to me when I first made the decision to have him in my apartment. "You're going to be dependent on him," she said.

"No I wont."
"Yes you will and you know what's going to happen? You're going to start dating again."

Dread the thought. However, my sister had a point. It wasn't that I would fall miraculously in love again with my roomie/ex-boyfriend, but it was the fact that I would lose all sense of independence. I would become dependent on someone else to be there for me. All these years of growing a tolerance to the cold shoulder of loneliness would go out the window for the simplicity of having someone there to take care of me.

Let me explain to you what loneliness means to me. It was the wing I nestled myself into because no one else wanted to be my friend. It was the way for me to cope with the fact that only four people showed up to my birthday. It was the only thing that comforted me when there was no one there. Loneliness was my lover and I loved him more than any man I dated. He took care of me, he entertained me, he made me laugh and cry and hunger. I had more adventures alone than with anyone else. I went to Paris, the city of love, alone.

I remember when I was young, I would sing to it. I would stand outside and sing songs and the tree branches would say and dance. The sun would set and I would feel a warmth in the winter. It might sound strange to you, but that feeling I never want to let go. That was until I succumb to the unbearable feeling not only loneliness emits, but seeps deep into your bones. So I found a boyfriend and even though he made me happy for the time we were together, I made my loneliness upset to the point where he disappeared like a jilted lover. I never saw him again.

And I'm not complaining about the loneliness. I have become fond of him as much as he has of me. We were one, however, loneliness is just as bitter as a hurt lover. When I abandoned it for someone else, he slipped away from me. It took me years to find him again and still he won't take me back. Instead, I started talking to people. I began more social. I have more friends now, but there are nights that I stare out my window at the big old tree in this Brooklyn backyard and wonder where my loneliness went.

Soon, I'll be alone again. Hopefully I won't feel the awkward sting of bitterness when I see my loneliness again. If not, well, there's always friends for me to hang out with.

Time To Say Whoa Part 2

2010-11-03T14:36:00.000-04:00

Rereading the earlier post regarding relationship just now actually made some sense to me, but I figured that it needs some clarity before I can move on with the rest of the boring crap my life has become.

So, bare with me. Imagine you've been with someone for quite some time. You're not sure what to do next. You're not sure exactly where it's going. But then, this beacon, this light eminates from them. You and you alone can see it. It's this piece of the world that you've been hoping to see like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. It exists, but you have no proof. And now, it's standing there. It's holding your hand and it's buying you a hot chocolate in the middle of the winter.

Although it's not a rare event when something like this happens, it doesn't really happen as often as you think. There are a lot of decoys and those decoys are just so damn deceiving that you think you've finally found the one when in actuality, it's just a trick. You've been sucked into a relationship, you're married, you have kids, and you're miserable. Why? Because of this decoy.

But what does this mean? Does this mean anyone and everyone you meet might be considered the one? Yes. We always go around trying to figure out who is the right one and who is the wrong one when in reality, they are all right. We only find out that it's wrong later when time has gone by and nothing has happened.

So everyone is a surprise waiting to happen. Love is what you're waiting for, not a prince in shining armor.

I Am A Swan

2010-10-27T22:57:00.000-04:00

I wish I didn't have these fat rolls sticking out, but what are you going to do.

Swans have fat, right?

Halloween Costume

2010-10-23T21:15:00.000-04:00

It's a hybrid. You see, I'm going to take this:

And this:

To get this:

Or at least this:

Crocs and all.

Less than a week before my company's Halloween party. Eep!

Time To Say Whoa Part 1

2010-10-18T23:05:00.000-04:00

There is some point in a relationship where you have this catalyst. Your relationship goes from what you thought was pretty OK, to something amazing. Perhaps it's over a piece of fruit or perhaps you say something at the same time or finish each other's sentences. It's this click that goes off in your head and you tell yourself, "yes, this is the person I want. This is who I love."

But how long does it take for a person to get there? Is it more than a year's worth of time? Do some couples keep going on loving each other until the moment they can really lock it down? The moment when you say "I do," is that the point when you say "yes, this is real and I love you."

If this theory is true. If the idea that there just needs to be one cataclysmic moment in each other's lives that makes you stop where you are and takes your breath away and you all of a sudden hear heaven's choir is true, then wouldn't you also believe that there is love in anyone that you meet.

My friend just ended a relationship with another friend of mine. Although, I wouldn't say they were perfect for each other, they made each other happy until they didn't anymore. If you were to see them, you would have seen two very different people. One grew up in San Francisco. The other grew up in Brooklyn. One went to fancy schools and went to college and had every opportunity in front of her open for the taking. The other had to work every day of his life in order to get to the point where he was now. They are two different people, but they found each other. Perhaps they weren't able to find the catalyst in their relationship that would cement them together. Like the cardamom or some other overpriced spice.

For some reason, their relationship ended. There was no why, but then if you think about it, is there ever a real why? Even if you're absolutely in love with someone, and you can't help to hurt them or cheat on them. Do you really know why? So you were unhappy, a lot of people are. So you don't feel like you're being treated right. Not everyone gets what they want. The only reason why there isn't a why is because the cosmos couldn't find that thing that makes you spark up with love. They couldn't figure out what the reason why you should be with that person.

And so you go on in the relationship and you can love anyone you meet because of it. Now, I'm really tired and been writing all day and this post doesn't make any sense. Gotta sleep. Need my strength.

Pushing...out...these...final...words...

To be continued.

Work On A Saturday

2010-10-16T15:12:00.000-04:00

Well, I'm at work. I'm sitting at someone's desk that isn't mine because I don't have a desk yet. The office is closed and there is a total of four of us sitting around and answering emails and watching the opening credits to the first Jackass film.

The last time I had to work on a Saturday was back when I started my job at Sherry Lehmann. It was quite an adventure waking up early on the weekend and making your way over to your job. It's not that bad. It's actually kind of relaxing if you think about it. And it gets you out of the house especially if you're a recluse like me.

This job is a bit easier than my job at the wine store. Mostly because I can handle customer support at this point in my life and I don't need an extensive knowledge of wine in order to impress customers. Sadly, I don't get to eat at fancy restaurants like I did before. That's not saying that I don't appreciate the greatness of bar foods.

Speaking of bar foods, I went to a soju bar last night with some old co-workers to discuss important matters like how boys drool and how girls rule. I've never been to a soju bar let alone drink soju. In my first experience, I have to admit it was pretty yummy. We bought a few rounds of yogurt soju which is made with this really gross yogurt drink Korean people like to devour. I'm not a big fan of the yogurt because of the sweetness factor, but it wasn't so bad with the soju. It's almost as if they water it down in order to cut the sweetness. It also covers up the fact that soju is the strongest beverage I have yet to consume.

