This

the last spring break

2012-03-11T01:35:00.002-05:00

life slows down for a millisecond, and now i actually have time to bat an eyelash, to take a deep breath and think,and it's all kind of scary, really, the revelation. it starts to sink in that my youth is really, really, almost over. i'm actually turning a new page, beginning a new chapter in my life. looking past all the panicking and freaking out about the job search and everything, i ask myself to wait a second-- while you're in such a mindless hurry to get a job, you've forgotten that this is also your youth slipping away from you soundlessly, without warning. this is a BIG life decision that you haven't thought about at all! the normal, rational thing is to think i need a job right away-- right this instant. but man it's scary to actually let what that signifies sink in.

is it worth it?? is it really?? i always have another option: apply for a one-year volunteer program in bangladesh, and try to wring the tiny bit of what's left of my youth out for all it's worth. hmm. maybe. possibly. i've never been one to shy away from spontaneous decisions. blow this all off and go abroad and live a little more, experience a little more before i need to settle into that dreadful routine and work to pay the bills and grow old and wrinkled and worst of all, jaded and apathetic.

ugh. my head is always fucking with me. sometimes i just want to crawl under the covers and close my eyes and wish the world away, pretend that i'm living in a faulkner novel.

JAMAICA JAMAICA JUST COME. my head is playing weird games. i need you. moment of clarity please!!!

life continues to slap me in the face.

2012-02-13T00:24:00.002-05:00

I'm exhausted. I really am. Emotionally.

Discouraged. Ego bruised. Generally down. Tired of recruiting. Tired of networking. Tired of filling out application after application, only to be answered with rejection after rejection. Tired of waiting for nothing to come into fruition. Most of all, tired of what growing up entails, if what it entails is the gradual coming into belief that nobody will take me, that nobody will want me, that I'm actually not good enough.

It's funny. I used to freak out about things like boys. Now those things couldn't be pushed further to the fringes of my mind. I think I'd sell my soul for a job offer right now. Maybe. Probably.

I feel like I'm living in a parallel universe to my friends and the people around me; a universe of job applications and corporate presentations and general panic attacks. I feel like I've long since gone to another planet, in fact. I'm in an astronaut suit looking down at the earth, at my roommates eating pinkberry and my friends partying in meatpacking and my mom watering the garden. I'm in lalaland by myself, having absolutely no fun at all.

Yep. The days of my youth truly are over. I'm no longer young enough to beg my mama for money to buy myself frivolous clothing and accessory items and elaborate socially-obligated meals. Yep. I'm a senior in college. And the next stop on this line is unemployment.

Optimistic, right? I wish I could be more optimistic. I used to be. Clutching my resume, smart blazer round my shoulders, black patent heels, my mascara on perfect, I was confident. I knew my resume was baller. I knew I had good references. I knew I had awesome experience. And most of all, I knew I could do well at the job I was applying to. But now I'm starting to realize that maybe all that wasn't enough. That maybe I had overestimated myself.

I don't have any connections. I don't have any backdoor contacts. My undergraduate degree is not business-related. I don't go to stern and I don't know how to network. What if this is my downfall?

I'm terrified, horrified, appalled. Mostly terrified. I don't want to be that girl my mom's friends will gossip about, so-and-so's daughter who insisted on majoring in something useless like English and as expected, graduated without a job. I don't want to be that embarrassment. I want to be a proves-you-wrong. Not a well-we-all-saw-that-coming.

I never was a perfectionist. I never was an overachiever. I never wanted to be extraordinary. I just want to be good, and I was always good enough.

But I'm just not so sure anymore.

wrote this on the plane from shanghai to ewr. here it is in its full glory.

2011-12-27T23:22:00.002-05:00

So this is it. It’s all over. No more nights out, no more dinners, no more days, no more classes, no more shanghai. No more being reckless, sleepless nights, abusing our youth. This is it. Back to reality.

I’ve given some thought to what I want to write about in this blog post, and no form seems adequate to express the entirety of what I felt about this experience. So I think, instead of doing anything super official or more narrative-like, I would like to shout out to some of my favorite/ not so favorite memories and the people here who really made my semester. Think of it as a series of vignettes that piece together somewhat of a whole. The theme of the semester was definitely “insanity,” so here are my top insane moments (in no particular order):

1.Beijing- spark all night, getting 2 hours of sleep, then climbing the great wall
2.Getting high as a kite and singing “hello” with everyone in 1003
3.Everything about w-gate
4.Finding out about the passing of ilya ☹
5.Last night- falling down the stairs and bleeding
6.Everything that happened on those crazy orientation nights... making irresponsible decisions
7.Hungover at my internship multiple times, one time to the extent that I had to call in and pretend to be sick. then spent the next day eating at canto place and laying around in bed complaining
8.Shot for shot.. and what shouldn't have happened after
9.Doing nails and gossiping, balcony smoke sessions
10.Finding a live bug while stir-frying vegetables
11. Drinking a whole bottle of wine myself while whining to everyone in my vicinity about you-know-who

And many, many more that I can’t even remember. I met so many special people here, had so much fun, made so many stupid decisions and so many amazing ones. I love everyone who made this semester awesome—even the people who hurt me, because you’re only hurt by the ones you love—and I loved you all. Specifically:

S&M (haha):
There may have been drama and we can’t all love each other at 100% 100% of the time, but I’m confident that in you guys I’ve found lifelong friends. The days and nights we’ve been through together—nothing can replace that. Gonna love you guys forever, my yin and yang 902 twins.

W:
The biggest theme of my semester—I’m sure to everyone else, I must have looked pretty fucking retarded, but I don’t regret anything. I’m not going to lie, you hurt me, and when I told you how I felt, your joking reaction was really less than appropriate, but I don’t hate you and never will. It’s impossible. There’s a reason why I liked you so much, though I can’t even tell you what it is myself, but that is also the reason why I will always remember you as someone who made my time here awesome—not miserable. I’m so glad that now we’re friends.

E&A:
I’ve honestly always lacked actual, platonic guy friends in my life, and this semester you guys were there for me—through everything. You were patient with me, listened to me blab about shit that you really shouldn’t be subjected to the misery to hear about, and always had my back. For that, I really love you guys.

And all my other amazing friends here. Too many to name.

We had the best group of people in Shanghai this Fall. This is an experience I’m going to retain in my heart forever—even when I’m old and wrinkled, and staying up past 11 is unthought of, let alone staying out all night then chugging noodle man—and thinking that this is goodbye is incredibly hard.

A part of me is so exhausted in every single way and can’t wait to touch down on American soil, but a part of me knows so well that I’ve just left one of the best experiences of a lifetime.

Listening to my shanghai experience and I’m smiling at all those memories that are still so fresh in my mind. Shanghai, if I can’t keep you forever, I’m going to lock you in a song.

And what else could it be?

finale

2011-12-15T21:50:00.000-05:00

This is it. The final stretch. And I’m not talking about my studies or anything.

Tonight I’m going to follow my heart. Let myself go. Not care what anyone thinks about anything I do. Because I sure as hell am not about to leave Shanghai with any regrets.

Shanghai, you’ve treated me well. You’ve taught me to grow up, taught me just how much fun I can have being young, taught me that there are no limits to the night. Shanghai, you’ve also taught me what it feels like to get hurt, to be betrayed, and to cry. But all of that is going to be worth it in the end. I want to leave this city feeling like I’ve went through the experience of a lifetime. And I have a feeling that I will.

Here’s to Shanghai, and here’s to you.

Beautiful

You had me
From the very first time
I laid my eyes on you
And decided that
That was what I wanted.

That night
For the first time in my life
I was allowed the luxury
of not just admiring from afar.

Thank you for sharing
A bit of your dazzling beauty with me.
Even though it was short lived,
Even though
To you
It may have meant nothing at all

To me
It was everything.

And this whole time
I could have given my heart
To anybody here
But I chose you.

I know you didn’t
Choose me,
But that’s okay.

I’m not ashamed of
Wanting something beautiful.
Don’t we all want the same?

And I’m not going to be ashamed,
Tonight,
Of anything I do.

Because I know I’m better than
A fleeting hookup
A regret you want buried
In the recesses of your mind.

I know I’m better than
Hiding my feelings
Just because I don’t want
Others to judge,
Because I’m scared of what you’d think
When you know.

I think you already know
And if you don’t,
I want you to.

Tonight I want to let you know
That I cared about you.

Tonight I want to let you know
No matter how irrational this may sound
That you meant a lot to me.

Tonight I want to let you know
That you’re beautiful, one-of-a-kind,
Even everything I hate about you.

Tonight I want to let you know
You kind of broke my heart.
But you made my semester.

Thank you for making me feel, for a moment, special.
Thank you for giving me your attention, thank you
For remembering my name.
And most of all
Thank you for being beautiful.

Here’s a secret
only for you:
I’d rather swim in dirty water
Than get lost
in any deep blue sea.

almost ending credits

2011-11-24T03:30:00.003-05:00

currently listening: pyramid- nightbox

revisiting music i listened to the past to, as cheesy as it sounds, rediscover who i am. this semester, i feel like i've turned into a completely different person. that's always been one of my flaws-- adapting a little too seamlessly into new environments, to the extent that sometimes i even lose sight of who i really am, who i should be, and the values i should hold on to.

i don't want to say i feel like i've become a despicable person, or that i completely reject the way my time at NYU in Shanghai has changed me. that wouldn't be true. i think i've also seen many good changes in myself. but i've also become meaner, more dramatic, and definitely more naiive.

i need to kick myself in the butt and realize-- i'm 21 years old. i'm a graduating senior. i'm not young and uninhibited anymore. unfortunately.

a little earlier in the semester, a friend i met here asked me if, because i was graduating soon, i was"looking for something serious." at the time, i said no-- not really, i can't find something serious anyway so now i'm just having fun. now, i've pretty much realized i was straight up lying/ in denial. of course i'm looking for something serious. i'm so sick and tired of being alone. but my sky-high standards and ridiculous tendency to run after everything i can't have has consistently blocked me from finding anything close to love.

i refuse to give anybody i'm not attracted to immediately a chance. and i'm starting to think maybe i should change that. i'm thinking about all the non-things i've had with people in the past, especially you, i guess, and the pretty much heartless way i rejected you right before i came to shanghai. i found you suddenly annoying and even repulsive, just because you had the nerve to tell me that you liked me. i have no idea why i reacted like that. i know as well as you did that there was something between us. that that wasn't just friendship. something seemed to be building up to happen-- but I feel like we missed taking hold of it when it was still possible. and then it kind of fizzled out, and when you finally made a move it was too late. which really sucks, because we could have had something so beautiful. and i'm so sorry for the way i treated you.

it's funny because sometimes i'm the bitch, sometimes i'm the heartbreaker, but i still think most of the time i'm the fool. most of the time i'm the loser who gets her heart trampled on all over. case in point- this semester. i think i probably should be massively embarrassed right now because pretty much everyone in the program at this point ( speculation) probably knows who I had a thing for, and if i were them i would be laughing at me hard right now, because he is pretty much one of the only people in the whole program who a girl should NOT be having feelings for.

I set myself up to be hurt and I set myself up to be a fool. there's no use clarifying to everyone now that those feelings are over, that I'm done with that, because honestly what's important is that it's over in my own mind-- not that everyone knows it, that's irrelevant. and i'm sick and tired of everyone knowing my shit and making their own speculations. honestly, in the past there was only one thing i really wanted to know, and that was what you thought about the whole shebang. i suppose in my heart there was always this pathetic little hope that maybe you thought differently of me, that maybe you saw how nice i was to you and how much i cared about you, that maybe you could see me as more than just a semi-attractive girl you hooked up with. that maybe i could make you like me. i really threw away my pride and i tried. and you don't know me-- i'm NEVER, EVER proactive.

but now, i don't want to do any of those things anymore. i'm fed up with you. i'm even fed up with the fantasy i made of you, disregarding your personality and focusing on your looks. i don't even care what you think anymore, because these days, everything has become clearer and clearer to me, and the situation is pretty much hopeless. you are not to be changed. you're selfish, inconsiderate, and you've built up a wall so thick and tall around your real emotions and around your heart that no one in hell is going to get in-- at least not now. who knows, maybe you're insecure and vulnerable and just kind of socially awkward inside. or maybe you're just as much of an ignorant asshole as the image you project.

either way, the situation that's happening right now is pretty much the worst case scenario i could ever imagine-- not only are you not out of my life, you're flaunting in my face every day the fallacy of the retarded feelings I had. you and her, in front of me-- the situation could not be more ironic. but you guys suit each other, in a way. you have things to say to each other. i honestly have nothing to say to you, nothing except-- "what's the drink you're drinking there?" because we have nothing in common. and honestly, that's probably a good thing. i still would rather not see you and her. it upsets me more than anything. but that's another story, i guess. one that i don't really want to get into.

there are only a few more weeks to the semester. i think i'm going to pull through. i'm going to miss shanghai and all the amazing people i've met here, the amazing time i had. but i'm probably not going to miss this crazy emotional roller coaster and the dramatic little bitch i've become. oh god. i wonder what's going to happen tomorrow.

goodbye.

2011-11-16T04:53:00.001-05:00

I feel like I don’t deserve to be typing this, because I really barely knew you. But there are so many things I want to say. You were an extraordinary person. “Extraordinary” is the best word I can think of to describe you, because you embody everything that word implies. There was always something about you that was different from everybody else- whether it was those colorful shirts and pants you wore, that goofy grin, or the almost crazed look in your eyes that suggested the mind behind them was going a million miles a minute, dreaming up some wacky invention or other.

I remember the nights you would come down to our room and play drinking games with us—whether it would be cranium or kings or any other variation of college-kid tomfoolery. You were flirty with girls and didn’t hide it—I remember all three of us, Jane, Erin, and I, competing to flirt with you because you were the only good-looking dude in the room full of our geeky friends. We played kings and you drew the truth or dare card that we appointed during a previous “make-a-rule” round, and you had to say who you would fuck in that room, and in which position. You chose Erin, doggy style, which I would never admit at the time but kind of injured my pride. From that minute on I resolved I would catch your attention.

I remember that silly note that Ken wrote and slid threw our door, pretending to be you, because he was jealous of all the attention we gave you. It was a dumb thing, but I freaked out about it for a full two days wondering if possibly it could have been meant for me. Then, of course, we found out the truth, but that didn’t dampen my fascination for you. The next weekend, my friends came down from Princeton and I got really, really drunk pregaming with them. When they left I went up to your room and after a while we were conveniently left alone. You showed me some Russian animation videos of a bear called Cheburaska, which you adored, and a crazy screen you invented which would display in neon lights whatever message you input into it on the computer.

I remember standing next to you and smiling down at you, thinking, this guy is so brilliant, as you told me about the schools you transferred from and drew me that goofy world map of the places you went to all your life, with penned-in lines bouncing from country to country like those maps you read in en-route airplane magazines. We looked at each other and next thing I knew we were kissing, and you picked me up by my shoulders and threw me on your bed, against your wall, you climbed on top of me and I could feel the little prickly hairs on your chin and around your mouth. We did this for a while, you on top of me, sliding your hands under my shirt, and then I had to pull away and I had to stop. I climbed off your bed and smiled sheepishly and said I had to go. You didn’t push me. You said I could come back whenever I wanted. And I left.

I remember thinking after that that was one of the hottest makeouts of my life. All this was before you became famous.

Shortly after that I knew it was me who made it awkward. I felt strange when I would go up to your room for whatever reason, and you would be standing there with your shirt stained red from whatever crazy experiment you had just conducted, and you looked at me and winked at me. I looked away because I didn’t know how to conduct myself, and we never really did hook up again, but you didn’t blame me for being weird.

You even came down to my room once, after, to talk to me about privacy. I still remember how passionate you were about these causes that you knew so much about. I was blown away by your energy and your intelligence, once again, even though I was too young and naiive to fully appreciate what you stood for. I remember you saying “If we don’t fight for our privacy now, we’re going to lose our chance.” You had so many ideas. You wanted to save the world. I believed that you had the power to.

After that I told Jane about our conversation. She said, “I really don’t see what you guys see in him, I really don’t think he’s that smart.” Boy, did you prove those haters wrong. After that semester, I went to London, so I didn’t see you again, but when I heard about you next it was already in the newspapers. When I read that New York Times article, I smiled from ear to ear because I knew you were finally making a name for yourself for what you believed in. You took your dream and you actually made it happen—how many people have that kind of drive, nevermind ability, at the age of 20?

I know Diaspora was a four-person project, but there is no doubt in my mind that most of the vision behind it was yours and yours only. I know that from the conversations we had, from the look in your eye, from the conviction and passion that guided everything you did. Even when we were hooking up or before that, when I was interested in you, I was always firmly aware of how much girls were a secondary priority to you compared to the things you were passionate about. You were such a man, in that way.

I remember boasting like an idiot to all my friends: “I hooked up with someone who is now famous!” I was so proud for sticking my tongue into your mouth that one drunken night. I was so proud that I knew you—even though barely—because that article confirmed to the world how extraordinary and talented you were. I think I thought maybe some of your shine would rub off on me too. You inspired me to think that maybe I could actually be somebody. I remember how reading about you made me so happy to be at NYU- getting to know people who could actually be, somebody, who could actually change the world in the future. I felt so confident in the youth of our generation and so proud to be young that day.