We also tried this watermelon version of the drink as well. It arrived in a carved out watermelon and a huge ladle. We drank from metal bowls as if we were in some bar in Korea. I almost felt so authentically Asian.

The strange part of the whole evening is journeying to this part of town. It's a small block radius in Midtown Manhattan, but stepping onto the street is like stepping into the country. Everywhere you look you see Koreans and all the average Caucasians look like tourists visiting the country rather than regular New Yorkers just trying to get to the F train. Even the menus were all in Korean. It was like living in a phenomenon.

We entered this strange universe or time traveled or traveled through space and made our way into an average night in Seoul. Men sat on corners hunched over newspapers smoking their 50th cigarette of the day. Women walked down the street in Armani suits and a mask over their manicured faces.

After spending a night of drinking soju from watermelons and eating fried foods, we walked back to the reality of the world. Within a half block, we were sitting back in the middle of Midtown Manhattan and daydreaming about how great it was to try something different for once.

If only every experience in the city could feel this way.

The One Person You Can Talk To Is Too Far Away To Hear

2010-10-13T17:41:00.002-04:00

Have you ever had a friend that you think back to during some random moment during your day? You're sitting at your desk working on something or you're about to eat a delicious meal with your spouse and then all of a sudden, an image of your friend pops up in your brain? You wonder to yourself, "whatever happened to that guy?" Sometimes you move on with what you were doing and you're fine with the fact you don't talk anymore. Sometimes, you linger in the moment and you try to figure out what happened in the relationship that you don't talk anymore. Then, you wonder how you've survived so long without them. It's almost like a phantom limb pain. You want to scratch, but you can't. It makes you want to cry sometimes and listen to bad music with sad lyrics. It also makes you determined to find them again and somehow say, "hi".

Today, I was reading the latest issue of NY Magazine where they show the interiors to a few of the hippest interior designers in New York City and their great apartments. One apartment was for this gallery owner in Chelsea and his main table was a crap wooden thing with drawings he and his daughter created. It was absolutely adorable. I noticed a small cup of markers sitting on the table as an invitation to anyone else who would want to add their own signature touch to the table. I remember my friend telling me how he would move to some large loft building with crayons and paper and markers all over the place for people to take the liberty to draw whenever they felt like it.

For some reason, he keeps creeping into my thoughts as of late. I keep thinking back to late night conversations on the phone and online. I remember him complaining about how much working for the Railroad sucked and I would complain about my job at the time. Now, he doesn't even know I have a new job or a new lease on life. Maybe he's already married or teaching art at some inner city school and on the brink of losing funding because the school board can't afford it in their budget.

It feels weird when you have to go without a friend like that. It's almost as if he died and I can't contact him without the help of a medium or an act of God. I've never considered anyone a best friend until he came around. You wonder what you did all those years with no one to talk to and you realize that the person you've been speaking with is yourself. Then, there's a person that comes along who forces you to be their friend and make you express your feelings and want to genuinely know what's going through your mind at that specific moment in time.

We only saw each other a handful of times before I moved to New York and he remained on Long Island. He would commute daily to school and I moved on to different things. We keep moving and shaking and changing, but our friendship remained the same. Perhaps I took advantage of it. Perhaps we got too busy to be friends anymore.

Maybe because I'm going through some bad times and I would love to have someone familiar to talk to; someone who can share my thoughts and feelings with. Although we haven't seen each other in a long time and although our timings are always off, I felt a kinship with him and it just upsets me that I can no longer look to him for guidance. This is just a cosmic letter out into the universe. If you're reading this, let's talk.

So Today Was Strange

2010-10-12T12:01:00.000-04:00

Day One or Two or Something of My Regimented Thingy-Ma-Bobbin:

Life couldn't have been any more comical than the horrors I faced this morning. I woke up with a knot in the top of my back. I'm going to go and blame the bed that I have because I don't have anything else to blame. Maybe I"ll blame the evil mice that live in my head or the silverfish I tried to kill with no avail the other night. Sometimes at night, I imagine the silverfish taking gigantic proportions and deciding to take revenge on me by devouring me while I'm in bed. Whole. Also, the silverfish looks kind of like one of those alien things from Tremors:

It's not a pretty thought. That's what's going on in my brain. Yes. That.

Anyway, besides the itching and the scratching, I went into my bathroom to find a pool of water as high as my mid-calf swirling around in my tub. Water that's been in there since my roommate took a shower the night before. As I stared at it, my temper seemed to go through the roof not because of the forgetfulness of my roommate, but because I had a very limited amount of time left before I had to get out of the apartment.

First, I brushed my teeth and brewed coffee. If I had to wait around for the tub to drain before I could take a shower, then I might as well take the measures to be prepared with everything else beforehand. So, I stood in my bathroom with my plunger for about twenty minutes trying to unclog the drain when I suddenly noticed that it wasn't a clog in the drain at all. The pin was up. Unlike traditional bathtubs, my tub is from the turn of the 20th century. So, back in the day they didn't have the pin for the tub inside the tub. It was on the side. Somehow, the pin got knocked back into place leaving this gross water in the tub.

So, I pulled the pin and let the water drain out. Then, I cleaned the stupid tub, took a shower, and bolted out of the apartment and onto the train.

Well, what an eventful morning. I think I'm going to go pass out now.

Its like that end of the world kind of rain

2010-10-11T23:46:00.001-04:00

I can't sleep right now. Every time I close my eyes, some part of my body begins to itch. First its my head and any strand of hair that falls on my face. Sometimes I think I'm a jellyfish because one singular thing like a strand of hair feels like piercing needles on my skin. Argh, I'm so itchy.

But the real reason for my lack of motivation to sleep at this current moment is the torrential downpour of rain outside my window. Followed by the crack of thunder and the streak of lightning that feels so close to my face that I can feel the electrical waves it sets off through my window.

I love the rain. I love how it makes everything wet. I like how it regenerates the earth and gives life where it is needed. I most definitely love getting caught in the rain, but that's from a romantic's point of view. What I love more than the rain is the sound of sirens running through the night during a rain storm. There's so much lightning throughout a storm like this that its bound to start a fire. A fire during the rain is like watching two natural enemies come together and exist on the same plain. Like putting fresh water fish into the ocean.

My roommate is in the living room watching a movie that shares a wall with the bedroom. I can hear him try yo experience the 3D effects in the film Coraline. I'm not sure if he can see them because the last time I tried to, I didn't and got motion sickness. My next door neighbor also thinks it's a good idea to practice his newest toy; the piano. I'm pretty sure he's playing something by Elton John. Yup, just heard him belt something out. Nope, I was wrong. It's the final scene from Dirty Dancing.

The combination of Coraline and the storm is kind of fitting. People praise Neil Gaiman for writing one wicked story about a crazy spider who wants to eat kids (sorry about the spoiler if you've never read/watched the story).

If it keeps raining like this then I'll never get any sleep. Then this little flash of pain runs up the back of my neck and stops somewhere behind my right ear. The pain is dull but noticeable like a mosquito bite. I feel cold in the crook of my arm and even duller pain by my ankles. It's either the rain causing all these ailments or I need to see a doctor quick. I'm too young to die.

Sorry to keep you up this night with a second post. I told you I needed to distract myself from touching my face. Besides the delicate nature of my skin and gravity taking control over the hair on my head, I haven't picked on anything. Not even the oozing thing on my nose that makes me look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Just kidding.

An old dog; a new trick

2010-10-11T23:16:00.001-04:00

I have this weird thing in my brain. No, I don't have a tumor. For some reason I pick on my face. When I was a kid, I didn't do it. I picked on scabs and stuff but never on my face. I feel like this has been a new development in the past few years and now is the time to change back. A few years back, I could pick, heal and be fine within a week. I've noticed over time that the lapses between picking gets longer and longer at the point where I'm almost a pizza faced monster. It make me sad because I used to have such great skin and I want to have that skin again.

Tonight, I was watching an episode of The Office in my room when I got the sudden urge to pick. So, in my conscious state I didn't. But then my mind starts to wander and instead I want to pick at my hair or my cuticles. I pick at my teeth and at some dry skin on my face. I feel like a smoker trying to go cold turkey and instead of putting cigarettes into my mouth I'm putting food in instead. My brain is telling me no but habitually I want to do something. So what do you do? How do you get cured?

Back in high school, my music teacher would tell us that it takes about 21 days for a person to develop a new habit. She would tell us this with the hopes that practicing the same song for 21 days in the right key and time would get it in our brains that this is what you're supposed to do. I feel like a dog in that sense.

However, it needs to get done. Perhaps instead of picking, I should write about my day. I should take up yet another hobby. I should start jogging or something. I'm getting older and the fact that it's taking more than a year for my scraped knee to fully heal has got to do with age. As much as I hate the feeling of getting old and dying, it's just some inevitable truth. If I want to look hot when I'm in my forties, I've got to take up the good habits now while I'm still young.

Perhaps it has to do a little bit with a sense of pride in my looks. Which in my case is none. No pride and no looks. Maybe I should take up some of that while I'm at it. I don't want to be all soft when I'm older. Who would want that.

Tomorrow will begin a new regiment of sitting on my hands, writing a ton more and creating new habits for a better future. Hopefully my old habits won't get in the way. As they say, old habits do die hard...and with a vengeance.

Well, At Least Today I Didn't Feel Like Killing Myself

2010-10-10T23:57:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you can catch me daydreaming. I'm not staring deeply into a commercial on TV or really content on watching grass grow in the backyard. My eyes wander to a spot and my brain shuts down. It's a strange feeling to daydream. Suddenly, even though you're physically in one place your brain is in another. It's like the Matrix or something along the lines of the Matrix. I mean, how are we supposed to know we're in the Matrix. I didn't take any damn blue pill.

When I daydream, I'm usually thinking about the last fifteen minutes of a romantic comedy. Someone is looking for me in an airport or a crowded theatre. Sometimes it's a musician on stage who sings this song he writes about me. The guy needs to find me and confess some deep rooted secret to me. It's not necessarily something to do with love, but it's something to do with how much he treasures my friendship with him and how he can't do without me even though we're not romantically involved. Sometimes it's about love and how after all that time, he realizes, it's been me all this time.

Then it got me to thinking. I kept on wondering why the idea of being swept off my feet really just keeps me happy. It keeps my day going thinking that perhaps someone will finally confess in time the love he has for me. Perhaps I need to date a lot of duds before that happens. Yeah, like in any good romantic comedy, there needs to be a trial and error period of dating the wrong guys. They all end up in the final scene applauding along and giving the thumbs up.

What do I do? I jump into his arms and kiss him. And then the rain starts falling and the crowd starts cheering. We're happy and in love. Hasn't that been the only thing that matters to anyone? The sad part might be when I finally focus back on what is really happening around me. Normally, it's just screen in front of me at work. Sometimes it's some stupid commercial about my credit score.

But honestly, what's the obsession I have with feeling love? Or feeling anything in general? It's not like I haven't felt it before. Maybe I listen to too many sappy songs about the subject. Maybe I watch too many movies. Ok, so people tell me time and time again that what happens in movies doesn't really happen in real life. But wouldn't you think that if you see it over and over again on the screen that somehow what is being portrayed on television will have and have actually happened in real life? Wasn't there some dude some place in the world who said "fuck it, I love her. I'm going to stop her from flying off to Paris."

It just seems really unrealistic not to believe that love exists and there are double rainbows and that sometimes the prize in the cereal box is the best thing you'll ever get. Art imitates life or life imitates art. Either way, switching those words doesn't deny the fact that when you go to bed at night alone you want to have someone laying next to you (this goes both for men and women).

However, my brain takes it to another plain where I'm married and happy and living with this faceless guy with good hair and a sweet smile. That's when I think I've gone too far.

I Don't Try to Take Up The Time of An Insane Mind

2010-10-06T13:59:00.000-04:00

This morning's routine went a little haywire when a man sat next to me on the train popping and locking. Have you ever looked at a person and ever thought, "when was the last time you sat still?"

He was like one of those people who don't like the sound of silence. Can you believe that there are people in the world who cannot stand to be in a place where there is nothing going on? Usually, those people are obsessed with hearing their own voice. It's not a conceited thing; it's a comfort thing. So, this guy on the train was much like a person who is afraid of silence. This man is afraid of stillness. A person who is so afraid that somehow the intense pressure of sitting still makes him go insane. He kept on trying out his different pop-and-lock moves. Then, he had to fix his shirt sleeve, then his other shirt sleeve, then his sneaker was just a bit askew, and then back to the sleeve because God forbid that was to be altered in the time to fix everything else.

Perhaps he is also afraid of inconsistency. He needs to have each side perfect and he needs to be at the same size and same height and whatever else you can make up in your little crazy mind.

What bothered me the most was the fact that he wouldn't stop. He would try some move, fix his shirt, and then try something else, fix his shirt. It was impulsive as if he had no control over himself or his manners.