And now you’re gone. It’s hard to imagine, impossible to accept. I still remember your look, your laugh, the way you talked and walked and acted. I was far from your close friend—maybe not even close enough to you to be an acquaintance, but you can be sure that you made a big impact on my life. I wish you could see that. I wish, before you made the decision to die, that you could see how many people were touched by you and inspired by you, who were cheering for you to succeed. I had been imagining the day when you would become the next Mark Zuckerberg, albeit an ethical, even more brilliant Mark Zuckerberg, and I could pat myself on the back and say, I knew that guy. We even had a little thing. But now, that day will never come. You had so much potential. You were so one of a kind. Why, why did you have to cut everything short? You could have made the world a better place. You were already in the process of doing so. 22 years old. You had the whole world in front of you, Ilya.

I know I will never understand why you did it, but even to an unassuming almost-stranger like me, you will always live in my memory—all the snippets of moments I can string together in my head of fall semester sophomore year, of which you were a definite highlight. Ilya, you were brilliant, kind, funny, one of a kind, extraordinary. And definitely one of the best kissers I have ever known.

The world is going to miss you.

I'm not being retarded for once!

2011-11-07T03:54:00.003-05:00

I'm definitely getting better and better at this "getting over" thing. now when i think about you, i hardly blink an eyelid.

I'm still pretty fascinated by the person you are though. i just can't figure you out. do you really have no feelings at all/ are you completely oblivious to everything? you can't possibly be as big of a jackass as your image projects. You can't have NO emotions at all. Is that even possible? Maybe I'm giving you too much credit, but I like to think you're human at least. Honestly, those things you say don't hurt me much because I expected them. I'm more than clued in on where every girl here sits on the hotness spectrum, and I have no delusions. I have to admit, though, that saying stuff like that is probably not the wisest idea on your part because you're in danger of ruining your game hard when you're drunk.

I just can't figure out if you're either A) really, really dumb or B) really, really smart. There's no possibility of anything in between. I don't know which option would be better, though, from my point of view.

I know you're really into sucking those other kids' dicks, which I can't really understand except for the fact that they do have a lot in common with you, albeit not in a good way. I really hope you're not just social climbing/ trying to look cool because that would be pretty lame and high school of you. Hopefully the rest of this semester you can prove to me than you're more than that, 'cause even though now I really hold no more delusional hopes, I'd still like to think I wasn't wasting my time and energy all this while being so nice to you.

P.S you're definitely 9/ 10 looks wise-- no need to fake being humble.It's really the inside that counts, though. you can attract someone's attention with your looks, but to really keep it you've got to stop acting like an ignorant asshole all the time. I do have to thank you though, because that's tremendously helped me in terms of getting over you.

saturday night doing nothing productive as usual

2011-11-05T07:22:00.002-04:00

sore all over from aoki and feeling lazy. for once i don't feel very emotional about anything. think i'm getting jaded. have made a decision to move to hong kong after graduation. maybe i'll actually get my life together soon?

2011-10-16T05:22:00.002-04:00

I can definitely classify this as one of the shittiest moments of my life. I feel like absolute shit, both emotionally and physically. Things could not get much worse.

I don't understand what happened and this hurts really badly, more than anything that has to do with boys or relationships or stupid crushes. feeling someone close a door on your face. not giving you time to explain. i don't know what i've done to hurt you guys but rest assured you've taught me a lesson and you made me hurt just as much if not more. mission accomplished, i guess.

i've never done or said anything against any one of you or ever behind your back. I loved you from the start and i knew you had my back as much as i had yours. i fucked up yesterday and i know it, but not enough for you to be this angry at me. i can only assume there's some kind of misunderstanding, but if you dont tell me and if you dont want to talk about it, then i have no way to fix it.

i cant understand why there's a need to fight and give people the cold shoulder and bring out the high school drama. i know i'm older but i'm not that much older for there to be such a huge difference in the way we handle things. i just want to deal with things maturely like adults and talk it out. i dont need any drama in my life right now and i just want to live and have fun and treat each other with honesty.

my heart is ready and open to love and accept people. i dont have armour on and i dont have spikes on and i dont have a closed door inside. i dont close a door on someone's face and whisper about them behind their back because i'm angry or because there is a potential misunderstanding. i value our friendship as something genuine and very important to me and i want to treat it with respect.

i understand that you guys are close, closer to each other than you are to me, and that's completely fine and natural to me. but i've come to value our relationship extremely highly and there's no way in fucking hell i'm going to let this misunderstanding or whatever it is endanger that. there's no way in hell i'm not going to talk through it and understand why. because i feel like i deserve better than that, honestly. i deserve to know and i deserve a chance to explain myself too because honest to goodness for all i know i have never done anything, ANYTHING to either of you.

if this is just an eruption of previous issues that you guys have already had with me that maybe i was just oblivious to, then i want you to tell me that too. if i piss you off, then let's talk about it. i dont know. maybe i am a bitch. maybe i did fuck up harder than i thought. i don't know. i just know that i feel like a pretty fucking big loser right now. i cant stand this. please come home.

I quit.

2011-10-09T22:53:00.002-04:00

How much of the decision was for me and how much of the decision was for you? Honestly, I don't even know. I just know that no matter what, it's an entirely selfish decision. I need to get my shit together.

Whether you care or notice at all, I want to let you know that I'm clean.

Let my wildcard life begin.

2011-09-30T00:06:00.002-04:00

It hurts me so much to think that I can’t be there for you. The news hit me really hard because when I received it, that’s when I really realized how much I care about you and how strong my feelings were. All this time I’ve been trying to bury my feelings and stop myself from getting hurt, because I knew you were bad news and I knew you didn’t feel about me the same way and I didn’t want to look like a fool. So I constantly turned away from what my heart was telling me. But when I heard about your condition, I had to confront myself. I know I can’t pretend anymore. I’m so worried about you and I care so much. I just want to run over there and make sure you’re ok. It’s no use lying anymore. I think I like you.

It hurts so much, also, to think that she was the one who knew about what happened and she was the one who told us and she was the one who’s been texting you this whole time to make sure you’re ok. I’m so far away from your life now, so insignificant and irrelevant that I had no idea, was completely oblivious when all of this was happening to you. And who am I anyway? I don’t even feel like I deserve to ask you how you’re doing. I don’t feel like I have the right to care about you, because I’m nobody. Texting you was more a move for me, to satisfy my guilty conscience, than for you. I’m sure you’re content with her texts, her messages and her care. You don’t need me. Do you find me annoying? I’m so scared that you do. I’m so scared that you were wondering wtf I would text you.

I feel like such a dumb fuck. For constantly playing mind games in my head and asking myself petty questions and daydreaming like a retard. Your condition is real life. It pulled me back to reality. Life isn’t a bubble of hookups and partying and fantasizing and drama. Life is things like this. Sometimes your body doesn’t work anymore the way it’s supposed to, no matter how good you’ve been taking care of it. I know you’re hurting now because it’s so important to you that your body is in good condition and that you look good and that you keep up that masculine image that I admit, makes you so fucking attractive. But I want to say it’s ok to be vulnerable sometimes. And that doesn’t make you less manly. It makes me want to care about you more. Because this makes you real.

I know I’ve been such a retard. Smoking in front of you and saying dumb shit like “I want to live my life before I die.” You probably had a lung condition all this time and thought I was the dumbest fuck ever for fucking up a healthy organ you wish you had. I’m even embarrassed to think about the way I behaved and to think, I smoked like a chimney in front of you with no shame when all that time I was probably endangering your health. I’m such a fucking idiot. I’ll understand if you find me a dumb shit and don’t want to talk to me. I forgive you for everything and the way you treated me and basically every fucking thing because now I just want you to be ok and I’m worried and I like you.

I just can’t stand thinking about you and her and how she was there for you and I wasn’t when I could have been that girl. Because honestly she doesn’t care about you enough if she could be in Beijing partying and sleeping with other guys when you were going through this. She doesn’t deserve you because she’s selfish and I would never do that. I would have been there for you. But you’re not open to me. You’re so fucking closed to me and I don’t know why. Why are you open to her?

I’m feeling this crazy mix of guilt and jealousy and affection and it’s fucking ridiculous. A part of me resents you so hard for not trusting me and not being open to me and choosing her instead when I KNOW I care about you more. A part of me feels so dumb and fucking stupid for all the things I did and said when I was with you. A part of me is worried sick and just wants you to get better and wants to rush over there and take care of you. A part of me is sad. Because I barely know you. Am I even your friend? Do I even count as a friend or am I an acquaintance? Do I matter at all and I am an even bigger fool now for caring?

I can’t think about anything else and I don’t want to party or drink or get high or even smoke a cigarette because the truth is the only reason I did those things was because I wanted to go out and bump into you. I wanted to be ready and in a state where I could relax and possibly talk to you and possibly touch you again because I’m obsessed. I can’t get you out of my head even though I barely know you and it’s been like this for weeks and I’ve been trying to suppress it and find other guys and all that shit but it hasn’t been working. I don’t know how you have this power over me but you do. And it’s fucking ridiculous.

I want you to get better and come back and I want to make it up to you and to myself by not lying anymore. If you like her I want to accept that and give you my well wishes. I don’t want to stand in your way of anything or to annoy you but I want you to know that I do care about you and if not anything else I want to be your friend. I just want to see you healthy and partying again like you used to, and you can be a playboy and you can take home as many girls as you want as long as you’re ok and good and healthy. I don’t want to play any more games. I’m going to go talk to you and ask you if you’re ok because I care. I’m not playing fucking hard to get or anything anymore. I’m swallowing my pride. I care about you and I don’t care if you know. Because now I know you’re hurting and I want you to know that I care. And that I’m thinking about you—fuck other people, fuck whatever I said in my text. I care. And I want you to get better. And I miss you.

Papercut

2011-09-13T13:37:00.003-04:00

i cut my finger on a piece of paper,
but i can barely trace the outline of the wound.
it wasn't deep but it hurt like no other
the persistent ache reminded me of you.

you never said you'd treat me like a lover
and to tell the truth i wouldn't want you to
but when i see you dancing with those others
it sucks because i don't think they're that cute.

yeah you're hot but boy you could be smarter
and you're vain, ignorant, pretty fucking lame
but you were always there to keep me warmer
as you reassured me that you knew my name.

this cut hurts when i type these letters
hurts when i run my hands through my hair
like you did once when we didn't act like strangers
it hurts more than how much you don't care.

rediscovered some purple poetry I wrote freshman year:

2011-08-09T03:25:00.000-04:00

I am your wet cigarette

you take me, all out of breath.

and though I’m limp, you’ll have me like this

my yellow skin only damp from your kiss.

Shanghai

2011-06-27T23:22:00.001-04:00

My friend asked me to use one word to describe Shanghai. “Elitist” came to mind right away. But I needed more words. Rich. Gorgeous. Filthy and immaculate, at the same time. Full of it! A hot girl in a Versace dress who thinks she’s all that. Stifling and suffocating- the weather. Often insufferable- the people. But also beautiful, dynamic, ridiculously cosmopolitan, always on the tip of its toes. An outstanding city, which by all means I should hate— but that I’ve surprisingly started to love. 1400 km away from the city I grew up in, it’s completely, completely different. It’s definitely no Beijing, but it has something that’s entirely it’s own.

Loneliness is something I have to deal with here. Career and identity crises are some things I have to deal with. Culture shock ( yes, even I experience culture shock, just a little bit) is something I have to deal with. Not having the same type of spicy Sichuan food that I can get in Beijing. Not having the same group of friends to go out and party with. Not having my mom around all the time to escape to when I need a little breathing space. Not much of a “life” beyond my internship. Not many people to talk to, no familiar roads to pass on my way home— where I live alone. But haven’t I always had to deal with these things, in one way or another?

And this city is teaching me so many more things. Like how to be Chinese again. Really, really Chinese— the type who goes on Weibo everyday, who watches Taiwanese dramas and cries her heart out, who gets into a taxi and says, “师傅，去xxx路101弄～“then proceeds to have a heart-to-heart conversation with him. I’m even starting to understand Shanghainese a little bit (ok, that might be somewhat of an overstatement). Now sometimes when I speak in English I actually feel awkward— like I have to mentally shift gears and translate my whole thought process, like when you press those little flag buttons on the top right corners of web pages and everything changes. And I know this is just what I needed all along. To revisit that very, very important part of my identity again— The Chinese girl whose always been the core of my whole being. I’ve always rejected becoming whitewashed. But 3 years in New York have been hard on me. Being an English Lit and Journalism major hasn’t helped either. Thankfully, Shanghai’s saved me from teetering over the edge. And I can still recite Li Bai’s poems by heart!

The same friend asked me to describe New York in one word. I still needed four. “A very rich hipster,” I said. I miss that rich hipster a whole fucking lot, so much it literally hurts inside whenever I think about my life back in the city. But maybe, just maybe… I’m starting to fall a little bit for the hot girl in that Versace dress too.

Shanghai, I’m so glad I’m here.

2011-02-09T21:43:00.001-05:00

It was a place that used to exist in the Beijing of that time. It probably doesn't exist anymore-- in fact, I am almost sure it doesn't. I suppose this is not so much a description of a place as it is a childhood memory.

The construction was a large, dome-like structure, blue in hue due to scaffolding on the outside. Why there was scaffolding I didn't know; it wasn't under construction, like many other buildings and sites around it were. Sometimes it's facade would take on a grey hue due to the dust and pollution in the Beijing air. It looked like a very large tent, and in fact that was what the Beijingers called it in Chinese, literally "big tent." It was located on the corner of Wang Jing district, a suburb of Beijing mainly inhabited by local Chinese and a large Korean immigration population. "Big tent" was a market place, and it sold lots of things. The left side was a huge market for vegetables, meats, and produce, the middle and large majority of the place sold housewares, pots, pans, even clothing, and a tiny corner on the right sold pets.

The year was 2000 or 2001. Every week I would go with my ayi-- that is, the resident helper my mother hired to make food and clean our house for 300 kuai a month sans rent (roughly equivalent to 45 dollars) to "big tent" to get groceries for my family. My family was me, my mother, the ayi, and sometimes my father. Later, it was just me, my mother and the ayi. We were a small family, but we still needed our share of groceries. The ayi was young, only 19, but she could cook pretty well. Xiao Luo was her name. So Xiao Luo would take me to the market, and on the specific incident I remember now, after we went to buy vegetables for the day-- she had decided on making a simple dish like eggs stir fried with tomatoes, or potatoes and green peppers and eggplants-- she rewarded me by taking me to the middle part of "big tent" to buy anything I wanted.

"Big tent" was set up so that many merchants operated many little stalls in a large marketplace setting. Consumers would walk through winding aisles with stalls on each side, perusing products and stopping to buy when they wanted to. I was 10 or 11 at the time, and I thought "big tent" sold everything in the world. In fact, it probably did. The kitchenware stalls sold plastic "pens" ( in Chinese, this means plastic bowl-like containers in rainbow colours, printed with floral patterns, that people would wash cloths or their feet in), water thermoses, big woks and stirfry pails, towelettes, sponges, sets and sets of cutlery in every shape and style you could imagine. The decorations stalls sold large ( probably fake) Qing dynasty China jugs, stone-carved lions to guard your house, wood carvings depicting illustrative imaginings of scenes from the poetic works of great Chinese poets like Li Bai and Du Fu, fold-out fans with shimmering gold engravings of Chinese idioms.

But the best stall of all, to me, was the stationary stall. The stalls were an iridescent mass of notebooks, pens, and pencils, imprinted with different cartoons and characters, in different sizes, shapes, and colours, erasers shaped like bowls of ramen, sushi, or little cars, and piles of stickers and notepads and greeting cards and origami sheets. Imagine the imagery of a little kid in a candy store, only I was a little kid with a penchant for stationary and fancy writing utensils finding herself in a world of opportunity.

I would pick out what I wanted; usually a few gel pens, a few automatic pencils, fancy letter paper printed with Japanese and Korean manga characters that I will never actually use to write letters (they ended up becoming the palimpsests for my scribbled diary entries about juvenile middle school crushes), and then Xiao Luo and I would approach the store owner to bargain with her about the price. The bargaining was a long process that the then 10-year-old me took no interest in. Instead I would spend the time standing next to Xiao Luo as I looked around for the next stall I was interested in perusing. A few more rounds, and we would leave, brushing arms with all kinds of people on their trip to the market. Some were like us, ayi and child, some were mothers, wearing pajama clothing and dusty plastic sandals with their thick black hair tied back with elastic bands, their screaming children in their arms, some were construction workers just off work, weary and brown, looking for a piece of comfort to bring home. Sometimes when we passed each other we would smile. We were all regular customers of "big tent," and we called it part of our home.

On our way out and back home, often Xiao Luo would reward me by buying me something to eat. There were so many vendors there! And everything smelled so good. My favorite, which, later in international school my American or European friends would label "Chinese Pizza," but to me will always be "Jian Bing", was a big circular dough pita-type concoction spread with fried eggs, cilantro, and chopped green onions. After it is fried on a pan till golden brown, it would be brushed with spicy sauce and soy sauce, and a crispy fried chip would be put in the middle. Then the merchant would fold up the sides of the pita, enclosing the dough chip within, put it in a thin plastic bag and wrap it with brown paper napkins. He would sell us one for 1 kuai only-- that is less than 30 cents each, and I would be so full after one my stomach would be spoiled for dinner. Now they probably cost 3 kuai at least. Now Beijing is different. Sometimes, also, we would have spicy snails out of a plastic bag that would occasionally give me a stomachache. or a powdery pink sausage dipped in egg yoke and fried in a fryer. There were so many good things there, and I love to eat. That little treat at the end was just another thing that added to the magic of the big tent experience.

Looking back, it was such an ordinary place. Some would call it miserly. It was not the cleanest place in the world and its patrons were not the most well off. They were all local Chinese working class; many probably wouldn't have even heard a word of English before, let alone have traveled outside of China. Everything inside was dirt cheap, and everything outside was dusty and polluted. There was garbage on the floor and sometimes sewage and people rode around on dusty bicycles under the hot Beijing sun ( that's how I always remember it, as hot, dusty, but in fact I lived many winters in Beijing. I don't know why I don't as vividly remember the winters.) But as a naive child, I really looked forward to our weekly excursions. I loved that place. It was everything I knew, holding my ayi's hand and heading to big tent after school and then going home with her and doing my homework while she cooked up something nice, waiting for my mom to come home from her busy office job.

Now "big tent" has probably been replaced by some fancy new high rise or mall. The face of Beijing has changed irrevocably since the early 21st century. But big tent will always be a place that, to me, signified everything I loved about growing up in Beijing. The simplicity of it; of bargaining with gap-toothed storekeepers and buying printed stationary and smelling dough frying on little carts of vendors on the sidewalk, is so refreshing to think of now. But even then construction was going on all around us and the taxis were being re-inspected and the city was cracking down on health and sanitary violations. Beijing was developing. The construction, that was why it was always so dusty. Even the sky told us about change.

Now I don't know if a place like "big tent" even exists anymore, but I still think back to it fondly. I'm 20 years old living in a world of responsibility, sitting in a chair in a high rise in the middle of New York City, a continent and ocean away, but I still remember that 10-year-old little girl who went to "big tent," glancing around in awe at the myriad of choices surrounding her as she surveyed that stationary stall.

drink up baby, look at the stars, and i'll kiss you again, between the bars.

2011-02-09T17:47:00.003-05:00

I was having a pretty emotional day already, and then I started to do this project for my journalism class called “Portrait of Grief.” The assignment called for a short 150-200 word piece on someone that you’ve lost. I have been fortunate enough in life not to have lost anybody close to me, so my professor suggested I write about “a celebrity.” Well, I wouldn’t really call Elliott Smith “a celebrity.” I also wouldn’t necessarily call him a personal loss, since I never knew him. But I thought, this is the only person I can write about.

When i first started listening to Elliott Smith, I was 14 years old. I remember this because the first indie band I ever got into was Rilo Kiley, when I was 13, and that pretty much started my musical awakening. The reason all my social media handles are called “butitjustis” is because I was really into this song by Rilo Kiley at the time, called “It Just Is.” It went like this:

Today is the day I realized that I could be loved. it echoed through the park last night;he wasn’t our son, he belonged to everyone. And this loss isn’t good enough for sorrow or inspiration. It’s such a loss for the good guys afraid of this life— that it just is. ‘Cause everybody dies.

At the time, I thought the “that it just is” part was “but it just is,” and it just seemed to me so simple and beautiful that I started using it everywhere. Then I realized my ears had deceived me, but the handle stuck. Of course I then discovered that the song was a tribute to Elliott Smith. That’s when I really got into his music.

Elliott Smith’s music has been such a big part of my life. I think a lot of people who just started getting into indie music now ( say, when they started going to college) probably haven’t had much exposure to him, which is a huge pity, because his music is life changing. I challenged all my middle/ high school emo energy into listening to his songs, and they always seemed to perfectly articulate all my convoluted emotions. Some might call him melodramatic. That does him a huge disservice. He was so real.

Ironically, now that everybody else around me is super music-savvy and cool, I’ve really fallen out of the loop. The only artists I listen to are still the old, dated indie bands: Rilo Kiley, Bright Eyes, Death Cab, Tilly&The Wall… my Itunes hasn’t really been updated in years. I guess I’m getting more and more un-hip as times go by. But I’m still proud I’ve been loyal to Elliott. I wouldn’t trade him for the world.

October 21, 2003. RIP.

2010-12-17T21:33:00.002-05:00

fried pancakes
bicycle lanes
red taxis, dented and dusty.
cracked sidewalks, grey asphalt
construction cranes, dust.
mid-noon sun. scorching.
haircuts, hutongs.
yogurt in china bottles.
blue tops, straws,
skewers, spicy oil boiling,
one kuai bills,
chairman mao’s smiling face,
his beauty spot.
expats, blonde haired blue eyed backpackers,
sanlitun alleys, bars,
fake alcohol, kamikazes, b52s,
nanjie, bartenders,
heels, skinny legs,
girls, girls. drag queens,
kfcs and mcdonalds lining the streets,
jay chou posters,
bargaining with store owners,
new malls, zara,
lamb skewers, flip flops in the summer
Beijing dust.
international schools, local schools
cotton polyester blue white
sweatshirt uniforms.
cut hair, glasses, tests,
chalk, blackboard, aluminum trays,
school lunch. instant noodles,
supermarkets, smoked meats,
chips, perfume,
compounds, guards, ayis,
English, Chinese, Korean, Finnish.
buses that talk.
subway entrances with new doors,
fancy ticket machines.
people,
people,
people pushing, butting in line,
cursing, smoking,
squatting,
living.
Beijing.

Thinking About Special K

2010-10-13T22:47:00.002-04:00

The distance between us, I think
is giddy.
I can see your Converse-clad feet.
(I want to brush my hand against yours.)

What are you writing there?
a triplet, an alexandrine
a meter between us.
(Come a little closer baby.)

Hey your eyes are kind of dark
your lines are kind of hard
for this kind of poetry.
(Well you’re pretty pretty sexy.)

But this is my pen,
and this is my paper
and this is my fantasy.
(So this is how I’ll write you.)

And I’ll build a country
I’ll build a garden
I’ll build a castle—
(I’ll make a king out of you.)

the summer's come undone

2010-08-14T23:23:00.003-04:00

i've been back from china for a week now, so this post is long overdue. i always thought i would have a lot on my mind, hence a lot to write about after coming back from china, but this time, surprisingly, i don't. I suppose that's why i've put this off for so long.

This time going back to China did not produce the same effect as it did in me last year. Last year the trip was a whirlwind of love and pain so intense that it almost knocked me over. cheesy to say, and the gods of purple prose will hate me for this, but that is what it was. This year I went back with more nonchalance. more traveler's fatigue. less "visiting a former lover" bullshit. I think a lot of that has to do with the experiences i've had and the decisions i've made in the past year. first of all, i travelled so much in the past few months that the world has shrunken at an infinite level to me. i've always been a world traveler, but in the past few months i've taken it to the extreme. going somewhere far away was always just a mild deal for me, but now it is a tiny deal. I feel like any instant i could book myself a flight and step off in any part of the world i'd want to.

secondly, i've decided i will spend my next summer in beijing, that i will go study abroad in shanghai the fall of my senior year, and that i will go back to china to work after i graduate. In a sense these decisions have liberated me, because china is my home now. i don't have to go back with the feeling that i am clinging to a thread, because i know that my future will be there. In this version of the world, in which i have decided that i will eventually return to china, i am only temporarily abroad. I'm someone temporarily abroad right now honing the skills i will eventually need to help my country when i return home, and this trip is just a friendly visit back in between.

when i was on the plane back i was thinking to myself, in a large sense i went back to beijing in order to make sure the city was still mine. I wanted to see if i still knew it, and more importantly, if it still knew ME. In a twisted way I wanted to see if i still owned it, if it was still obedient, if the sky still behaved the way i expected it to, if the people still spoke in the same way, if the cab drivers still shared their lives with me with the same uninhibited ease. Because the thing that would scare me the most, sadden me the most, is if i were to feel that beijing was somehow slipping through my fingers. But thankfully, I was exhilerated to find out that yes, beijing was still my city. beijing IS still my city. whatever i wanted to find here, i found, and though i only stayed for a week, everything was perfect in this gritty, real, amazing way. it was so perfect that i was scared that something would go wrong, because things just can't be this perfect, can they? But they were. I shopped hard. I ate hard. and of course, i partied hard.

now i'm back. I was back a week ago. I admit i still went through a bit of post-china depression. a lot of it had to with the mundanity of life here in new york city. if you asked me a month ago, i would have never believed that i would ever describe life in new york as mundane. it certainly wasn't before i left. right before i left i was in the midst of some incredible drama, being torn left and right with feelings that i've now realized weren't really there or didn't matter that much at all. when i came back i took a knife to it all, basically. I wasn;t interested in it anymore. but i was bored. very, very bored. the past week has been one of the most boring weeks of my existence. i interned, i ate out a bit, i read a book. but nothing really happened. nothing made me feel much.

until today, i guess. today i moved. i got the ultimatum on friday, being a transition resident, that i had to move to my new place before tomorrow. My mum's in china, and all my friends were working, or out of town, so i had to take on everything myself. boxed everything up, bagged it, then started the long, tedious cab journeys down to chinatown. I won't lie to you. it was hell. every bit of it. i couldnt carry everything. i'm not exactly mrs fit and muscular. I had a lot of trouble. people stared. i kicked boxes. i was frustrated. i couldn't get a cab. traffic jams, unattended luggage, dropping things, struggling on stairs, through doors, all of it. I went four times today, back and forth. and i still need to go again tomorrow.

but something kept me through it all, something stopped me from bursting into tears at one point and cursing myself for beijing in new york alone and helpless. and i realized that in the most peculiar moments this city has a habit of reaching out to you. it's the new yorkers. they're wonderful. a woman stopped on the sidewalk and personally helped me get a cab. she then helped me put all my luggage in and gave me her blessings. a cab driver sweet talked a policeman into letting him drive through the barricades of a closed street so i wouldnt have to walk down a block with my impossibly large luggage. a fireman came out of his vehicle and helped me carry a box i had been rolling and kicking forward on a sidewalk. and they all did it with a smile.

i find it hard to believe that i am typing something this utterly cheesy, but it was real, it happened. those people totally brightened my day. though today was probably my most exhausting day, my most dreaded day since i came back from china, it was also a day that made me fall in love with the city again. like i've done so many times. and it also made me feel that it would be alright, living all the way down in chinatown, that i could make it work, even though i'm not in beijing and i'm not, in a real sense, "home." and more importantly, i think, it also excited me for all the days ahead, the full year that i have ahead of me in beijing, stretching out in front of me like-- this is strange, but i always think of the weekly layouts of my planner when i think about days, with about 7 or 8 lines allotted to every day in a small box. i imagine those pages flipping by very fast, with a whoosh. all penned in black and clotty in my terrible, haywire handwriting.

oh, the new school year. at the risk of sounding like the biggest nerd in the universe, fuck it, i'll say it. i can't fucking wait.

don't turn the lights on

2010-07-27T21:26:00.005-04:00

I'm not a great person. I'll be the first to admit that. I make bad decisions. In fact, I make bad decisions a lot. I've hurt people, I've been hurt, and I've been hurt in a way that serves me right. I don't give enough to charity, and I don't find change for homeless people who ask me for it on the street. When a stranger passes by and asks for a light, i say i don't have one even when i do. I never thought that was really a problem. I could always pull out an excuse from my full stockroom of excuses to justify my actions. "we are human, we are flawed" is a popular one.

But it's times like these when I really think about how I've been acting, when I really wonder if whatever I do can be justified. I'm not a teenager anymore, I'm twenty now (shudder) and the world is real. My life is real and my decisions are real and I need to be accountable for them. I've made a lot of poor decisions recently. I feel that I can potentially be hurting a lot of people, people that I'm close to, and I just can't stop. I don't need to be weak. The decisions I've made won't necessarily bring me joy, but I keep making them. It's as if I just want to see what will happen. How much I can get away with. If I really have this kind of power to let a fuck up in my own life become a problem for others. Pretty sadistic, right? pretty fucked up.

I'm just not in the right frame of mind. city living is wearing me out. the nine to five is wearing me out. I'm so tired all the time yet I'm so, so fucking bored. I just go looking for trouble because I want something to happen. It's the first time being incredibly busy is incredibly uninspiring. I haven't had a break in so long, and that is why I am looking forward to this upcoming china trip so much. I just know china will sort me out. Being away from the city for a moment, being away from what my immediate living environment is now ( and I have to admit it, though in my heart I will forever be a girl living in China's capital city), just being in Beijing will give me time to think and time to reflect and time to be a little bit more rational. See I've never been an irrational person. I'm just making irrational decisions, because, well because I'm in New York.

That's me justifying it again. with another excuse from the stockroom of excuses. I keep it pretty well stocked back there. I just can't stand being here for another day. I'm scared of myself. I'm scared I'm going to do something unforgivable. I wish I could escape back to New jersey, back to my mother's house and spend a weekend on cold cherries and library books and bad driving like I always do and purge my mind. But I can't now, not in the middle of the week. and there are still three more days until Beijing. I hope I can last it.

love is a mixtape

2010-06-26T18:41:00.004-04:00

Just finished reading "Love Is A Mixtape" by Rob Sheffield. Sheffield's a contributing editor at Rollingstone and a pretty badass rock critic. He wrote a pretty badass book. It's a pretty beautiful book, too. Yeah, I just used "pretty" and "beautiful" together in the same sentence. And it worked.

Sheffield's writing really got me thinking about music and life a lot more than I have before. Music's always been extremely important to me, of course. Aggressively searching for new bands and new songs on various indie music blogs ranks right up there in my hobbies with shopping and eating the shit out of new food. And I have had many a melancholic, some would call "emo" moment with song lyric segments and an atmospheric picture, where I ramble about woe is me and about how only this song gets me in the world world. But wow. that's nothing compared to what 'Love Is A Mixtape' got me thinking about. Music is his life. Music was their life, him and Renee, the person he lost. That's pretty amazing that something like music could be the focal point of your whole life. And that it could actually mean something. be poignant and profound and not "i'm trying so hard to be hipster right now."

His writing sent shivers down my spine and really made me feel. and he was writing about music. His writing is music. I wish i had something like that. I don't think music does it for me as much as it does for him, just yet. I always thought my relationship with music was pretty sacred, pretty profound, pretty one of a kind. It's pretty superficial compared to what it could be. I guess what I'm trying to say is-- and I'm never trying to say anything with these blog posts, really, because if I wanted to write an essay with a thesis I would submit it to an English professor-- I guess what I'm trying to say is I want to live life with more. with more feeling, with more something, with more music. i want to live life with more life.

what if my life were a mixtape? I know these songs would be on it.

The Decemberists- Here I Dreamt I was an Architect
Elliott Smith- Between The Bars
Stars- Don't Be Afraid To Sing
Stars- Calendar Girl
Sunset Rubdown- Us Ones In Between
Bright Eyes- "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning," The Whole Album
Ben Kweller- Sundress
Keane- Bedshaped
Ian Broudie- Song For No One
Ben Gibbard- Carolina
The Decemberists- O New England
Dirty Vegas- Home Again
Green Day- Jesus of Suburbia
The Fratellis- Whistle For The Choir
Bishop Allen- The Same Fire
Bishop Allen- Butterfly Nets
Bishop Allen- The Chinatown Bus
Simon& Garfunkel- America
Rilo Kiley- Spectacular Views

and probably many more. Man, I kinda want to make a mixtape now.I wish I could make a mixtape that says how excited I am to be in New York but also how scared and how anxious and how angry. I wish could make a mixtape about how much I love Beijing and how much being away from home hurts and gnaws inside, and I wish I could make a mistake about how disgustingly, disgustingly lonely I feel sometimes. Rob sheffield probably could. I wish he would teach me.

Update from my life? nothing much has changed. Those who know me will know I'm interning at NBC Universal now, with the local integrated media department. I can't say much about it because apparently that would be violating my contract with NBC. not that there's much to say about it. But assume I'm happy.

I'm also interning with Dujour magazine. I've gotten some bylines. Pretty excited. I'm being worked like a horse but it's worth it. Summer classes have ended. My grades come out in T minus one days. Gpa pressure is currently killing me but hopefully I can pull through. It's a rare day that i have time and can sit down and type out a blog entry. It's a rare day that I feel like doing so. I'm glad I did, though, and I think it has made me feel better.

Thanks Rob Sheffield.
Everyone, just go out and read this book.

i used to live in a psychic city

2010-05-19T12:48:00.002-04:00

I'm back in New York City.
Everything seems surreal. The tall buildings, expansive blue sky, endless siren wails and the tap tap tap of strappy sandals on fashionable girls hitting the streets in perfect synchronization. What can I say? I love this place.
Saw the skyline and I said, New York, I'm home.
I've been pretty busy lately, what with classes, catching up with everybody, and work for Dujour magazine, where I'm interning. Been caught up in a lot of the fashion stuff that I pretend to know about but I actually have never done before.. scrambling with phone calls and emails and stuff. At least i know I'm going to learn a lot.
On the hunt for a paying job today. Hopefully if a bookstore doesn't want me, then a restaurant will. by the way, did I mention I absolutely detest Beowulf? and medieval literature? ugh. gag me.

i have a pack of apple/ grape/ muscat (?) flavoured japanese gummies and I am eating them slowly. thinking about how i've been walking on the left side of the road lately and it took me by surprise. Didn't know that London had really gotten into my skin. Do I miss it? I guess. a little. I miss my friends. But I don't know. New York is a pretty aggressive lover. I don't think it would let me turn my attention to anything else.

I used to live in a heartbeat city,
I swear I'd fall in love every minute on the street.
You might be walking around the corner
and our eyes might meet.

I Am Love.