I don't have time to talk to insane people. I am insane enough for the both of us. Stop moving, dude. Your shirt looks fine.

Bad Moves

2010-10-05T12:12:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning in a frenzy. I had the craziest dream where I married my stand partner from orchestra in High School. I didn't love him and I didn't feel anything for him romantically. I just married him. I don't know why.

A World Full of Thanks

2010-10-04T11:35:00.000-04:00

There is a sullen feeling in my apartment. There is no light. There is no sound. There is only the feeling that there is something wrong. It's heavy and thick and bracing through it is tougher than I thought.

I had a dream last night where I was confronted with the devil. He was dressed like a young man and quite a cute looking man at that. We were at a public swimming pool in the middle of summer and he was collecting minions to swallow whole into the earth. I was a bit reluctant to the idea of having him take me to the underworld, so I did my best to run away. Instead, he decided to cut off my legs and turn my butt into cement so that I don't try to crawl away.

A few hours later, he released me into the water of the pool. He told me that I would be severely punished if I tried to escape the water. He said I could stay alive if I stayed in the water. I was so angry by this point that I quickly thought up a plan to destroy him. Against my better judgment, I pulled myself out of the pool and confronted him. I denounced God. I told him, "God doesn't exist. If He doesn't exist than neither do you."

I got it in my head that the only way to destroy the devil would be to destroy God. If God doesn't exist then there is no such thing as good. If there is no such thing as good, then there is no such thing as evil. I had to go against what I firmly believed to be true to be free of the devil's plan to destroy us all.

I watched him writher in agony as I repeated these words. I felt the earth and the sky changing around me. Denouncing God was like actually destroying Him. I was doing everyone a favor, but also destroying any possibility that they will be save by something good. I felt bad most of the time, but it needed to be done.

I kept on wanting to see the final outcome. I wanted to watch the devil slowly burn to ash. The world was turning, the tides were crashing on the shores and the sky was about to open up and unleash something I didn't think was possible.

Then, I woke up in complete horror.

Trapped in a City of Freedom

2010-10-04T11:09:00.000-04:00

We had a meet-and-greet at our office before the weekend. People gathered for drinks and talked about what we did. Since our office is growing at a rate that cannot be measured by human scales, we have meet-and-greets to get to know each other. Most of the time, we talked about our backgrounds and where we came from.

"Oh, when did you move to New York?" asked one person.
"About six months ago. I used to live out in LA. What about you?"
"I lived out in San Francisco for some time, but before that I lived in Texas and before that was New York. I'm finally back."
"What about you, Simone? Where are you from?"

Regretfully, I said I was born and bred in New York. Nothing against this state or this city, but being a real New Yorker with the attitude and the lifestyle choices and the constant need for sushi in my belly gets kind of boring after a few years.

Don't get me wrong, I love this town. I love dressing up and going out to dinners. I love the melting pot feeling you get from being in a city that accepts pretty much every single culture you can imagine (except when it comes to building a Mosque downtown). However, living in the same city and only taking the time to travel to other cities when the time is right can get a bit boring. Sometimes you see a place and you wonder what it would be like to live here. My parents always tell me I would be bored. I would get tired of living in isolation in the middle of the woods somewhere in Toronto or down south. What's boring is having the world at your feet and wanting nothing to do with it because you're just happy staying inside the apartment.

Life is also a lot cheaper outside of New York. I watch all those House Hunter shows on television and people are buying houses at an eigth of the price you would need to buy a small one bedroom apartment in the Lower East Side. Where's the justice of living here in that.

The best part about living in my small digs is the fact that it faces the backyard. Outside my window is a gorgeous tree and some lovely wind that blows in once in a while. Sometimes it carries in the smell of Indian food or even the gross garbage truck driving down the main road.

Don't you get tired of staring at the same interior? Sometimes I feel like I'm in some giant glass bubble called New York. You can only walk so far before you get to the edge. You stop, you turn around and you walk the other way only to be caught again at the other side of the bubble. Then you keep moving around like a pinball in a machine.

I'm pretty restless and I like staring out my bedroom window at all the trees and the world sort of spinning around and around with no real place to go. This is it, I suppose. This is it for now.

I dream of better days

2010-10-02T14:17:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I dream about the day when I'm finally alone again.

I Buy Pretty Things

2010-09-30T13:46:00.000-04:00

Well, besides the fact that I have been a smorgasbord to mosquitos in my apartment I've been trying to slowly set up my place to look like an actual apartment.

In that vein, I actually purchased items thinking that my paycheck would be a lot more than I received. Apparently there must have been some sort of glitch because I made much more last time than I did this time. So, in my ignorance I was a bit overzealous with some purchases I made. Yes, I used two big words in one sentence. Take that, SATs.

All Together by kikiandpolly

Seagull Print by berkleyillustration

Dinner Party by swanbones

I also purchased some lovely ceramic plates and things by Fiestaware!

Major thing I want most especially, a kitchen table.

These things will make my mosquito bites disappear.

Sometimes, You Forget You're Alive

2010-09-24T01:08:00.000-04:00

There are moments when you completely forget that you're alive. You go through your everyday routine and do your everyday thing and you don't think twice about your life. It's like you're in a dream. Nothing seems real but at the same time everything is real.

Suddenly, you wake up in the middle of the night scared out of your mind because reality struck you. You're not living a dream. Pretty soon, you'll wake up and realize that you're alive. You're a breathing entity with a span of time to live in the world. You have to live your life is what people tell you and it's because they've come to the same conclusion as you --it's not all permanent.

One day your heart will stop beating, your breath will slow and your body will succumb to the balance of time. As your body rots away, new life will be reborn. Someone else will take your place. However, will you be remembered or fogotten.

I used to have anxiety attacks. I used to live in a waking dream only to be abruptly knowledgeable of the fact that I will die some day. The body that I'm in will rot away. The breath I am breathing will no longer process in my lungs. I will succumb to death. I will no longer exist. When I felt this way, I looked towards religion. I hoped that believing in God will give me some reassurance. It will tell me that even though I'm alive here, my real life begins when I die. I will go to heaven or hell. Either way, my soul will live on.

But will my soul have eyes? Will it have ears and a nose and lips to taste? Will I just be some floating being living beyond the world or will I be living dead amongst the living?

I woke up this evening feeling that same anxiety again. My soul outside of my body. Not being able to rely on the corporeal state. None of my possessions matter to me. None of this matters to me because at our timely ends, we will have nothing.