2010-04-17T07:29:00.003-04:00

This is a love story set at the turn of the millennium in Milan. It is and it isn’t. It is a love story, but not so much one with the flourishes and the grandness of a Romeo and Juliet tragedy. It’s a story about transgression, about suppression, about clouds and sunlight and stifling air and finally one woman’s awakening. I Am Love is a story of immeasurable beauty; the story of Emma Recchi, adapted child of the Italian bourgeoisie, a woman weighed down by the responsibilities of the world yet pure and naive as a child.

This is also a story about breakdown. We are voyeurs, peaking through our fingers into the titillating lives of the Recchi family, a family of haute conservatives teetering on the brink of disaster. There’s a stifling air to the beginning scenes of the movie. Those flourishing letters and classical, haunting score only add to the eerie datedness and unease that encapsulates the Recchi family’s ceremonial dinner. The mise-en-scene is washed out; drab, grey slushy snow of a Milanese winter. The family goes back and forth with empty banter and monetary matters, mundanity captured in Luca Guadagnino’s long, shivering takes.

But everything steps into the sunlight when Emma Recchi’s eyes meet Antonio Biscaglia’s, and Tilda Swinton’s character falls for her son’s best friend. It’s theatrical but romantic, he with his seductive culinary prowess and she slowly slipping out of a stylish but stifling blue Hermes. Thirty minutes in, they tumble into the soft glow and pastel florals of the Nicean springtime. There’s a certain magical surrealism to it, as the cinematography over-exposes and we watch these character’s sparkle with the illumination of love.

Still something isn’t right. Something is always not right, as Guadagnino keeps reminding us in those unnerving choppy montages and swerving pans. The movie’s unease bites on and never lets go, and the wide-eyed characters fumble and the score vacillates asking what is it, what is it? And all questions are answered when Edoardo Recchi takes the fall.

Then silence. Silence in Emma Recchi’s eyes, as she slips her shoes off in the echoing hollowness of the church and gazes about her, cast in a dull, disbelieving glow. What is she thinking about now? The soft eyes of her son, the Recchi family mansion’s extravagant façade, or the warm arms of Antonio Biscaglia? It’s time for her to move into reality, our consciousness urges, and the reality of the Recchi family’s inevitable decline finally hits home. We dish out our sympathy, we feel their pain, as the gilded walls comes crumbling down and Edoardo Recchi’s round brown eyes stare into our soul and helplessly ask “Why? Why me?”

But finally none of that matters, none of what we thought or expected or what could be right. Finally all that remains is the devastating beauty of Emma Recchi’s triumph, as the music starts again and she runs faster than anyone, awake, alive, and full of energy, the stifling Milanese costume off her back, coming to a standstill in front of her gape mouthed family in only capris and a tracksuit. She hesitates, and her daughter smiles back at her with tears streaming down her face. There is one second-- and then she is gone.

We laugh. We cry.

She is free.

choir of young believers

2010-03-21T20:56:00.001-04:00

to be perfectly honest, i don't give a damn

2010-03-16T16:33:00.004-04:00

we sit around talking about art
the significance of
titles and
sensation and images and
appropriation
well you are trying to
appropriate intelligence
and you are
not succeeding
these futile discussions are
cold, overcooked eggs
in a basket
and even my yawns and my
blank stares
are futile
in the face of your wretched
enthusiasm
belle and sebastian is ringing
in my head
that melody
says more
than talking about damien hirst
ever will

chorus
chorus
chorus

fade

and the thing you hold dear

2010-02-21T16:54:00.002-05:00

there's this one sunset rubdown song that i've been obsessed with lately: "for the pier ( and dead shimmering)" from "random spirit lover". It's one of those songs that sit in your library for a really long time, but you don't really notice it until one day you randomly put your ipod on shuffle and you say to yourself: my god, this is beautiful.
i've been blogging a lot over at rollinglobe: www.rollinglobe.com/myblog/May because i'm interning there, so this blog has really been neglected. not like i update this blog a lot anyway. but today i was thinking: maybe i should write something. it's a different thing, travel writing and just writing for yourself-- writing for writing's sake, almost. i can talk about anything here and not think : will my boss be inclined to turn this blog post into a feature article? will he? will he? i can even publish a post with a big "fuck you" on it and nothing else, which would be cool, though i don't have much need to do that now.

so, update on my life:

1. been trying to read infinite jest but saying to myself: no, you should do your school reading, then ending up not doing the school reading and facebooking instead of doing something a little more productive maybe like reading infinite jest. but i'm at 200 pages.

2.
feburary 27: wales
february 28-march 4: london
march 5-7 marseilles
march 8-11 london
march 12-14 madrid
march 15- 25 london
march 26-29 stockholm
march 30-31st london
april 1-2 edinburgh
april 3-5 london
april 6-7 athens
april 8-9 santorini
april 10 athens
april 11-28 london
april 29-may 2nd prague
may 3-15 london
may 16-17 new jersey
may 18- july 30 new york
july 31- aug 8 shanghai
aug 9 onwards new jersey/ new york

3. probably taking intro to marketing next semester instead of the suicidal three eng classes and a journalism which i had planned.

4. going to try to get a single in alumni.

5. i don't know. walnut cookies are nice.

i suddenly am too lazy to write. oh hey, song lyrics:

I----I pushed off the pier
Infinity run cold
And filled up my ears
There's the weapon you hold;
There's the thing that you hold it to
And the thing you hold dear.

Oh the speed of a year
It runs the wood dry
And water unclear
There's the thing you hold high;
There's the thing that you hold it to
And the thing you hold dear.

I will be an enemy to men seen in the light!
Do you think it's all right?
Yes I think it's all right!
It's all right!

If you make the waves
The sun makes the rays
The speed of the light
Can be trusted to prey
To prey on the fools
That pushed off your pier
The whirling of pools runs clear

Da-da-da-dum

So I'll be out till the shivering dies
I said I'll be out till the shivering dies
It's the reigning of the predatory nature of the sky
And the raining sound it makes when it's burning out your eyes
It's all right. IT IS ALL RIGHT!

the truth alludes us

2009-12-20T02:05:00.001-05:00

something that’s been on my mind today: I’ve been thinking about how I define myself as an atheist. I am an atheist. that isn’t debatable. but, at the same time, I’m not simply an atheist. so here, I guess, is the blog post about why I don’t believe in a god. I’m still trying to work out my own thought process myself so if you are reading this—bear with me.

I’m an atheist first and foremost because I think “god” as a solution to how life came to be and what all this is all about and where I’m headed bla bla is way, WAY too simplistic. More importantly, it’s way too self-righteous. I’ve always been fascinated with the pomposity of other human beings to assume that a theory that they came up with is the absolute and ultimate theory. who says you know for sure how the universe came about? some dude wrote the bible, some dude inferred all this about a god, made up some details along the way, and then changed the whole thing several times before he slapped a title on it and called it whatever form of Christianity/ Catholicism we have now. the idea that something so arbitrary and so decidedly of HUMAN creation could be the absolute truth is ridiculous to me.

what are humans anyway? if you compare the time that humans have existed on earth with the time that the earth itself has existed, and then project that time out to the time the whole universe has existed, and even beyond our universe—then really, we’re so so insignificant it’s laughable. in my opinion, what we know about the world could be rounded to zero, even after all these years of science, philosophy, whatever. we just haven’t had enough time to be able to understand anything like “the whole truth.” we’re not significant or important enough to have that ability or ever have that! think about all the scientific knowledge that has been refuted over the centuries. everything that has been proven wrong. who are we to insist that all the scientific knowledge scientists have so meticulously researched up today won’t be all refuted ten years from now? the whole scientific process strikes me as so unbelievably futile. so yeah, we might be inching closer to the truth every time, but we’re moving slower than a snail’s pace. we’re barely moving faster than standstill.

truthfully, I don’t believe the human species even has the capacity to understand absolute truth. I think our brains would all explode if it ever got to that point. science is hard enough for a lot of us to understand even now, and when you think about how all the science now is probably just the tiniest fragment of what truth actually is, then you see how infinitely more difficult it would be for us to attempt to understand the entire truth even if we stumbled upon it. in fact, we probably wouldn’t even know the truth if we chanced to bump into it—we really aren’t smart enough. humans greatly overestimate their own capacity for knowledge. even thinking about division by zero and black holes and quantum physics perplexes us- then who’s to say that truth won’t allude us? it absolutely will. we’ll never understand truth!

at least that’s how I see it. and that’s why the idea of religion is so ridiculous to me. religions insist that their theory is the absolute truth, that their god is the absolute god, that their scripture is entirely accurate and reliable. is there a possibility for a god? sure there is. but that possibility is as small as any other possibility you could come up with to explain the world. we simply don’t have enough information and will never have enough information to determine, with some confidence, what theory could have a higher possibility. and even- let’s say just even- that there is a god- what are the chances that he, uh, did everything the bible said he did and he lives up in the sky and his name is Jehovah and his son is jesus? I think we can pretty safely round that probability up to zero.

so, even though I’m an atheist, I’m not a great lover of science, either. I just don’t think science is going to help us get there. ultimately, I’m a pessimist. I’m a cynic. I’d rather live with the knowledge of our incompetency as a species than try futilely to counter it. I love reading books like “the hitchiker’s guide to the galaxy” or anything that speculates on how things could be because I’m interested in it, I think about it a lot, and it fascinates me. but I’m not going to take anything at face value and I’m not going to believe anything that can’t be proved. and right now, we don’t have the ability to prove anything. I wish I could say that my whole life’s mission is to find out the truth about everything. but how many people before me had that same life mission? didn’t Newton, didn’t Galileo, didn’t Einstein? and they all died before they knew. I don’t want to waste my life trying to go somewhere I can’t get to.

I just want to live every moment I have the way I want to, and to stop having people try to shove in my face what they think is true, whether it be gods or deities or any other shit. trust me, you don’t know. none of us do.

now go home and make yourself a hamburger.

2009-11-07T14:20:00.003-05:00

Sun

I think

you live in the sky

a certain hour on certain mornings a certain you

certainly away from me.

but you're certainly there

smile your hair

you’re beautiful

checkerboard shirt freckles ear-phones.

and a gap away

the sky away you don’t know me

you’re sitting up there and you shine.

when I look up

there’s you in my eyes

I shield but

eyelashes shadows light you.

2009-10-26T14:51:00.002-04:00

wow. what a horrible week. what a horrible MONTH. it seems like everything is going wrong. i don't think anything good has happened this month. at all. except maybe getting accepted into london. that would be about it.

funny story about my dismal day at the office ( only one of a series of unfortunate events that my immediate life is now comprised of):

to take a break from doing nothing as usual at my desk (i.e waiting for one of the assistants to come to me and find me some super exciting photocopying or messenger work to do, hallelujah) i go to the bathroom. when i come out and look in the mirror, i discover that, alas, there are 3 GINORMOUS holes in my tights. my first reaction is WTF? have i been walking around all day like this??? then i have this really intense inner struggle that has to do with whether i should take the atrocious tights off or leave them on. in the end i choose the lesser of two evils; i took them off.

so now i look like a slut at the office because i'm wearing shorts and boots with no tights. and it's a monday too. and people probably noticed that i changed.
but i don't know. it's probably better than walking around with holey tights. i mean, people might think i'm trying to make some kind of immature fashion statement or something.

ugh. bad. bad. day.

the atlantic was born today, and i'll tell you how: the clouds above opened up and let it out.

2009-10-04T03:03:00.002-04:00

starting to think that maybe i lack the gene one needs in order to settle down. i'm obviously off my rocker. saying my life is weird would be an understatement. i would like to say that i need more self control, but strangely i dont regret what i've done. and not only that, my brain is also fucked. may, why do you fall in love with everybody you see?

but it's so important to love, don't you know?

2009-09-21T00:43:00.000-04:00

this is just to say that i like you. :)

want

2009-09-08T23:12:00.001-04:00

i want you

like this

not just

beside me

but in me.

and i am

not allowed

to own

your rippling veins

your brooding

eyelashes,

the sweet

symphony

of your skin.

so what.

i want to

own you

again and

again.

i'll take you

away from her

far away

and drag you

to hell

heaven and earth.

i'll have you

with me

because i know

you want

me--

you sinner

you sexy

betrayer

this is

how

i want you.

record year for rainfall

2009-09-07T20:54:00.000-04:00

I read in the paper today
It's been a record year for rainfall
And you were leaning against the bathroom wall
In your lonely dress
Was your only dress

Stand accusing across
I've got a temper set for tender
And you were shrugging it off like a feather
Saying, "Oh, would you look at this weather?"

What's the use of all of this?
It's to remember you in the entire
Because I'm watching it slip away
And in the annals of the Empire
Did it look this gray?
Before the fall
Before the fall

So rake your thumbnail across
The stretch of the patina
Revealing a Proserpina
In a low recline
In a steep decline

What's the use of all of this?
It's to remember you in the entire
Because I'm watching it slip away
And in the annals of the Empire
Did it look this gray?
Does it look so gray?
Does it always look so gray?
Before the fall
Before the fall

i hate myself.

2009-09-02T17:35:00.001-04:00

i hate myself for being so emotionally unstable.
i hate myself for latching onto something so fast-- definitely because i am on nervous alert 24/7 for no good reason.
i hate myself for being plagued by love. this is horrible. horrible. horrible.
i do love new york and i'm so happy to be back but also scared, sick, tired, anxious.
i don't want to see the future, almost.
i'm a crazy motherfucker. help.

existential crisis

2009-08-16T17:47:00.002-04:00

back from beijing. i have to say i've been hit with a strong wave of what is akin to depression. i am even convinced that i have become uglier when i look in the mirror. my skin seems to be not cooperating. i just KNOW that i've gained weight. i even feel dumber.
i know it's silly to feel like this and i am privileged and i have a great year ahead of me ( potentially) and blah blah, but i just can't get the energy up to feel excited about anything. before i went back to beijing this july, i always suspected i was missing out big time in new jersey. 3 weeks in china confirmed my suspicions. i WAS missing out. hugely. i have to say these past three weeks have probably made up one of the best, if not the best, summer of my life. best summer of my life in 3 weeks. and now i'm back in new jersey.
i've come to realize that i love beijing so much it hurts inside. it hurts to be there, it hurts even more to leave. even when i'm having the time of my life in beijing i still feel irrevocably sad, because i know i have to leave. it's the most ridiculous conflict of emotions. it's scary, the feeling that i just cannot tear myself away from that city, and yet i am forced to tear myself away again and again.
like colin meloy sings, melancholically, in "the legionnaire's lament":

lord i don't know if i'll ever be back again.

i mean, the world is small nowadays and i know i always can go back. but in the pit of my heart there's this fear that i can't; that i won't. i don't want to give it up. i don't want to change. i just want to be a beijing girl.
but once again i have to slap myself in the face. once again i have to tell myself to suck it up, to grow the fuck up. at least in the back of my mind, i still retain the happiness i experienced in the capital; the wild nights, the laughs, friends, the hot city sun and irrepressible fun of it all.

but these 3 months changed me. i haven't even begun to describe and i won't say because i can't put it into words.
i guess i know something more about myself now.
but fuck, i'm sad.

beijing

2009-07-28T11:55:00.002-04:00

i dont think it is possible to accurately, comprehensively describe the feeling of being in beijing. when i stepped off the plane and was covered in a swarm of fresh mongolian sand, and i looked to the horizon and saw nothing because of the thick layer of pollution in the air, i was overwhelmed with such a strong feeling of home that i could barely breathe. these few days i have been walking around with a sense of wonder, joy and slight melancholy.

it still hasn't sunk in that i am actually here. i amaze myself with how i know this city, how after a year of seperation i touch ground still knowing every corner to turn, every subway station, every hangout. of course beijing has changed, and there are many new things, but the map of the city is still relatively the same. only now do i feel the extent of the emptiness that engulfed me in new york; the feeling of being torn from home in such a helpless way. i get it now. this is why i have been depressed.

being here is such a feeling that i am already overwhelmed with a chronic sense of panic knowing that i have to leave. and i just got here. i no longer love this city. being here ten years, love is not the correct word anymore. it has become a part of me. i belong here. this is home. this is it, for good or for bad, whether i like it or not.

but i have also come back a changed person. i'm definitely more jaded, more adult, more experienced. i dont come back as a high school student, so this time things are different. even when out i know i radiate a new kind of energy, and i attract different happenings to me. for good or for bad. i have changed and i have also changed beijing for myself. what does not change is how i over-analyze, how i'm still a little girl at heart, secretly innocent, gullible, naiive. listening to the blow, i still nod with every word, choked up with emotion at every verse. it is funny how simple words always capture the most complex emotions.