It really bothers me sometimes that I can't remember what it was like when I was in the womb. How I developed; how I became a human being. I contemplate this and hope that in some brief moment of this contemplation I will see and I will feel what it felt like not to be alive. Does life begin when you are born? To have the reality of life hit you gives you a different look at things. You're not blinded by the life you are living. Instead, you are consumed by the thought of dying. What happens after I die? Where will I go? What will I do?

I can't sleep. I can't eat. All I can really think about is the moment this will all end. It doesn't matter if I'm ever famous or if I'm poor. Humans are humans and our nature is to live and to die. What we make of ourselves will come to nothing the moment we are met with death. So, why bother trying? It won't mean anything anyway.

I Will Crosspost As Much As My Little Heart Desires

2010-09-22T09:18:00.001-04:00

Writing for Sound the Sirens again. Here's my first post. Read it!

http://www.soundthesirens.com/zine/?p=2006

Really Thinking About It

2010-09-20T18:12:00.000-04:00

I'm really thinking about this for my birthday. Two and a half weeks of France. Heading into Paris, trips to Provence and Nice, getting lost in the Versailles gardens again. Perhaps this time I'll fork up the money to stay at a hotel rather than be hassled by my French Great Aunt about leaving the house.

Maybe I'll change the dates to some time in April/May. Then again, the South of France in winter sounds nice.

When The Weather Finally Makes Up Its Mind, I'll Start Dressing Better

2010-09-20T09:31:00.000-04:00

Dang, my stereo headphones blew out. Gotta get a new pair.

Somedays You Can Wish You Can Fall Forever

2010-09-15T12:59:00.000-04:00

The other night, I went to dinner with a close friend of mine. We haven't seen each other in a few weeks and so the visit was due. He told me about this article he read about people's way of being independent and the breakdown of success actually coming from the way they were raised. It sounds like of convoluted when you think about it, but it kind of makes sense. He presented the conversation with this example. Please forgive me if I butcher this explanation.

There are three breakdowns of people. The first are those who had to take care of themselves when they were younger. Those are the people whose parents were like "take the reins, be the master of your own life." These people are the ones who are supposed to be successful and go further in life because they don't count on the suggestions of other people. They were the loners with only themselves to take care of.

The second grouping is a hybrid. These are the people who were both a loner and a social butterfly. These people were surrounded by those who nuture them and can take care of them, but also given a sense of independence. These people are still as successful as the loners.

The last group of people are those who are very social, very nutured and very dependent on other people. These people are the less successful because of their constant want for approval and their need for acceptance. Because these people require someone else's view of things and their advice, they cannot go any further than being a manager of a company. They lack the drive to go on and make something of themselves on their own.

During the course of the evening, I kept on thinking to myself exactly what that meant to me. Where did I fit in? Yes, I have a sense of independence and the constant looking for excitement and adventure and all that is good, however, there are days where I can't take a sick day without asking my mother if it's OK. Am I on the track to successful business ventures or am I just always wanting someone to hold my hand and tell me what I'm doing is the right thing?

Perhaps I'm the hybrid. My mother always told me that I liked spending time on my own, but I never lacked the love from them. I didn't have many friends, but it's mainly because I never took the effort into contacting them or asking them if they wanted to hang out. I liked to do things on my own.

There is a seriously feeling of freedom being able to do things on your own. I've traveled more, done more, seen more, and wanted to pretty much take on every career I can see myself doing from being a doctor to being a dog walker. Although I do love to spend some time by myself (ok, it's most of my time), I do get lonely sometimes. When I get lonely, I watch really bad romantic dramas.

Last night's feature film on my Netflix account was "Dear John". It seemed like a bad idea at first. When the film came out, the first thing I thought was "hell no!" Seriously, Nicholas Sparks is a pretty good writer, but his movies should just stop becoming movies. He's the new Stephen King and even the King has fallen to the trend of writing for films rather than writing for writing's sake.

Alas, I did watch the film and felt a great sense of sadness. Mainly it's because I was sitting at home watching teenagers have sex three inches from my face. It kind of gets uncomfortable as if you were standing in the room next to them watching and taking notes or something like that.

Well, that's not really true either. I guess there are some days when you are so happy to be alone that it needs to be crushed by a sense of loneliness. I usually combat this feeling with some knitting or watching some ridiculous TV show about fat British people, but not today. Instead, I just watch as the loneliness transforms into something my imagination creates in my head of some romantic relationship lasting only two weeks before he heads off to Afghanistan to fight some frivolous war. It's Atonement sans the little girl fucking up everyone's life.

It's all about the human connection. It's all about having to have someone there even if you don't want them to be. Then, my mind starts to wander and I think how cool it would be to be a pilot.

Kind of Concerned. Perhaps Some Advice?

2010-09-13T18:28:00.001-04:00

So, I applied for some freelance position at some new online music/entertainment mag so I can get my head back into the writing game. I applied this morning.

About three in the afternoon I get some reply back saying that they love my work and would want me to write for them. They added me to their contributor's newsletter and told me to just reply back with whatever I want to work on. Also, they said they can't wait to read my first article.

Funny thing is, I didn't include any of my work with my resume. The response itself looked kind of like a mass email to people they think would be a good fit with the mag. What I'm concerned about is, "is this a legit business or am I going to be wasting my time writing articles for some place that won't really use my work."

Granted, this place doesn't pay and I'm doing it for the exposure, I need to know if this will be a waste of my time. I'm trying to get some more freelance work so I can have an excuse for checking my emails twenty million times a day and saying cool phrases like, "i gotta go home and write this article. arg! my life is soooo hard."

Ok, maybe not entirely that last part but something along those lines. I think my main concern is that I don't want to be considered some "leave at the waste side" writer who will maybe write an article here or there. I want presence. I want my name to show up more than a handful of times on their site.

Perhaps I don't really need advice. I just need to tell myself and them that I'm going to be the biggest nuisance they have ever seen.

Vent over.

All We Really Do Well is Complain

2010-09-10T09:36:00.000-04:00

The other day, my mother dropped me off at a salon to get my hair cut after my father yelled at me for not taking care of it. "Can you do something with your looks? Wear a little make up? At least comb your hair?"

I sighed. It's true. My hair has been at an unmanageable rate for quite some time. It kept getting stuck in my armpits whenever I would do anything; walk down the street, stand, etc. Also, the fact that my hair has decided to lose all body and lay stiffly down my back concerned me for quite some time. I agreed to the hair cut and went on to the salon.

While my mother waited for me to get my hair treatment and cut, an acquaintance of hers walked through the door. She was followed by two other women all there to dye their white roots back to that simplistic black color Asian women all posses. I think my mother was the only woman in the salon not getting her roots done. She prefers the wild messy look of silvery hair rather than a bad dye job.