//

Hey Boy
Why you didn't call me?
I waited for days
I can't believe you didn't call

Hey Boy
Why you didn't call me?
I waited for days
I can't believe you didn't call

A. You're gay
B. You've got a girlfriend
C. You kinda thought I came on too strong or
D. I just wasn't your thing
no ring

Hey Boy
Why you didn't call me?
I waited for days
I can't believe you didn't call

When we sat outside for an hour at the party and talked
I thought something good could be starting
It's not a lot that I want
just some talking
and really, you just injured my pride

Hey Boy
Why you didn't call me?
I waited for days
I can't believe you didn't call

Susan said that maybe you're scared
Shelly says there always is a reason
and Chris said you're probably surrounded by girls and I'm just not one of them you're needing

[at least i know i will get over it. i'm in beijing and i am so happy and complete and ready for anything. ]

what i think about love

2009-07-09T20:09:00.001-04:00

maybe adam and eve had it all
before the fall.
maybe she already
tasted heaven in his arms
maybe just the arc of his nose
was enough to make her
forget the one above.

you often argue that the serpent
tempted away their love
just like the unbuttoned shirt
of a secretary today
foretells the return of wedding rings tomorrow.
and there is no love, you say,
that lasts,
and you cry.

but i am a romantic pessimist
if those do exist
and to me, love is you
within my reach--
your dazzling beauty maybe too much
for a promise of tomorrow
but enough to keep me
at a loss for words
today.

lovestruck

2009-07-02T01:52:00.001-04:00

[ I wrote this a while back but chanced upon it today so here it is. no danger in posting it now.]

barely even know you
no, i don't know you at all
and i'm lovestruck.
it must be that faint recognition
a semi-familiar face in this sea of strangers,
your confident swagger, bad boy habits a pleasant surprise,
not who i thought you were,
better,
sexier.
once again i've fallen in like with a stranger.
once again i've fallen in like with the first cute boy that i meet.
our two sentences,
exchanged in a detached, other world, do you remember them?
they hang in the air, shining.
gone, but they've traced the tattoo of a maze.
me at the entrance, not confident, not bad enough,
maybe not who you want,
but ready.

1:43 am Toronto Ontario

2009-05-27T01:42:00.000-04:00

Prepare for a blog entry full of typos since I'm using a PC again in my grandparent's house.
alright. so i'm back in toronto after a week wandering around montreal.
very awesome city, i have to say. drinking age was amazing, of course. nightlife was pretty decent. old montreal was extremely cute as well. and of course, i brushed up on my french and brushed shoulders with many delectable french steeds.
but i'm still glad to be back in toronto. and definitely glad for where i live- new york city, that is. actually, when i think about it, no matter how much i complain about new york, it has to be, ultimately, the perfect city for me. because i can predict, with 100 percent certainty, that if i lived in montreal, despite being drunk off my face for the first couple of days, i would probably be bored out of my mind after a week. and i'd be pretty lenient giving it a week.
i'm very very grateful for the amount of things to see and do in nyc. so, yes, resolution: stop complaining about new york.
i'm happy that i can take this time off from the states though. canada really is a nice place. and it's one third my home, after all, together with china and new york.
i think being here has really taught me to live by myself; be independent, cook my own food, clean, deal with my own shit, and appreciate the more delicate things in life.
i didnt want to say "finer things" and sound like a douche.
i actually dont know any way to say this without sounding like a douche. but i'm starting to understand what's so beautiful about the little things. at a low angle, looking at the sun and the skyline. the pattern of the tablecloth. the texture of my dress. washing bokchoy leaves in cold water. no, i'm not on shrooms. i'm falling in love with these things.
photography is strange because sometimes it captures things in ways you didnt mean for them to be captured. something you think is beautiful just doesn't show up that way in a photo. and sometimes things you thought were pretty ugly, pretty lame, come out mad amazing. i have to say it's really refreshing to be forced to look at something differently, no matter whether it's decieiving or not. a photograph can never capture an experience though, really. it can't really capture an image, even, at least not in the way you saw it at that moment. but then, it can capture an attempt. it can recall memories. and i suppose that says something at least.
i have really wandered far into the realm of BS now. sorry guys.
sometimes i wish i had a talent. like writing songs or something. wishing i hadn't pursued art so hald-assed. i wish i could get on a stage and wow people away with something, something. but it's really sad. i don't have one. i used to think writing was a talent. but then that would be assuming that i am any good at writing. which is arguable at best.
i'm listening to ben kweller now and wondering what to cook for dinner tomorrow. dinner for one, i like it. i think learning how to embrace solitude is an important way of maturing. i said "maturing" because i didn't want to say "growing up" and sound like a douche. but "maturing" sounds pretty douchey too. i'm probably going to go round town and take some photographs tomorrow. i want to remember toronto like this. now i sound like a pretentious wannabe.
i wish i could stop judging myself actually. but it's hard. it's hard because i immediately judge everyone. including myself.
i feel like i should write something about love now. it's kind of imperative for a blog entry. but it's hard. i'm not in love. i'm not in love so i can't write about love. i can write about unfortunate encounters with the opposite sex, but that would be cheating. it would be cheating because i would be exploiting moments with no real meaning and pounding at them for the sake of getting some sentimental BS i can blog about out of them. when really i don't think about them much. my head is kind of clear of romance now, actually. sadly.
what's the point of blogging anyway? i just wrote a whole post about nothing. i can't write about the things that are really on my mind because then i would have to include specifics. by which I mean names. and that, of course, would be social suicide in many ways. also i can't write about embarassing things. because i dont want to embarass myself. but actually those are pretty much the only things that happen to me. so really there is nothing left to write about.

except about how god doesn't exist, but richard dawkins already wrote a book on that.
it's a pretty good book, too.
too bad it wont change anything.

swine flu doesn't exist

2009-05-03T16:42:00.000-04:00

everybody, stop freaking out about swine flu.
it's pissing me off.
YOU DON'T HAVE SWINE FLU, OKAY.
neither does your roommate. or that dude down third ave who coughed in your direction.
oh yeah, and neither does every mexican in the world.
the stigma this stupid flu is causing is so off-putting to me.
what a true display of human nature. disgusting.
i can't stand life when things like this happen.
everybody makes me sick.

i also have to confess i kind of like finals. if just to watch everybody freak out. losers.

believing in love

2009-04-03T13:10:00.002-04:00

i once met a girl with a
cinnamon dress and a frown.
i thought here is
another one of those who
don't believe in love.

so i went up to her and said
i'm here to
brighten up your day.
don't you
believe in love?

and she said yes
i do i do.
i believe in roses and
wedding rings and
soft worn leather
I believe in sweet nothings
and forever and ever.

i believe in flowers and
butterflies and
meant to be-
i believe in "so long live this
and this gives life to thee".

and that is why,
that is why i am always
so sad
so lonely and
so disappointed.
because i believe in love too much,
too much.

i looked at her and
for a moment i had
nothing to say.
because in her cinnamon tear
i saw
my face.

789th yonge st.

2009-02-28T17:42:00.000-05:00

308
You get up at 6:40 in the morning on Saturday, emerging from the covers in your ash grey, silk Armani pajamas. You slip on your slippers and go to the bathroom, probably to brush your teeth, shave and look in the mirror. Of course you want to look in the mirror. You’re devastatingly handsome, with a fine mass of dark brown hair, a square jaw and a winning, Colgate smile. After contemplating yourself for a bit, you return to the room and slap on some cologne, self-confidence captured in a bottle of luxurious Chanel for men EDT. The room will surely come alive in your scent. Then you make yourself a nice, hot pot of coffee. It boils and bubbles on the living room table. The curtains to the living room are always open- you make sure they are. You like your room sunny, fresh and accessible. After a satisfying cup of addiction, you change out of your pajamas and put on tight running shorts, Adidas, and a loose tshirt with your participation in the 2006 Terry Fox run stamped all over the front. You make sure you have your sleek 32 gigabyte Ipod touch in hand and your Nike Air sneakers on before you open the door to go downstairs for your daily run down Yonge street. Before you leave you sniff your armpits. Fragrant. Perfect.

409
You get up at 11:30 in the morning on Saturdays. Saturdays are the days you treat yourself. You don’t have class, or work, or any obligations. You roll out of bed in your floral print two piece pajamas, digging your feet into the soft fur rug beneath your bed every time before you stand up. You don’t put on make up on Saturdays, and just slip into anything in your wardrobe; sometimes it’s your grey cotton dress, sometimes tight denim shorts and a crinkly white linen tank top. You put your ginger coloured hair in a bun, a messy bun with some ginger strands still left hanging about your shoulders after. You toast bagels in your toaster on Saturdays, then slather the warm slices with a thick, nearly 2 inch layer of Philadelphia’s cream cheese. While you eat you pretend to be the Philadelphia cream cheese angel, moving your lips and imitating like no one can see you. Then you get up, probably put the dishes into the kitchen sink to wash later, after you’ve treated yourself. You pick up your purse, sometimes the shiny purple Versace, sometimes the boxy brown Ralph Lauren, and leave to cash a cheque, then to go shopping. When you return it’s always past 5:00. You waste no time, only quickly opening the door to put down all your shopping bags beside the crowded shoe rack. The door will soon close again. Saturdays are also the days you bang him, that guy who lives downstairs. You’re not sure you like his personality much but he sure is rich and he works out a lot. This is how you always justify it.

307
You come back from classes at 3:00 in the afternoon on Sunday. You’re a mess, as usual. There’s paint on your face. Your hair is stringy and greasy, a dull dirty blonde colour. You throw your school bags in a pile on a chair in your kitchen, along with the heavy canvas you have to carry around. You’re also carrying a box of Tim Horton’s Timbits. That’s your guilty pleasure, Timbits. These you set down carefully on the kitchen table. You pull down your t-shirt, your t-shirt that has ridden up from all the friction caused by your multiple schoolbags and your canvas banging heavily against you, a t-shirt with “Ryerson University- Fine Arts” scrawled nicely, diagonally across the front. A nice t-shirt, but it’s also been splattered so much by paint the words are nearly unrecognizable. You wear it all the time anyway. You sit down at the kitchen table, open the box of Timbits, ready to consume your prize. The Timbits emerge from their box one by one, each chosen in its special order by your sticky fingers. You have a chocolate glazed one first, finish it in two lingering bites, the chocolate staining your upper lip and colouring your teeth. You take another one, this time a honey cruller. This you finish in one bite, taking your time, however, to savour the flavour as your teeth disfigures the roly-poly Timbit slowly, the honey lingering on your tongue and the sticky doughnut dough resting on the roof of your mouth, the Timbit finally tumbling down your throat, washed down with your saliva. You finish them all in this fashion, a light pink strawberry filled one next, then a shimmering white glazed plain one. You are a disgusting glutton, you devour those Timbits, slowly but surely, not even stopping to wipe the red streak of paint off your face or the glistening sweat off your brow as you munch, groaning from satisfaction.

409
You get up at 11:00 in the morning on Sundays. You probably get up late because you spend all your last nights with that bastard from downstairs. Sundays are the days you go to your parents’ house. Your parents live in Scarborough, far enough to be inconvenient to visit but not far enough for you to make an excuse not to visit them. You get ready by putting on your most appropriate outfit. Usually you put on jeans and ballet flats, not those jeans that fit you impossibly well, but the loose ones with the flared and frayed ends. You wear a conservative shirt and a cardigan, hiding your ginger hair in a black beret, surely too hot for summer. You lean towards your bedroom vanity mirror at 11:30 on Sundays, applying pearl-coloured eye shadow chosen carefully from a tiny YSL makeup compact. You then fill your bag with things, your big grey Tommy Hilfiger leather bag you got from Winners with a laptop you never use, files that contain printed pages of nothing, stationary, notebooks, anything lying around gathering dust on your desk. You top off the pile with a smart copy of Maclean’s and The Toronto Star. Anything to maintain the illusion. You wish you were actually doing something you could slow off, something fabulous and creative and talented like that Ryerson art student who lives below you, the one you always talk about, instead of always pretending. But you zip the bag. You don’t have lunch at home on Sundays, because you need to spend it with your parents. You leave the house too quickly, anxious to catch the TTC at Yonge and Bloor, East to take you to the Scarborough center and then far away to that other home.

309
You take a nap at around 2:00 in the afternoon on Monday. Surely on Mondays you used to work, but now you’re far too old. Your skin sags, where your cheeks used to be are now two convex sallow dents. You have wrinkles around your eyes, and around your nose and around your mouth and around your neck, and everywhere. Wrinkles on your ears too. You can’t walk well, shuffling about your apartment to go to the bathroom, struggling to lower yourself, to sit on a knitted wool covered chair. You wear reading glasses, but you still squint terribly when you read. Before your nap on Monday it was Ivanhoe. You no longer read the bible, though it sits by your bedside table, a red felt bookmark marking the place of nothing in particular. Perhaps you no longer believe in it. One thing is for sure, you do not pick up the bible on Monday. You are a fast reader though. After a significant stack of pages through Ivanhoe, which only took you 32 minutes, it’s 2:00 o’clock and you must feel tired because you get up slowly, shuffle to your bedside and crawl in. Your covers are thick and heavy, just the right weight to press your light, dry body safely down on the mattress. But you don’t sleep well. You are wakened in ten minutes by something. You look up at the ceiling. It’s upstairs, as usual. It must be that redhead girl making a racket. You silently shake your fist. You can only shake your fist, alone by yourself, sitting in your heavy bed, your silhouette raging in the window. But you can’t do anything. You slide, slowly, back into the covers, and try to go back to sleep. But the phone rings. You pick it up, your expression hopeful, listen, then put it down again. It was probably “This is the second notice that the factory warranty on your vehicle is about to expire…” just junk. You close the blinds.

409
You get up at 9:00 in the morning on Mondays. Mondays are the days you clean your apartment, so you stay in all day on Mondays. There used to be a time when you kept a job, a job that you went to 5 days a week, in which you would wear smart suits, use a laptop, and Monday was the most important day. But now you don’t have that job anymore. The boss asked you whether you wanted to work overtime, get a bonus. Made comments about your ginger hair, about the very nice fit of your two-piece Prada business suit. You didn’t want to work overtime, but you didn’t know that that meant losing your job too. It wasn’t his fault. He liked you too much- but you regret it now. Sometimes you talk about it. it’s so frustrating; you’ve come to realize you’re good at overtime, but now it’s too late. Now you’re working overtime with other people, but it really isn't as proper. All this angst and regret motivates you to clean the apartment on Mondays. You like to feel like you’re actually doing something with your life, turning a new page every week. So every Monday you get up bright and early, stretch, have cereal, and go downstairs to the Shoppers Drug Mart at Yonge and Bloor. The store’s so close it’s visible from your apartment and everything in the vicinity. Even with that short distance, though, you jog to the store, ginger hair flying, always energetic and anxious to buy whatever new cleaning products you need to cast new magic on your apartment. But when you get back to your home, opening the door and shutting it behind you, you sit down on the floor and you’re overwhelmed. You sit there for at least 30 minutes, sometimes more than an hour. Sometimes you lay out all of the new cleaning products you bought in front of you. Sometimes you cry. Sometimes you do both, in either order. But you always do clean, picking yourself up from the floor and starting at once with sheer determination. You clean at an outrageously fast pace, scrubbing hard at the glass top of the coffee table with your rag and your Mr. Clean. “Cleans glass surfaces to a streak-free shine”. You scrub hard at everything, baptizing everything in Mr. Clean’s magic. At one point you rub your own wrists together too. Streak-free?

407
You make dinner at 6:00 in the evening on Tuesday. You have the recipe book open in front of you, on the kitchen counter. The cutting board is out. So is the knife, the wooden spoon, and the trio of spices. The skillet’s on the stovetop, waiting to be heated. All the ingredients for dinner are bulging out of the yellow grocery bag from No Frills, sitting on the other side of the recipe book. But something’s missing. You aren’t starting. You’ve realized you’ve forgotten to buy a crucial ingredient. You hit yourself on the forehead, not believing that you could be so stupid when you’re already almost half a century old. You can only go borrow something from the neighbors. You disappear out into the hallway, going two doors down to that twenty something year old redhead’s apartment. She’ll have what you need. You knock on the door and it opens- she’s standing there, looking like she just got back from somewhere, her ginger hair in disarray. You ask for eggs, and she flutters back in and gets them, coming back with half a dozen in her hand and a dazzling smile. She gives you all of them, tremendously generous, and you are extremely grateful. You return back to your apartment and now you can start making dinner. As you’re cooking up the delightful concoction, the stove starts to smoke. The smoke is black, and you hastily grab a fan, trying to fan the smoke away from the fire alarm. You’re fanning and fanning, and forgetting other things bubbling on the stove and burning in the oven. When you do realize, you frantically rush around, trying to salvage your meal, but it’s too late. The doorbell rings. At 7:30 in the evening on Tuesday your husband comes home. He’s carrying a bouquet of flowers and some silly balloons, and when you open the door he pulls you into his arms and kisses you. You lead him into the kitchen and show him the ruin of a dinner you created. But he doesn’t mind. He’s smiling, picks you up and spins you round and round, and you and your husband are the picture of happiness. The balloons say happy anniversary.

409
You get up at 8:00 in the morning on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are the days you volunteer at your local library. You baby-sit young toddlers at the library on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, kids whose parents are too busy to give a shit about them but also too cheap to send them to daycare. You have to keep them entertained from 9:00 to 5:00, those horrible little creatures, with only a half an hour lunch break in between. You hate it, but you always go. You always go, probably because you’d like to think you’re actually doing something with your time, that you’re still on the schedule of a workingwoman. So you endure, for yourself. When you come back from volunteering, it’s always later than 5:30. You open the door, throw off your Jimmy Choo heels, and hurl your empty briefcase on the floor. You undo the buttons of your light blue, tight collared shirt, so the lace outline of your breast is visible as you breathe, and your frame moving up and down, you shuffle to the living room. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays at 5:45 you curl up on your soft red couch and look out the window, your face and its ginger red frame illuminated by the sunlight. You press your soft body to the glass, and you reach under the coffee table, fumbling for you cigarettes. Camel, Turkish Silvers, always. You light one with a wavering ginger flame, though there is no wind, just your trembling hand. Deep inhale. You open the window slightly, tapping your cigarette, and the ashes rain down on the city below.