As the woman greeted my mother, she sat down in the chair. The hair stylist came up to her and asked about her day and so began the gossip. I couldn't understand much as it was all in Korean, but it had to be gossip. It kind of fascinated me no matter what race you are, women come to salons to gossip about what's going on back in the Mother Country, how their families are much better than others, and get recipes for some spicy tofu stew.

The women went through their rounds of washing their hair and getting set up to dye their shamefully bad roots. My mother's acquaintance looked over at me and commented on how young I looked. She even asked if I was still in college, bless her heart. My mother smiled. Then, she asked what I did for a living as I don't go to school anymore. My mother hesitated and said quietly, "she works in customer service."

There was a moment of silence, I think, in my brain. Or at least there was a small "oh," from the woman's mouth as she went back to getting her roots done. My mother didn't look too terribly ashamed of me and my job, but I can tell there was some hesitation in her voice and some small part of her die as much as I wanted to die.
There are rumors created by rumor mills throughout the world reminding my generation that the Baby Boomers were the hard working generation. Not accounting for the kids growing up during the Industrial Revolution, of course. Whenever I read some article about how lazy our generation is or how our generation is probably the worst of mankind, it always follows with something along the lines of, "The baby boomer generation created the new world. Their hard work is what your generation now leeches off of and now that they are in their retirement years, we have nothing to look forward to besides the utter disappointment baby boomer parents feel about their kids."

It's kind of a blow to the stomach. You can imagine yourself being punched really hard in the gut and then doubling over in pain. It's a harsh thought after successful kids like Mark Zuckerberg come romping in making billions of dollars in some social network everyone seems to use. It's as if we are all in front of a firing squad except there is no countdown or man screaming "fire!" You light your last cigarette the moment you decide to sit down from the exhaustion of standing. We're the ones who will decide our own fate.

And right now, the fate of our generation is drinking too much booze and deciding that teaching is a good enough excuse not to do anything else. For those who teach and have wanted to be a teacher since the second grade, well, I do apologize. But for those who wished to be literary geniuses or music mavens or butched up sports heroes and then just decide to leave their dreams on the wasteside? Shame on you.

Our generation is going through the painful process of figuring out identities and wondering who we really want to be. We're just young saplings trying to get comfortable in the soil. We're not so strong and we don't know when we ever will be. Those who are following their lifelong dreams are making a small dent on society, but those who have a dream and live on the scurfs to get by, well, we'll eventually get our shit together.

While we wait for that to happen, we partake in the uncontrollable "fast lane". We dine and dance and party and search for soulmates. We piss away our paychecks on stupid items like a t-shirt cropped for us because we're too scared to cut a t-shirt on our own. We try different things from acting to painting to even writing. We write our brains out and even if the standards are telling us our writing is shit, we keep on going with it. We're constantly looking for our niche in the world. We always end up with shit on our shoes and yet another crushed dream.

It's come down to a constant struggle. Yes, while our parents had all the opportunities in the world to expand and they did a hell of a job getting to the point of upper middle-class, our generation gets to live in the shadows of a successful era of mom and pop businesses and downfall of some CEO's greed. How are we to succeed when all the resources are gone? How are we to find our niche in the world when all the spaces are taken?

I think about these things while I get ready for my job at customer service. I think about all the hard work I put into getting a degree in journalism and then working for an online company writing only thank yous and "I'm sorry for your inconvenience." It's not the most glamorous position in the world, I'll tell you what. It pays the bills and keeps me afloat while I pursue my other aspirations at home. What upsets me the most is not the fact I'm not doing anything with my degree or the fact my mom isn't all that comfortable talking about what her daughter has succumb to, but the fact that after whining and complaining all throughout high school about wanting to be a writer and then doing nothing about it gives me that feeling of either defeat or regret; I can't tell the difference.

Or maybe I'll work on those aspirations tomorrow.

Damn you Writer's Block

2010-09-07T23:08:00.002-04:00

Uhmm...

So stuff happened. Yeah. Damn, I can't write for my life right now.

It's Only The First

2010-09-02T09:26:00.000-04:00

I can't believe how awesome I felt after finishing this thing. It made me so happy that I passed right out while watching King of the Hill.

Now, time for my next project:

New Projects

2010-08-31T12:17:00.000-04:00

So now that I'm pretty much done with my first afghan, I wanted to get crackin' on my next one. The fall season is coming up and all I want to do is work on some writing, make afghans and sew some pillowcases. It's a weird combination of things, but I enjoy them. Here are some inspiration photos of my next afghan:

Afghans with Dogs

Hexagonal afghans

Gonna get my sock on

Maybe even learn to hand spin my own yarn.

Ahhh...fibers.

Eggy Sunday

2010-08-30T11:02:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I relaxed at home with a crochet project, some eggs benedict and a bunch of movies and tv shows. It's been eight to nine months since I've had a proper vacation. My eye is starting to twitch again and my back is starting to hurt again. I start my new job next Tuesday so there is no time for rest. I will rest soon hopefully.

It's Probably Just A Coincidence

2010-08-25T12:56:00.000-04:00

Have you ever gotten on the train, sat down and read your book only to look and notice someone you find attractive is sitting straight across from you reading the same exact book? Have you ever walked down the street in some more-than-usual outfit only to find someone very handsome/pretty walking in a similar outfit? Have you ever wondered if this was a coincidence or fate?

Sometimes when it comes to these types of things, I just shrug my shoulders and think to myself that it's all just a coincidence. So what if the guy sitting next to me on the train looks like my significant other double and we're both wearing headphones and oh my God, he's listening to the same song I am.

I get nervous. I wonder if this is somehow some sort of sign saying that this dude who just randomly wears the same sneakers as me is quite possibly my soulmate. Granted in times of desperation, you begin to wonder if the passed out homeless person on the side of the road knows your favorite song is "Wild Horses" by The Rolling Stones and your favorite ice cream is mint chocolate chip. However, in points of coincidences, you can't help but to wonder if that dude really is "The One."

I watched as two people stepped onto the subway car in matching khaki caps, heather grey t-shirts and shorts. The man had a wedding ring, and the woman was so enraptured in her novel that she decided to sit next to him. They looked to be the typical married couple; listening to separate music, enjoying their morning separately, waiting to get off the train and head to another grueling day of work.

I kept looking at them trying to figure out if they were married or not. Then, the man stood up and got off while the girl just calmly sat there reading her novel. There was no farewell kiss. There was no human contact. All there was was two passenger who happened to look like they were together but only to be far apart.