408
408 is an empty apartment. It’s interior is derelict; the paint is peeling off its once fresh, yellow-coloured walls. A few stray wooden boards lie about on the dusty floor, probably once put to good use but now destined to remain there, motionless, useless, for who knows how long. Some disproportionate nails stick out here and there from the splintering wood. 408 is an apartment waiting for someone to inhabit it. On Friday, apartment 408 is empty as always. It won’t go out and have fun. It won’t have a nice dinner and a date and then hit the clubs. It won’t go to work, take a run, have a nap, cook dinner or eat Timbits. It will sit there, empty as usual, arms open, waiting.

409
You don’t get up until 5:00 in the evening on Fridays. Fridays are your lazy days. They’re also your sexy days. You never close the blinds on Fridays. You get up naked. You always check the sunset, your smile like watercolours in the window. I can count your every eyelash as you blink. Then you put on your black slip, my favorite black slip. It tumbles down the curves of your body like an inky black waterfall. You gather your hair and then let it fall, that ginger red blaze setting the pale, porcelain nape of your neck on fire. You put on your forest green trench coat, which is gathered just tightly enough about you at the waist to accentuate all your mountains and valleys, your extraordinary geography. Your forest green trench-coat is hot for the summer. You leave at 6:00 pm on Fridays, slipping on your 10 inch black Manolo Blahnik sling-back stiletto heels as you make for the door. You are never late. You are eager on Fridays; you need money, and you know I need you. I know you go downstairs in the elevator. I know you walk across the lobby. I know you cross the street. I don’t have to watch. I know you come upstairs when you reach my building, press the doorbell of my door and wait for me to come. On Fridays I walk away from that window I stay at for far too long. I put my binoculars away too, carefully, in the top shelf of my clothes-drawer, snuggled in warmly, hidden between my folded underwear. On Fridays at 6:00 in the evening I open the door for you, and you say “Oh baby, it’s been so long,” slipping out of your trench coat, your heels, your black slip. And I say “I know”.

Ten

2009-01-30T17:26:00.000-05:00

I see his smile everywhere. As if it’s super imposed onto everything that crosses into my line of vision. All the people at the airport have his face, everything I do, I pretend he’s watching me. Watching me and regretting letting me go. I’m in denial. I’ve been in denial for more than a month.

The bustling sounds of Beijing slip in through the semi-opened window. How come I’ve come so far, as far away as I can possibly get from the cruelty of New York City, and the memory of him still follows me? It rides on my shoulders, an impossibly heavy burden that I can’t shrug off. Before him, I had been used to having nobody. After him, I don’t think I can live. My throat is always impossibly tight, but I haven’t cried since the day he let me know. I don’t even know why.

I dig my fingernails into the white concrete walls and drag them downwards. I can’t stand the sound, the feeling and the texture, the screeching of grits underneath my fingernails and the disgusting grey tracks of four on the wall. I’m torturing myself for being unwanted by him. I’ve done this every day for the past week, ever since I arrived in this city, ever since I moved back into my mother’s house 2 weeks before I should have completed my requirements for summer term.

I’m practically a college drop out. I’m a fool. Only fools take breakups so hard.

“Valerie!” my mother’s piercing voice finds a way through the wood of my closed doors into my upset ear. I stop scratching the wall and a wave of frustration comes over me. Can’t a girl even suffer in peace? “What?!” I scream back. This has been our dynamic for a week now. Screaming at each other. We sure are a loving family. I can hear her footsteps stomping towards my door. She stops on the other side. I can hear the huffing and puffing of her breath resonating through the door.

“Can you do me a favour and please, please stop bumming around in your room? Can you please just pick yourself up and do something, for God’s sake?!” all those “please”s in her speech- that’s a passive aggressive technique. My mother doesn’t give a rat’s ass about being polite to me, but she figures if she uses this terminology, I might suddenly come to and realize what a horrible daughter I’ve been for exasperating my poor mother so, recover and beg her to ship me back to New York City.

Needless to say, that doesn’t happen. I open the door and stare at her. I haven’t combed my hair for a week and I know there are dark circles under my eyes. I probably look like I’ve been through every kind of natural disaster ever defined on Wikipedia. There’s wall grit under my fingernails. My mother is dressed in her “smart” business suit with her briefcase in hand. Her face is perfectly made up but her expression is twisted almost into a snarl. She grabs my arm with her right hand and shakes me. That’s right. She shakes me. It’s like a bad movie.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask in a monotone. I’m sick of fighting with my mother. She doesn't understand and she never will. She’s barely even home anyway, and at the most I see her for 1 to 2 hours a day. Why argue with the old woman? I’m just wasting my energy with her, energy I can put to better use by beating myself up over him.

“Val, I’m going to work now.” Her expression softens. She’s trying another technique now. The “I understand and I’m just trying to help you” technique. “Why don’t you go out and get us some breakfast for tomorrow, hmm? It will do you good. You haven't left the house for a week. Go out and explore Beijing! Or at least just get a breath of fresh air. There’s a bao-zi store right across from us.” She pauses, touches my hair, opens her eyes wide and looks at me. “I’m really worried about you, you know. You- you dropped out of summer term, for God’s sake. I wish you would just tell me what’s wrong.”

I knew she was going to bring up the summer term thing. And of course, I’ve already told her what’s wrong. She refuses to believe it’s just a break-up though. To her, break-ups are nothing. My mother would never sacrifice her studies or her career for a man. She divorced my father in two minutes when he refused to come back with her to China. I know she thinks I’m like her in that way. Well sorry mom. I’m not like you. I’m a fucking weakling.

“Ok ok.” I just want her to go away. “You go to work, I’ll go down and get us breakfast. Ok?” I make a motion to shut the door. “I’m getting dressed now”. My left hand picks up a crumpled shirt on my chair. I display it to her. “See?”

My mother nods a little bit and shuffles away, half-convinced. She won’t stay longer anyway, she’s going to be late for work. “Bye baby!” She shouts as the door closes. “I’ll be checking for that breakfast tonight!”

Oh for Christ’s sake. Now I actually have to go. I put on the nearest clothes available and run my hands through my hair twice. I’m just going to go downstairs and get it done. Fuck it. Stop her yelling at me at the least. I wait for 5 minutes until I’m sure she’s gone. Then I plod out my room, plod down the hall, and finally plod out the front door. I check that I have the keys and slam the door. This gives me satisfaction. I open the door and slam it again. Slam it a few more times. Then I go and press the little elevator “down” button.

There’s no one in the elevator when I get in. thank god. Like I’d want anyone seeing me like this. There are a few crumpled up yuan’s in my pocket. I bring them up to my eyes and study them. Chairman Mao smiles happily back at me. I dig my fingernails into his face. Stop smiling, bitch. Everything sucks, don’t you know?

The elevator door opens, and I plod through the lobby, ignoring the guard who is staring curiously at me in my flip-flops and tweety bird t-shirt. I push open the front door to the world outside.

What hits me first isn't the sunlight, or the sound of bird’s chirping, or anything else bullshit like that. What hits me is the smell of Beijing. I don’t recall it smelling like this one week ago when I was lugging my suitcase up to my condo, completely exhausted and pissed off. But then I suppose it was evening then. It’s morning now. Eight o’ clock and Beijing smells completely different. The odour is a mixture of dirt, gasoline pollution, dew and street vendor breakfasts. I have to take a few more steps to get used to it.

I look across the street; looking for the bao-zi dumpling store my mother had told me about. When I finally see it, it surprises me. It’s a tiny storefront with crumbling walls and a completely open store face. An old man stands beside a pile of steamers, reading the newspaper. He’s wearing an old military style jacket, grey pants and what looks like cotton shoes. Beside him is a shaky looking table, on which is propped a small makeshift blackboard, reading:

Baozi Dumplings
Pork & Bokchoy Filling
Ten for 2 yuan

I cross the street, approaching cautiously. Surely my mother didn’t mean this crappy old place? But I don’t see anywhere else around here. As I near, the man catches sight of me and grins. I come to the revelation that he isn’t as old as I thought, even though his face is mapped with wrinkles, his skin brown and rough looking. One tooth is missing and his other teeth are black and yellow. His military jacket looks old, the ends of the sleeves frayed and several buttons missing.

“Hello there!” he greets me, putting his newspapers down on the table. His voice is throaty and deep. “ Want to buy some dumplings, little lady?” I feel embarrassed. No one has called me the Chinese slang of “little lady” in a long time. My voice is suddenly stuck in my throat. Have I forgotten how to communicate with human beings? I can only nod slightly at him. Oh what the hell am I doing here? Why did I even listen to my mother? I feel a great urge to retreat right back into my room.

Catching my nod, he looks delighted, seeming to not notice my awkwardness. “Great!” he exclaims. “Business has been slow these few days.” He opens the top of one steamer and a great cloud of steam pours out, swirling around him. He grins and waves his hand in front of him, as if trying to wave the steam away. “How many? Ten?” I nod. I can only nod at this point. I’m not ready to talk to someone I don’t know yet. Only now do I realize how much my one week of isolation has affected me. I’ve been living like a hermit in a cave. I’m like that wolf-child who was raised by wolves; I’ve lost all my human instincts. One week!

He takes a small wooden steamer off the top of his pile and places it on the table. Ten small round, white dumplings sit in a circle at the bottom of the wooden steamer, their dumpling skin slightly translucent, tightly filled with savory broth and meat. I can’t help it. I am salivating. The old man gets a plastic bag from behind him, upsets the steamer’s contents into the bag.

“There you go,” he mumbles satisfactorily. “Ten little babies. A perfect ten.” He grins at me, his gap toothed grin I experienced in full glory before. “That’ll be two yuan. Only two yuan for ten perfect dumplings.”

I see his chest swell with pride. He’s damn proud of those dumplings. I can’t help inwardly smiling a little bit myself. I don’t expect it, however, when he exclaims, “There’s a pretty little smile!” as I finger in my pocket for my chairman Mao bills. When I hand them over, he accepts them and adds “now I was wondering why you looked so miserable.” He pats my shoulder and I step back, alarmed. “No reason to be miserable now. It’s 2008! The Olympics are coming in a few weeks! The Chinese people are standing up, little lady!” he chuckles and hands me the bag full of dumplings. “Do you live here, little lady?” I nod slightly, kind of wanting to leave now. The old man’s weird. Who knows what he’s going to do next? I point at my condominium across the street in case he asks where, specifically. I marvel at the fact that I still haven’t said a word to him since I approached him.

“That’s great!” the man exclaims joyously. “Come down often and get some dumplings! A girl can never have enough dumplings, you know!” he speaks as if he knows exactly what a girl can’t have enough of. “I’m Mr. Zhang, by the way. Your friendly neighborhood dumpling vendor.” He grins right at me, exposing his missing tooth, then suddenly leans in and looks at me closely. “I hope you don’t find it weird, me saying this, but you kind of remind me of my son.”

I remind him of his son? Ok sure… he’s definitely going bonkers. I turn to leave hastily, not wanting to get into a full-fledged one-sided conversation with this guy. Too weird. He seems nice enough though. I look back once. He’s waving at me. I can’t help grinning a little bit too.

When I near the condo, I reach into the steam filled bag and take out one of the small, round dumplings, then put it in my mouth. It explodes with juice and flavor. Some of the stew dribbles down my chin. I wipe it away, embarrassed, even though I know there’s no one around to see me. I feel almost ashamed as I close the bag and enter the lobby. It seems ridiculous, but I don’t feel like I deserve to be enjoying such a tasty dumpling. I press the elevator button, eager to get back upstairs into my room and wallow in my depression.

It’s strange, but I start going down to get dumplings a lot at Mr. Zhang’s. I suppose one reason is because his dumplings do taste exceptionally good, and the second is sometimes I do feel like a little bit of human contact. My mother is never around, leaving the house at 8 in the morning and coming back at 10 at night. When she is at home, she only either shouts at me or gives me worrying looks, grilling me about what I did that day and whether I’ve been “bumming around in the room doing nothing” again (Thank god she hasn’t seen those scratches on the wall yet).

But Mr. Zhang is different. Overlooking his weird behaviour the first time, he always has nice things to say to me, and since then he has never brought up how “miserable” I am again. Once, he tells me more about his son and the dreams he has for him. “He’s in high school now, in Beijing,” Mr. Zhang gushes, scooping up my ten usual dumplings for me into the bag. “Boarding school. He really likes math, you know. I think he’s going to become a –uh, whatchamacallit, those people who do math? … Mathematicians! That’s right, a mathematician! Now I don’t know for sure what those folks do but I’m sure they earn a lot of money right? I mean, people who do math; they have to earn a lot of money. That’s what my son’s going to go on to do. I’ve told him already- he’s a smart one for sure. Those math people are all smart ones!”

I’m starting to talk too. I can’t help but make a little effort if just to match a little bit of Mr. Zhang’s exuberant energy and optimism. Once, I tell him I’ve come from New York. I don’t know how it comes up; it just slips out of my mouth. I don’t mention the part about dropping out of summer term though. Or… or that. Of course I don’t mention that.

Mr. Zhang, however, is all interest. “New York City!” He exclaims. “That’s in America right? Wow, that’s something, little lady, that’s something!” he winks at me. “I know them Americans are all rich, are they not? But I feel bad for you now! The Chinese are going to surge past the Americans you know. You have Bush- now don’t you see me looking all stupid, I know Bush of course, and his antics. He’s a bad egg, that one. And then now we’re hosting the Olympics- well now we can’t be beat!” he grins his gap toothed grin. But then focuses in on me and says, “I know you won’t be offended right, little lady? Of course you won’t. You’re a Chinese one, you are. You’re one of us. You’ve lived with those foreigners but look at your yellow skin here!” Mr. Zhang’s words are marinated richly in a Dongbei regional accent. His simple sentiments expressed in the rich local dialect make me smile. “You’re one of us.” However cheesy it is, my heart warms a little with his words. He can’t possibly know how isolated I’ve been in the past few weeks, how I’ve so desperately felt like I’m not one of any group.

“Thanks, Mr. Zhang.” I say.

“No need to thank me!” Mr. Zhang says. “It’s who you are!” I already have the dumplings in my hand and have paid him, but I don’t leave yet, and he sees this. He looks round. “Now what do you say-” he starts, closing the lid of his dumpling steamer, “that in the spirit of the Olympics, we do some sports? Are you busy now, little lady?”

“What?” Mr. Zhang’s suggestion is so out of the blue I don’t know what to think. I’ve always been terrible at sports. Basketball, football, volleyball, tennis, they’re all one game to me- you could call it dodgeball. Just get the damn ball away from me, that’s my sport philosophy. “Wait here”. Mr. Zhang disappears into the backroom behind him. I lean forward, pressing into the edge of the table, curious. What can he possibly come up with? Doesn’t he have a dumpling vendor to run?

Soon enough, Mr. Zhang emerges with a beautiful multi-coloured kite in his hands. He lays it out on the table for me to look at. Golden threads are woven around a stunning phoenix outline, and the light kite fabric is saturated with rich warm colours. I am absolutely flabbergasted. “Wow.” I say. “This is beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” Mr. Zhang’s face flushes with pride. “My son bought it for me for my birthday three years ago. He knows I’ve always been a kite flyer. I haven’t had a chance to fly it yet though. The wind is strong today. Want to watch me test it out?” I don't even like kite flying, but my heart leaps with excitement. Why am I so excited? I don’t even know. “Yeah!” I exclaim. “I’ll help you man the vendor. You have to fly it now, Mr. Zhang!”

Mr. Zhang grins his gap-toothed grin and comes out of his storefront. “If you say so, little lady,” he says. I can see that he’s even more excited than I am. He takes the kite out onto the wide street in front of our condo. A gust of wind blows past. Mr. Zhang throws the kite into the wind stream with his calloused hands. He uncoils his spool a little and runs a few steps forwards.

My breath is caught in my throat. I feel like I am watching the most thrilling event ever. Mr. Zhang is uncoiling the spool fast now. The kite is rising in the air. His hands work with such grace and natural instinct, I instantly know that he has been flying kites all his life. The phoenix lifts, twirls into the air. Mr. Zhang uncoils the spool. The phoenix flies higher and higher. It’s becoming a dot in the sky.

I can’t contain my excitement anymore. I run out of the storefront, completely forgetting the dumplings, the steamers, and everything else. I run to Mr. Zhang’s side, my eyes on the phoenix. “This is amazing!” I hear myself say. “Isn’t it?” Mr. Zhang is also squinting at the phoenix. The wrinkles around his eyes look even more prominent today as he raises his head and looks with me. But this moment I don’t feel his age at all. I feel like I’m standing with a friend.

It hits me, and I’m overwhelmed. I really do feel like I’m standing with a friend. He’s been my only friend since I came back here; back to Beijing, China, a place so familiar to me yet so strange. I feel a tear actually welling up in my eye- the first tear in more than a month. Not even a tear out of sadness.

“Now I’m not one of those literary types,” Mr. Zhang says, not noticing my tear. “But I can’t help thinking of my son when I look at this kite. Now if he’s the phoenix, there he is, up there, and I’m down here, but look at this string connecting us. Isn’t this kite like a lot of things in this world? Everything that’s connected, eh? What do you say, little lady?” He turns and looks at me, grinning his gap toothed grin.

I smile and nod, once again at a loss for words. We both watch the phoenix. “Mr. Zhang-” I start to say, suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to tell him everything. About why I’ve come back, about everything that happened, about how unhappy I am. But then we hear an irritated voice from behind us.

“Is there no one here or what?!” A 30 to 40 year old housewife, dressed in floral pajamas, is standing in front of the dumpling store front, her arms crossed over her chest looking annoyed. “A person just wants to get a few dumplings and no one is around to serve her…” she is mumbling. Mr. Zhang hurriedly starts to bring down the kite. “Sorry ma’am! I’ll be there in a minute!”

We’re both laughing, and my moment is lost. But just as well. Mr. Zhang is so full of joy; I don’t want to weigh him down with my trivial grievances. I’m thankful for the impatient woman now. “I’m going back then, Mr. Zhang!” I call at him as he brings down the kite with the woman staring on. “Ok!” he says, giving me the “ok’ sign with his fingers. I wave at him as I leave, but he’s too busy tending to the woman. I grin as I walk back.

I get a cold the next day. It’s just like me to get a cold in the summer, with the air conditioning on full blast during all those minutes spent wallowing in my room, mourning over my own misfortunes. My fever is so high that I cannot leave the room, and for the first time my mother comes home early every day to tend to me. Our relatives are coming too, moving into the house from all over China as the Olympics near, all extremely excited to share in the Olympic excitement, cluttering up the house like bees in a beehive.

Truth be told, I feel extremely apathetic about it all, and I am upset as I am too sick and cannot go down to do my daily dumpling run. The relatives avoid my room like the plague, even though they try to pretend they aren’t. Sometimes a head will pop in real quick and a relative will say hurriedly “Dear Val, how are you feeling???” and then pop right back out again in record speed, god forbid some of my germs should escape the room and infect them all.

I just concentrate my best on getting better. The more I lie in my bed, the more I think about what happened back in New York, about the breakup, about him. Strange, before I got sick, when I was going down to buy dumplings daily, I dwelt less on things like these, and after my conversations with Mr. Zhang I always felt better and stopped my moaning and groaning over the breakup, if only temporarily. It’s strange for me to come to terms with the fact that I need Mr. Zhang’s company now. I miss him, in my sickbed, like I miss a dear friend. Ironically, he’s the person who makes me feel better, but now I can’t see him because I am sick.

When I finally feel well enough to get out of bed and move around, the first thing I do is rush out of my room to go downstairs. The relatives are shocked as I scramble past them, all collected on the sofa to watch the much-hyped-about opening ceremony. “Where are you going?” exclaims my aunt Jia Yi. “Val, are you well enough?” “Come here and watch the opening ceremony with us!” says my uncle Zhong Hua. He pats an empty spot on the sofa beside him. I ignore them all as I make for the door.

My mother just comes in the door as I’m rushing out, and I bump right into her. “What are you doing? You’re not well! Where are you going?” she demands. “I’m going to get us some dumplings!” I call back at her as I go down the hall to press the elevator. I can just imagine her befuddled expression. “Val”- she tries to say something, but I’ve already gotten into the elevator and do not catch the rest.

Ugh. I’ve finally escaped. I arrive in the lobby, open the front door, and breathe in that familiar fragrance of Beijing. I feel strangely happy. I don’t even know what I’m going to say to Mr. Zhang when I see him. I just know I will be happy to. Mr. Zhang will surely be full of excitement, will want to give me a huge speech about the Olympics and how important they are and how proud he is to be Chinese on this day. Maybe he will take his kite out, maybe we will watch the opening ceremony together on the little TV in the back of his shop. He will talk about his son. Hell, maybe his son will be there to watch the opening ceremony too.

I eagerly rush along. But when Mr. Zhang’s shop comes into view, I stop dead in my tracks. Mr. Zhang isn’t there. The steamers aren’t there either. Neither is the shaky table, nor the makeshift blackboards. There is tape over the walls, a big painted “DECONSTRUCT” symbol slashed onto the crumbling concrete. I’m panicking. I look to the right and the left. All the shops on that little street are closed. They all have the same “DECONSTRUCT” symbol painted on them. They are all uniformly abandoned, their empty open storefronts taunting me.

I rush across the street, reach Mr. Zhang’s shop, bang on the windows, the walls, the tape, the paint. “Mr. Zhang!” I shout, again and again. There is no answer. Who am I kidding? I know he isn’t there. Where did he go? What is this? What’s going on?! Them I remember my mother, saying “Val”- did she know something about it? Why hadn’t I stayed long enough to listen? I run back to my house. I need to know the answer. There’s a burning urgency in my chest. I feel sick.

My door is open when I reach it, rushing out of the elevator. My mother is standing there looking worried, probably looking for me. I dash over to confront her. “What’s going on, mom?” My voice is asthmatic. “Why is Mr. Zhang’s shop closed? The dumpling shop- why is it closed?”

My mom sees my wide-eyed crazed worry and attempts to calm me down by putting her hand on my shoulder. I shake it off. “Val, I was trying to tell you this when you stampeded past me. They told everyone to leave a few days ago. They’re building a new shopping mall there, part of the new city industrialization project. Now what were you doing running so fast and-”

“What?” I cut her off, incredulous. “But where did they go? Where did Mr. Zhang go? They can’t just kick him out! That’s his shop!” My mother sighs. “They must have compensated him. I suppose he went back to his hometown.” She studies my panic with worry and curiosity. “I didn’t know you were so attached to his shop. We can get our dumplings somewhere-” I cut her off again. “But he can’t!” I’m mumbling more to myself now. “He wouldn’t go back to Dongbei! His son’s still in school here in Beijing…”

This time my mother really looks at me. “Val...” she says, her face sombre. “You’re talking about Mr. Zhang, the dumpling shop owner right? He doesn’t have a son anymore.”

“What?” an iron fist hits me in the guts as I process her words. I look at her with shock and disbelief. “That’s bullshit, mom. He told me himself about his son. He has a son!”

“Hey, watch your language, young lady.” My mother shakes her head. “The neighborhood nannies told me. He lost his son 2 years ago, back in Dongbei. I’m not sure how. When he first came and set up business here, they told me that’s all he’d talk about. How he missed his son. Then his business started booming. He stopped talking about it. Got happier. Never mentioned his son again. Something like that. I don’t know, it’s all neighborhood gossip. Not reliable maybe.” She turns to look at me. “You’re ok, right?”

“No.” I’m saying, shaking my head. “No.” tears are welling up in my eyes. You remind me of my son. I don’t want to believe what my mother is telling me, but deep down inside I know it’s true. There were things Mr. Zhang wasn’t telling me too. And I thought I kept all the secrets. I run back into my room, leaving my mom standing there, bewildered. I slam the door. Slam it a few more times. But it doesn’t feel good this time. It doesn’t feel good at all. It feels terrible.

“There he is, up there, and I’m down here”, Mr. Zhang had said as the golden lined phoenix soared in the air. I should have known. I should have known. But I’m too self-absorbed to care about anyone else’s problems. Mr. Zhang was betrayed by fate, betrayed by the country he loved so much, betrayed by the damn Olympics and the damn industrialization of this damn city. I dig my fingernails into the wall and scratch down. I do it again and again.

I don’t want to see anyone. I’m sobbing in this room. Sobbing, really, for the first time in 2 months. Sobbing out of sadness, out of hurt and out of anger. I’m sobbing for Mr. Zhang at first, and his son, his kite, his little dumpling shop. And then I’m sobbing for myself. I’m thinking of the breakup, of him. The way his words had hit me like a slap in the face, the way he said he didn’t love me anymore, just like that, like a phrase of conversation, like “the weather’s good today.” The way he had found someone new in less than a week, flaunting her in front of me, her blonde hair and shiny lips, her whore of a smile. I’m sobbing in anger, and then in shame, at how I had mourned two months for this asshole, at how I had let it get to me, how I had killed myself over it, replaying the same damn scene again and again, how I had been calling his phone and getting his voicemail, as if hoping he would take me back, as if I even wanted that motherfucker back.

I wipe my tears away. Well I don’t. He can go fuck himself for all I care. I feel like a selfish bitch now. The guilt weighs down on me like an avalanche. Hadn’t I been crying for Mr. Zhang? Why did I end up crying for myself? Go figure, Valerie. That’s just the kind of person you are.

But that’s also the kind of person you choose to be. I climb back into my bed, actually thinking now.

I miss Mr. Zhang. I want dumplings. I need to stop. I need to change.

I need to stop selfishly mourning.

The days of the Olympics pass by in a kind of blur. Ever since the day I bawled my eyes out, I’ve been successfully thinking less and less about what happened in New York City. But there’s still a heart wrenching pain in my gut when I remember Mr. Zhang. I just want to know where he is now, if he’s ok, if he’s enjoying the Olympics when he was so excited about them.

My relatives crowd around the couch for every event, shouting and whooping and cheering for the Chinese team. I stay in my room most of the time, not doing much. I don’t want to watch the Olympics. I’m not interested, and I feel deep down that the Olympics have betrayed me. I only wanted to watch the opening ceremony with Mr. Zhang, and ironically that day was the day I found out he had left my life, just like all the other people before.

There’s a big racket in the living room. Evidently another event is about to start. I can here my uncle’s booming voice musing over “China’s chances.” A knock sounds at my door. I open it. It’s my mother. “Val,” she says. Her face is excited. “Come out and watch this! It’s the 50 meter rifle event!”

I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t feel like it.” I say, like an obstinate teenager. My mom is not discouraged. “Come on, Val!” she urges. “It’s very hyped about! We’re all betting for the Chinese competitor to score full points! Stop-”

I wait for her to say “bumming around and doing nothing”, but she stops herself just in time and smiles. “All right, it’s up to you dearie”, she says, turns and walks back to the living room. I smile, grateful. “All right!” I shout after her. “I’ll check it out.”

Uncle Zhong Hua has a place for me on the couch, as usual. I sit down and watch the camera zoom in on the Chinese competitor’s face as he aims at his target. Uncle Zhong Hua’s elbow is poking into my side. It’s very crowded on the couch. This better be good, I think. I’m still waiting nonchalantly, when the camera pans to the crowd for a second.

Suddenly, I’m jolted. In the crowd is what looks like Mr. Zhang’s face, even though I know I must be imagining things. How could Mr. Zhang be there? But it looks like his face all the same. The wrinkly, smiling eyes, the gap toothed grin, the top of his military style jacket, even that button missing. I rub my eyes to see clearer. But the camera is panning back now. The competitor is about to shoot.

I can’t believe it. I’m not even concentrating. Why do I think I saw Mr. Zhang just now, sitting in the audience row of the Olympic green, grinning and watching the game intently just like everyone else? I must be going crazy.

Suddenly the room explodes. My relatives are jumping up. Uncle Zhong Hua is shouting: “A perfect ten a perfect ten! First time in history! A perfect ten! We’ve won gold!” everyone is cheering. I look back to the TV. Sure enough, the Chinese competitor has hit the target right on the bulls-eye. The TV screen flashes ten points, and I clamp my hand to my mouth as I remember something.

A perfect ten.

“Ten little babies. A perfect ten.” Ten baozi dumplings, sitting in a circle at the bottom of the steamer.

I’m remembering now the day Mr. Zhang flew his kite, his calloused hands hanging on tightly to the kite thread as we watched the phoenix fly high above us in the air. “Look at this string connecting us,” he had said about his son. And they are connected, like how I am connected to Mr. Zhang, his face in the crowd as the camera panned, grinning at me with his gap- toothed grin.

That kite thread is in my hand now.

“Isn’t this kite like a lot of things in this world? Everything that’s connected, eh?”

A perfect ten, those words are resonating in my head now, again and again, like the thread of the kite I grip them tightly.

And I am cheering like the rest of them now, I am jumping up, I am whooping and screaming and I am going crazy, and somewhere I know Mr. Zhang is remembering his son, and he is watching and screaming and jumping just like me for the Olympics, for that Chinese competitor who just won gold with his bulls-eye.

i can't help smiling when i remember our fleeting moment of romance.

2009-01-14T18:52:00.000-05:00

it lasted a second, but i can still see the traces of it in places we used to visit.
:)

"so this is the new year"- according to death cab for cutie

2009-01-01T21:27:00.000-05:00

i'm updating this blog at 9:27 pm on new year's day. so i suppose it's still not too late to do a new year's blog post.
let me see.. should i begin this post with the usual new year's resolutions? but the funny ( or should i say tragic) thing is no one really wants to read about anyone else's new years resolutions, because they're a) boring, and b) always consist of the same few annually recurring wishful sentiments, such as:

1. lose weight ( always)
2. cut back/save money/earn more money ( all the same thing, obviously)
3. quit smoking/drinking/drugs/other nasty habits that no one wants to know about
4. find a boyfriend/find a girlfriend/ find a transfriend/ find an illegit lover/ get married/ get engaged... basically hoping for romance and lots of sex
5. spend more time with your family/lover
6. spend more time on intellectually stimulating activities...like reading nietzche, watching cnn, you know the kind of thing that's supposed to salvage your brain from the dumpster

so really- there you have it. you don't need me to write out my resolutions.. they inadvertently will fall into the above categories and fit quite nicely into that list template. so let's skip the resolutons part. moving on to my not so interesting life.

i suppose the new year did bring about some new beginnings. actually i wouldn't say the new year brought about these new beginnings exactly; to phrase it better ( and more accurately) would be to say that the new year coincided with some of my personal new beginnings. the most significant of which would be the acquisition of a new house into the family. that sounds like my mother gave birth to a new house, but i can't be bothered to go back and fix my diction and syntax or whatever- the jist of it is she bought a new house. it's in new jersey, hillsborough, and all my days have really been preoccupied with new house duties. specifically, shipping and moving things over, buying furniture, choosing carpets and flooring and other things i didn't know had to be taken care of and had just assumed that they appeared magically in the past. it really isn't that fascinating, but those jobs have to be done, sadly. i would much prefer to sit on my fat ass and watch episodes of "ugly betty" online, but my mum would really have my head off; the tragic thing about that is i'm not exaggerating.

having a new house is kind of exciting in it's own way though, i have to admit. there are so many possibilities; wallpaper-wise ( floral), decorations-wise ( useless ornaments such as wooden sheep from pier one imports and chocolate candles from yankee), house-warming parties wise ( champagne and cocktail dresses, hopefully?), possible hot neighbors-wise ( well, a girl can dream can't she), and really just the idea of having a new refuge, a new haven away from the city where i can escape to on regular weekend getaways. and i never was a suburban girl, but there's something very endearing about suburbia. maybe it's the air quality. maybe it's the shock value of sitting on a bench that isn't dirty with hobo-grease, cigarette ash or bird's droppings. i don't even miss the familiar smell of new york city piss while here in new jersey. i feel much simpler here. much more get up-> eat-> get in car and go somewhere-> come back-> sleep and not care about anything else ish. it's really this sense of boredom that i miss while in the city. get that- missing being bored! so yes, having a new house is exciting. though of course, it isn't really MY house. it's my mum's house. but i still get to decide what colour walls i want!

in terms of other new beginnings... well, if i don't drop out of nyu at the last minute due to some random mishap or if the world doesn't implode before mid-january, i will be starting spring semester courses on the 20th. here's the breakdown:

intro to creative writing- fiction and poetry
conwest- antiquity and the enlightenment
writing the essay ( sadly i couldn't avoid it)
intro to sociology

i decided to put korean on suspension because 4 classes a week was starting to become too hardcore for me. who was i kidding thinking i would start fluently yapping in korean after a semester of this class anyway?i suppose i should have sharpened my grasp of the language more while clubbing in ktown or ordering chapjae or something. unfortunately, whenever a korean-speaking opportunity presented itself, i clammed up, became bashful and resorted to english. but nevermind the korean. i like my new classes for new semester. it's true i haven't taken any of them yet, and i know writing the essay and conwest will definitely not be a blast ( especially since i have been warned), but at least i can dip into a little creative writing and sociology, something useful, something i actually WANT to do. i really have no idea why i spent last semester wasting my time on russian literature and dated victorian english novels. grr, i think those classes will haunt my life forever. these new classes for next semester are a good start. hopefully they will bring with them a better semester overall- not just academically, but also socially and practically. maybe i'll stop being emo and depressed next semester, kick myself in the ass and actually start getting my life together? that would be nice. oh, and here i've thought up a new resolution: i vow to attend more FBA meetings next semester, to spend more time on "i think fashion", and to generally work harder to get my foot into the fashion industry. i have to admit movies like "the devil wears prada" and tv shows like "ugly betty" and "the hills" scare me: are all the successful girls in the fashion industry over-confident, superficial, talentless size-zero bimboes ( not mentioning any specific people *coughlaurenconradcough*)?
i'm confident enough in myself, i suppose, to deal with that if that is the case. i don't know how well i can deal with bitches.. my stint at american apparel was an eye-opener and an experience. the truth is fashion consumes my life, no matter how stupid that sounds. it's something becoming more inherently important to me every day. i'm sartorially enamoured, what can i say? i can't imagine any alternate career option, and since i'm so sure about what i want to do, i might as well start taking the first steps towards doing it. except oh the outside world is so scary. i wish i could just live in my little bubble...

what am i rambling on about? if this was an essay this post would be veering towards failure. i better close this up. well here's a first, at least i wrote a lot today.

and, to awakwardly close this post, some wise words of wisdom from the death cab boys back when they were still "transatlanticism" amazing (hear, hear):

So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
For self-assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions.

I wish the world was flat like the old days/ Then I could travel just by folding a map/ No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways/ There'd be no distance that can hold us back.

famous people i've seen in new york tally2

2008-12-15T15:49:00.000-05:00

only counting on the street and not live shows/ concerts or anything.