So the thought runs through my head. Is this a point of coincidence or just a passing opportunity for happiness? Perhaps the opportunity always arises, but everyone dismisses as a coincidence. If you fall down tripping over a baby carriage to find the man who helps you up to be the man of your dreams, well, then that's just pure luck.

Survival or Happiness?

2010-08-23T09:23:00.003-04:00

Whenever I speak to someone about what you want to do with your life, I always get the same answer. "I want to follow my dream."

Follow your dream. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Indiana Jones. I wanted to travel to the far ends of the Earth to examine bones and discover hard-to-find things like the Holy Grail. It wasn't until I was in the Sixth grade that I changed my iron clad ambitions to be an archeologist to become a writer. I think it was a decision made from a combination of if I had the passion to be a real archeologist and also the idea that I would need to be in more school than anticipated. So, I went for something easy. I decided to become something based on a hobby of keeping notebooks with dirty stories.

Thirteen years later and hard earned money spent on a college education, I'm still writing blog entries and other freelance bits for the price of nothing. It's as if the dream suddenly became a competition --a race to the finish. Who will become the next Ernest Hemmingway? Who will be the next Carrie Bradshaw?

The number of writers since I was in school went up exponentially. In middle school, I read that the number of writers needed over any other profession was 7%. Seven percent. I should have taken that as a sign. I should have raised my tiny hand in the air and closed the book on that dream before it even had a chance to cry. I should have listened to my mother and become a lawyer or something more sturdy than a writer. Besides, we are a dying breed. No one takes pride in the work they create. If I see another book come out about vampires, I will flip and start staking humans.

My head has been spinning with these thoughts for a few seconds as I look down at the offer letter for my recent job venture. I felt like I have been in this position before. I remember holding the pen in my hand. I remember the crisp sheets of white paper inked with the commitment I was willing to make to survive. I remember the hesitancy of signing away all freedoms I ever had as a child and forced to become an adult.

Now, I stare down at my health insurance and 100 shares to purchase and wonder to myself if it's too late to go back to the Sixth grade and work a bit harder? Would it have made a difference if I really put the work into writing a novel? Even if I did write the novel, would I even be noticed amongst the ruins of paper sitting on top of publisher's desks?

I've been at that table. I've seen stacks of manuscripts that don't even see past the 50th page. I have made "toss" piles. I've read the most ridiculous stories and watched as they become a best-selling novel. I don't understand the process and I don't think I ever will. I could keep on writing, yes, that could be something I do, but will it bring me happiness?

After thirteen years of dreaming, it's all come down to survival. If I sign this offer letter, then I'm back working in Support without a care in the world. I can sleep at night. I don't have to worry about deadlines. I can finally go out to brunch again. It's all about comfort. It's all about my will to survive in a city that beats the shit out of you daily until you're vomiting blood and dying to get out of here. If I don't sign it, I could possibly end up on the streets as some bohemian penniless writer.

I keep thinking to myself if I've made the right choice or not. I wonder if things were different and if there wasn't a recession or if I was able to win the Nobel Peace Prize for my 3rd Grade Science Project, would I be happier? Does your ability to survive surpass any thoughts of happiness?

What would my mother say? Well, I think my mother would say that this is just the beginning of the suffering. That I should just stay motivated and passionate and it will come to me. That I should keep writing even if it doesn't pay me a dime. Eventually, I will be seen. Eventually, I will catch someone's eye within the vast void of the world wide web. And she is right. Even if things are at dire straits right now, it's bound to get better. Perhaps it's Murphy's Law in reverse. Enough failures will lead to a success, n'est pas?

Suddenly, all the questions that keep running through my mind stop for a drink of water. They run so much that they actually need a break. In this moment of clarity, I remind myself that it's not about my ability to win the race, but my ability to say when I'm a grandmother that I did one time in my life follow my dream. I went to the ends of the Earth to find the Holy Grail, but in a figurative manner. Trust me, I've been to where they shot that scene in Indiana Jones and I didn't see anything holy about an abandoned ruin.

Survival is a method humans use to stay alive. If there's a flood, we swim. If someone is choking us, we try our best to break free from it. We are born that way much like any other animal in existence. Happiness is achieved when your survival senses aren't on overload. So even if you're working with the comfort of 401K, even if it's a crap job and all you have to do is press "yes" and get paid a million dollars, then happiness with a little bit of effort is attainable. A job is a job wherever you are, but fulfillment in life begins when the struggle to survive ends.

I sign the papers. I make sure my hand is steady and my head is clear. Right now, it's about survival. Right now, it's about making money so I can stay off the streets. And while everyone is typing away on their computers about how terribly sorry they are about the customer's experience, I'll be the one typing up the final pages of that long-lost dream novel I've been thinking about these past thirteen years.

The Past is the Glory of the Future (unedited)

2010-08-20T12:53:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I get so sick of listening to new bands. They almost always sound the same. Whenever I get tired of listening to the same thing over and over again, I always reach back in time and listen to what shaped and molded music these days.

Lately, my favorite thing to listen to is the blues. If you don't know your rock and roll history very well, you should know that rock and roll music as well as many other genres of music all stem and root in the blues. Starting in the South, one of the most influential blues men is Robert Johnson. Rumor has it that he met the devil at a crossroads in Mississippi. He sold his soul to the devil in order to play the blues. The devil played a tune on his guitar and forever from that date, the blues man was born. Although the guitar solo comes from all the way back in the classical eras, I like to think that the best of the best guitar solos come from the blues as well.

So why talk about the blues? Why do you care so much about the past? Who cares? It's the past and there's so much good music these days.

Well, let me tell you something, little sister. I'll tell you that a real appreciation for music doesn't end where the future begins. It's all over the place. From different cultures to different eras, if you love music then you really love music. You may have one area of interest when it comes down to it, but the real deal is to keep your ears wide open and accept anything and everything that comes your way. You become richer, deeper, and stronger from it. It's painful and it's boring and it hurts, but so does everything else in the world. So you take the hits and pitfalls and hope for the best.

You might think this is some crazy hippie way of thinking, then yes it is a crazy hippie way of thinking. You don't need massive amounts of drugs or crazy commune lifestyles to know and understand the way that things flow. Life is all around. Music is a universal language. Take the time to understand it otherwise you'll be stuck forever in the same boring place you've led yourself to live.

In all honesty, I find myself wanting to embark on new adventures and trying new things everyday. Life really is too short to complain about all the little things and forget that you are still moving. While you don't have everything figured out just yet, you are moving and life is going by. Just sit down and focus on the beauty of it all rather than focusing on how much you can make it more beautiful. It's not about how many people you can effect in your life, but who you effect.

And that's why I listen to the blues and soul and classic rock and classical music and even monks chanting in monasteries in the middle of the Baltic. "You know you got it, if it makes you feel good."

There is a certain amount of passion that people put in their music. When you see someone like Janis Joplin perform, you wonder to yourself, "who's the dick who broke her heart?" You can feel the music burn through them just as much as it burns through you. It's something that sometimes gets lost in electronic music these days. It's easy to mimic the sound of an electric guitar, but a robot is a robot. Where is the emotion? Where is the feeling? I won't deny that it's an interesting sound. There are things you can do with a computer that you can't necessarily do in reality, but come on.

When you listen to John Lennon, you want to sit right there next to him and watch those wheels go round.

My friend and I have been having conversations about what happened to music these days. Right now, the latest trend is to auto-tune everything. Even a person's voice can be turned into a monotonous drone of a sound rather than hearing the pitchy disasters of drug and alcohol abuse to the vocal chords. It's a beautiful sound and hopefully people will understand that music is all about the heart, the soul, and the blues.

What we want for the future all lies within the past. We shape and form and distill the best of the past and create what we want for the future. We learn from our mistakes and we learn from our triumphs. Our life keeps moving forward and if computers and robots are the way to go, then it's the way to go. You just never forget what has happened before you and the hard work people put in to make it real. It's not just the ability to change the course of music and history, but also be inspired by those who changed it.

I'm in the Woods!

2010-08-18T12:35:00.000-04:00

End All, Be All? (I Also Really Like Hyphens In This Post)

2010-08-18T12:33:00.000-04:00

I saw the cutest boy on the train today. He wasn't necessarily a boy, but he had the criteria for whenever I meet a cute boy. His pants were comfortable, but not baggy or tight. His hair was disheveled as if his night of rest wasn't long enough. He wore a black distressed t-shirt and comfortable sneakers. You can see his tattoos peeking through the sleeve of his shirt; tasteful and well-worn like battle wounds from his sort-of-psychotic girlfriends past. He looked a mess and I can't resist a boy who looks like he just woke up and needed to be outside for some good inspiration. He didn't have any of the pretentious personality traits you see in guys these days that make you want to shake them and say, "wake up, boy! it's time to organize!"

However he carried with him the ultimate turn off, a baby carriage. The little girl sat in her seat munching down on a container of pecans as her father (so it seems) wrangled her into the train. His eyes were tired from late nights watching her sleep. His clothes were stained from spoon feeding his daughter strained peas and mashed potatoes. Suddenly, he didn't seem so attractive. He seemed tired; tired of living a life as a father? A single father? Who knows. There was no ring on his finger, but a lot of men go without that heavy ball and chain dangling from their left hand.

I look at him again and what appeared to be exhaustion seemed to me like sadness. His wife/baby mama was probably too busy getting ready for her high powered job while he was in charge of taking the little one to the park for a day kissing boo-boos and wiping sand off her shins. It almost looked as though he didn't sign up for this job. He didn't want to be a father. He didn't want to be settled down -at least not just yet.

Perhaps he had a few running miles in him. Perhaps he was in a band or was a writer or even some kick-ass lawyer with a dark past. I can see him hiding those wicked tattoos behind a crisp white shirt and a three-piece suit.

Perhaps he wanted to sow some more wild oats, but never got the chance because the night of his bachelor party he was stuck on the phone with his fiancee trying to talk her down from a tree in her night of debauchery. Is having children the end all, be all? Is a family the last wild ride you will ever take?

My friend has been going on a lot of dates lately. She's been seeing guys from internet websites hoping to find not "the one", but "the one to be the father of her children." She's 32 and at this point, her mother doesn't care if she ever gets married. Her mother only cares if she will be able to produce viable and healthy offspring for her to call "grandchildren".

Her prospects are not so great. If I had a choice between the deadbeat who didn't own a pair of decent slacks versus the deadbeat who paid alimony and child support checks every week, well, I would choose the former. Something about having children and then going on a date feels like the end all, be all for me. In my opinion, a kid is like the embodiment of your baggage. You can't leave it at the door because someone will call child services and your ass will be in jail. It's my own preference that I don't date men with children. My friend prefers anything with a steady job and a healthy, strong, and big "personality".

I read in a NY mag article a few weeks back about how children have become the mess to ruin a relationship. Statistics show that men become less attracted to their significant other the moment they watch them give birth. They also say that some men don't acknowledge the fact they are a father until the moment they see their child. Some men only want a boy, while others just deal with the fact they have a girl.

So, does this mean that depending on the gender of the child, the conditions in which they are born and the way they are raised are contributing factors to having a healthy relationship with someone who doesn't have a child? What are the parameters for having a child and having a social life? Is all romance thrown out the urban window the moment they move into a 3-bedroom Colonial?

All these questions run through my mind as this strapping 30-something year old picks up the pieces of a beach set his daughter just spilled out onto the subway floor. I look at him one more time before I get off the train and think to myself, no, that's not sadness he feels, but an extremely exhausted version of joy. If you think about it, what man would want to take their daughter to the park in the afternoon if he didn't love her? Sometimes I forget that love transcends the end all and makes everything in life be all. I walk off the train happy and content and hopeful that when the day comes I'm ready for a child, I'll be able to smile about it too.

My Skin On Fire

2010-08-18T03:22:00.001-04:00

It's either the coffee I drank after dinner or the fact that I can't stop scratching my skin that is keeping me up right now. I'm tired and I want to go to bed because I have a full day of crafting, promotion production, being a good friend and taking a moment to myself tomorrow. My skin is definitely itchy from I don't know what and some of the bad skin problems I had last year have sprung up from all the stresses in my life (believe me, I have a lot of stress right now).

What I would like is a vacation to a nice beach. I don't care where as long as there is ocean to swim in, sand to lay on, and a blue sky to look up at. I think it's my lack of vacation that is keeping me from being all too well right now.

However, I did go on a lovely retreat with my family over the weekend to fish, hike, and BBQ in the great outdoors. Oh goodness, it's already 3AM. Photos to come soon.

A Color Combination Incomparable

2010-08-17T13:04:00.000-04:00

Or something like that. I'm trying to pick out the colors to this afghan I'm going to be making for my couch. I think this looks pretty good, but it also looks a bit muddy to me. I'm going to just get the colors and test it out and see where it leads me. Hopefully it leads me down the path of good stuff rather than the path of ugly afghan. If the latter, then someone's gettin' an ugly afghan for Christmas (I'm looking at you, ma).