1. james franco
2. agyness deyn
3. eric van der woodsen from gossip girl
4. daniel vosovic
5. christian siriano
6. elijah wood
7. weeman from jackass

it's building up eh?

shoes

2008-12-12T02:01:00.001-05:00

i can see
your blue shoes
peeking out at me
from behind the door ajar.
worn blue keds with pristine white laces.
connected to you
and your voice talking
to someone i don't know.
i quickly pass by and avert my glance
too scared to look at
someone too close
to my idea of perfect.
i'm in love with the possibility
of your presence everywhere
and what you leave me with-
the memory of
those blue blue shoes.

NO MORE JOB

2008-12-06T01:09:00.000-05:00

enough with the pornographic awkwardness of american apparel. liberation!!!!!!!!

my grandpa is a photo junkie

2008-11-30T13:43:00.000-05:00

i was taking some photos with my holga in the backyard of my grandparents' Toronto home today and my grandpa made fun of my camera. i told him so show me what he has and he pulls out an oldschool polaroid system spectra.

the thing looks like a bulky torture device. nevertheless, i had a heart attack when i saw it and my grandpa proceeded to tell me he didn't want it and i could have it. i'm delirious with joy. film for this sucker costs 30 dollars a pack though- that's 10 exposures. my grandpop told me he bought film for 12 bucks back in the day.
what has the world come to?

p.s i'm going to cancun on december 23rd. super excited.

i have a holga, a holga, a holga

2008-11-16T11:23:00.000-05:00

i'm so excited about my new holga 120 cfn. it's the CMY special edition too!

actually i still haven't really figured out how to use it yet. but in due time i will.
about my bipolar-ism and depression, i've discovered that my proposed cure- i.e being intoxicated all of the time ( which i have been testing out the past few nights) has kind of sort of failed me, so i'm looking for new outlets. the holga is one of them.

and i actually kind of like work now. you know the reason.
:)

I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE I CAN'T FUCKING STAND IT ANYMORE FUCK MY LIFE

2008-11-12T17:37:00.001-05:00

you know when there's something that annoys you and then every day it becomes more and more annoying until it engulfs you and you just want to scream and kill someone and you're probably magnifying it and it's probably your own fault and just you being bipolar but you're still fucking annoyed and depressed as fuck?
yeah. i have that now. fuck this.

Blue

2008-11-07T01:52:00.000-05:00

Blue

i've fallen in love with you too many times
the first time you were purple
the second time you were grey
this time you are blue.

you are blue
so beautifully blue
i want to put my arms around your sadness that is blue
i want to heal your pain feel your smile that is blue
i want to touch your words
your syllables your consonants your vowels
they are blue
i want to play those notes
those notes that make up you
the do re mi fa sos in your song- they are blue too

i want to smile with you in your polaroids of blue
i want to accompany you in your seconds your minutes your hours
all your days of blue
i want to dance in the blue drifting out of your cigarettes
that blinding toxic blue
i want to listen to mogwai with you no lyrics we'll be the lyrics
we'll have romance that is blue
i want to drown in your sea of blue
oh soft aquamarine overwhelming blue

you
your beautiful blue
your eyes so full of blue
your smile so full of blue
your touch staining me blue

i want you i want
you you are blue so blue

i don't want the rainbow of the world
i only want blue

i only want you
.

barrack obama is the 44th president of the united states.

2008-11-05T00:42:00.000-05:00

snow pea crisps are bad for you

2008-10-22T02:40:00.000-04:00

first thing's first: i updated the fashion blog ( finally.)

http://ithinkfashion.blogspot.com

it's ridiculous the amount of advertising i have to do for that thing.. and it doesn't even matter because no one ever reads it anyway. not like anyone ever reads this blog. unless there are lurkers. and if that is the case, then you are creepy. go to my fashion blog please.

i'm drinking bottled green tea from snapple at 2:40 am in the morning and eating snow pea crisps. they put honey in bottled green tea- how nasty is that? why do they do that?
anyway i just read over my posts and i realized that i'm an emo piece of shit. i dont even know where all my sense of humour went to. it kinda all just went down the toilet. it's all gloom and doom from here. God, i wish i hadn't changed so much.

but today i'm not going to write about emo stuff because i feel a little better today. because i took 3 'walks' in the courtyard. that definitely has made me feel better. a whole lot better. which is totally wrong and horrible, but is also the truth. so even though i could complain about a lot of things ( i.e work, weird ass bitches at nyu, lack of funds, endless pile of homework, ok i wont go on) i'm going to focus on the positive side of things.

positive things:

1. going to see crystal castles tomorrow. YES!!!! it's really fujiya and miyagi i want to see, but hey crystal castles aren't bad either. did i say aren't bad? i meant fucking amazing. i cant wait. and since i've proved to be a raving alcoholic, i cant wait for pregaming either. and postgaming. and no, i dont mean playing super-smash before the concert- though as someone pointed out, that would LITERALLY be pregaming! hahahaha.

2. vivian and jason coming to visit on the weekend! after my monstrous american apparel shift on friday ( ending at 11:30 pm), i'll take my beloved vivian home- i mean third north.(shit i'm calling third north home now. this isn't good- i'm forgetting my roots!!!!! ) oh i have missed her a lot. and then i'm going to corrupt her until she becomes a decadent party animal and she will have to rely on crack and random sex all her life.

3. I CAN VOTE YAY I CAN VOTE

4.I'm going to be paid.. soon. ok maybe not soon. but at least now I have an income, that is if i dont get fired in the next week because i dont know where the "nylon tricot blend gold spandex tights" are in the a a store and cant find them fast enough for gay hipster male customers.

5. THE DECEMBERISTS in exactly 2 weeks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

6. being in New York City. i've always said i love this city in an s&m kind of way. that's a really accurate discription. how do i put this more eloquently? it's raping the shit out of me but it's still giving me a huge ass orgasm.

i spout too much verbal diarrhea.
i think i'll come back soon with more emoness. i'm still bipolar.

and my last post-
oh my god.
really.

i just dont want to get hurt anymore.

2008-10-16T18:46:00.001-04:00

what the fuck
what the fuck
and i miss you so much
we were barely together
we werent ever together
you obviously dont care
and i tell myself i dont either
but it's such a fucking lie
and it's not fucking fair
i just wish i wasnt so stupid
i thought we had something
maybe a little bit something
did we
did you ever like me?
even just a little bit
or was that just you being a charmer
being an asshole
like all the other guys
everything you told me
a fucking lie
i hate pretending we're still awesome because we aren't
i hate pretending you havent hurt me because you have
i hate pretending i never liked you because i did
i hate pretending i dont give a shit because i do
i do and you dont
sorry i'm not around anymore
even if i want to be
because i cant reach you
as always
so it makes no fucking difference
we;re not even from the same planet
you're a heartbreaker
i said i love you
and you said me neither
and you still dont care now
because you dont know it's you
you dont know what this is about
because that's how much you dont get it
and it's fucking sad
and i hate myself
and fuck all

but it's ok
it's not your fault for
being not into me.

2008-10-05T21:30:00.001-04:00

And sometimes when you’re on
You’re really fucking on
And your friends they sing along
And they love you
But the lows are so extreme
That the good seems fucking cheap
And it teases you for weeks in its absence
But you’ll fight and you’ll make it through
You’ll fake it if you have to
And you’ll show up for work with a smile
And you’ll be better
And you’ll be smarter
And more grown up
And a better daughter or son
And a real good friend
And you’ll be awake
You’ll be alert
You’ll be positive though it hurts
And you’ll laugh and embrace all your friends
And you’ll be a real good listener
You’ll be honest
You’ll be brave
You’ll be handsome and you’ll be beautiful
You’ll be happy

strange things.

2008-09-30T01:22:00.001-04:00

really. i've thought about the month i've had here and everything seems so fucking surreal.
one month ago i came into college not fully prepared, with a limited vision of the future, kind of expecting this to be summer camp and then i'll go back to my former life, boring as it was. one month later college has really started to settle in.

so much has happened that is impossible to write about, but what has happened in this one month alone has been terrifying, horrible, terrific, amazing, everything rolled into one. i've had my down moments, my depressed wanting-to-kill-myself moments, and then i've had the adrenaline rushes and the excited squeals and yes, i've had way too many crushes since i've been here. and it's all happened in such a short amount of time. i've dropped way too much money.. probably more than 1000 bucks, in this first month... i've figured out that cleaning the house and handwashing one's own clothes isn't fun, yet I have to do it because sticking my vintage dresses in the washing machine would be a travesty. i've had very little written homework but a tremendous amount of reading homework, i've been frustrated with numerous amounts of people and then enamoured with others, or maybe even the same people ( at a later time in the day), and trippy shit has happened. scary shit has happened. everything.

and i can still find time to be bored. really, life is a funny thing. and i've changed a lot. though i guess in nature i'm still myself. still May. but a different May? A May actually living in new york city?

it's funny though. i write down all the things i have planned to do in my sticky notes, and there's an overwhelming number of things. but i still feel that sometimes i have nothing to do- in those intervals between event A and event B- like i cant sit still for one minute and just entertain myself, like i have to be occupied every single second. that is so not like the person i was before. i'd waste away endless amounts of time online, bored, nothing to do. i wasn't the type that constantly would go out and seek activity. but in college i've grown so restless. i check my cellphone every single minute- and if you know me from China you know i'm infamous for NEVER checking my cellphone and never picking up calls. well, that's changed significantly.. i can hardly walk around the apartment without my cellphone in my hand nowadays- really!
and then i'm j-walking across the street, half asleep in the morning, along with the rest of the new york crowd. yes, i have ceased to care about traffic. and i have ceased to notice the traffic lights. new york has converted me. i walk with my vision straight across but not really looking, my eyes on other things, so that i might pass the same restaurant a million times and still not recall ever seeing it in my life. i guess in a way i've become a constantly-in-a-rush new yorker, the type who can no longer stop to smell the roses.

in this past month i've had plenty of moments in which i wanted to stop and slit my wrists, scattered at regular intervals ( I had one today, actually), many fits in my head, depressing moments- but then again i also feel that my appreciation for life has increased so much- i can see beauty in the sky, on the streets, on the architecture, in all the people i meet. there's a constant conflict in everything that has happened. i can wake up in the morning, completely emo, then go into the afternoon ecstatic. i cant explain it. once again, it's bipolar, it's a bipolar life i lead. everything's either awesome or horrible, nothing's in between. in a way i guess that's exciting, but it's also pretty exhausting.

my sleep cycle is fucked. i cant fall asleep before 2:30 am- actually, make that 3 am- and getting up at 10:00 or 11:20 for classes is hard as hell- feels like 6 in the morning. i'm eating random shit- whatever i can find- if i have something for lunch, i can have the same thing for dinner, and then again the next day- i cant even be bothered, and yet i still manage to overeat and inch myself towards the freshman fifteen. probably also because i'm eating a ridiculous amount of chcolate, either in cookie form, pocky form, ice cream form, cake form or just plain old chocolate form.

i'm completely restless. i cant even sit still properly to watch something on youtube without getting distracted. it's completely bizarre. i can go out for myself on long walks, just wandering around aimlessly looking at stuff, and not want to go back to my dorm. i guess i'm becoming wild, haha. and i dont even mind the rain that much anymore. there are just so many things i want to do. every single second i'm not doing something i feel like i'm missing out. this is so unhealthy but in a way kind of exhilerating. i dont even know how to explain it.

all i can say, college hit me like a slap in the face. and it hurt like a motherfucker. now i've gotten used to getting bitchslapped by life every day. and i have to say i kind of like it.

life is awesome

2008-09-22T23:39:00.000-04:00

October 23rd- Crystal Castles and Fujiya& Miyagi
November 5th- The Decemberists
November 22nd- Bishop Allen

what more could i want?

p.s "Wuthering Heights" is the most depressing novel ever written. it is filled with people freaking out about nothing and dying left and right.

and I thought "Jane Eyre" was bad...

famous people i've seen in new york tally

2008-09-13T12:34:00.000-04:00

famous people i've seen in new york so far: 3

1) james franco, in front of tisch,
2) agyness deyn, on the street, 3rd ave. and st. mark's place
3) connor paolo ( eric from gossip girl), in front of third north, presumably living here

i hate rain!

2008-09-12T15:39:00.000-04:00

i hate rain i hate rain i hate rain i hate rain i hate rain. i hate getting drenched, i hate how my feet get nasty, i hate how it's cold, i just FUCKING HATE IT.
that aside, why has it rained every single friday since like august? life is bullshit.
i'm so tired i could fall asleep right now, and it's 3:41 pm. i guess staying out late the night before you have 10 am community service meeting/classes and then telling yourself to "suck it up" isn't such a good idea after all.
things i want to complain about, because i am a compulsive complainer:

1. how it's raining ( duh.)
2. how it's always so cold in new york city.
3. how i still havent found a decent club in new york city that doesn't play shitty music, though they must exist!
4. how there's a retarded age limit and actually people who check your ID.
5. how i'm spending way too much money
6. how the library next to third north really sucks
7. a million other things and etc

i feel like i am once again tip toe-ing on the realm of depression. today must be a "oh my god wtf am i doing here" day.

depressing lyrics of the day:

How Soon Is Now

- The Smiths

I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
Oh, of nothing in particular

You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way ?
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does

There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home, and you cry
And you want to die

When you say it's gonna happen "now"
Well, when exactly do you mean ?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone

You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way ?
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does

i can't find a photo that is relevant, therefore, hot asian guy photo:

i was a tourist today.

2008-09-07T20:53:00.001-04:00

i walked about 80 blocks today. from my dorm to 54th street and 5th avenue, then took a subway to chinatown with lisa :), then from canal street and broadway back to my dorm.
and this is what i was listening to as i walked:

"Let us be lovers we'll marry our fortunes together."
"I've got some real estate here in my bag."
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies
And we walked off to look for America

"Kathy," I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh
"Michigan seems like a dream to me now"
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I've gone to look for America

Laughing on the bus
Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said "Be careful his bowtie is really a camera"

"Toss me a cigarette, I think there's one in my raincoat"
"We smoked the last one an hour ago"
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field

"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping
I'm empty and aching and I don't know why
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike
They've all gone to look for America
All gone to look for America
All gone to look for America

Simon and Garfunkel give me shivers down my spine.

i was playing a game at first, wondering how far i could really walk without getting tired, it was such a beautiful day. and then i bumped into the MOMA, which couldn't be more perfect- i've wanted to see the Salvador Dali exhibit for hell knows how long ( ok, ever since i saw a poster advertising the exhibition on a city bus.)
it was absolutely mind-blowing- astronomically good and inspiring. i wrote down a few words, inspired by him; some things i have had on my mind.

WORDS THAT DO NOT TELL A STORY.

here i am, wandering about you.

in my memory, us two windswept figures, lost and lonely
then you stepping into the light, reminiscent of dreams.

mistake.
that sickening tangle of sticky sweet limbs that we were, coalesced again and again,
we shaped ourselves to each other's curves,
but our eyes did not meet when they should.

and with the burning palm of your hand you melted away what we were,
with the tip of your tongue you erased what we could be.
quicksand.
gone.
and now you have me dip dyed in your colours.

but i cant. you are an island, your heart is derelict, in your fortress, in your sand-
i can only reach you sometimes by riding on the sweep of a wave.
but waves come not often enough
and my sea will never immerse you.

i have finally realized, i have been waiting for nothing.

your heart is an empty room

2008-09-06T22:29:00.000-04:00

Burn it down
Until the embers smoke on the ground
And start new when your heart is an empty room
With walls of the deepest blue

Home's face, how it ages when you're away
The spring blooms
Then you find the love that's true
But you don't know what now to do
Because the chase is all you know
And she stopped running months ago

And all you see
Is where else you could be
When you're at home
And out on the street
Are so many possibilities
To not be alone

Flames and smoke
Climbed out of every window
And disappeared
With everything that you held dear
But you shed not a single tear
For the things that you didn't need
Because you knew you were finally free

And all you see
Is where else you could be
When you're at home
And out on the street
Are so many possibilities
To not be alone.

i wish we could all just connect. that's such a lame thing to say on my first blog post in this new blog, but really, being in such a huge city can be ironically so isolating. the lyrics of this song are breathtakingly beautiful- because they hold true. out on the street are so many possibilities to not be alone- yet we always move in the cocoon of our surroundings, our own little world. if only we could all bare our hearts. that expression- heart on my sleeve- i wish that was true, i wish people would walk around with their naked hearts on their sleeves, not shamefaced about their passions or their secrets, ready and willing to connect with anyone around them. i think that would be an amazing revolution. life is so short, too short to be spent hiding behind things, worrying about embarrassments and face and appearance, when really there are all these people around us that are so pure and beautiful and so similar to us, if only we could connect with everyone, just really sit down and share our thoughts, bare our souls, and be free to love and to live. i sound like such a prat, i know, but i cant help it. rainy days make me feel this way- i'm overall way too sentimental. but really. my mind wanders. and i wish that life was something different- not talking about the meaning of life or anything abstract like that. i just wonder why we all are how we are. we all seem to be so different on the surface, but we are all so the same in the way that we are so human, we have the same hopes and fears and passions, and if we could all just- connect on that level, that primal level in which we share so many things- then....

i'm saying, if only everyone was willing to bare their hearts. and talk to each other. just fucking connect. then no would ever be alone in this world anymore.

2008-07-24T10:53:00.000-04:00