Uninspired, but at peace

My Awesome Life, Uncategorized, Writing

I’m on the cusp of a profound transition, arguably the most significant one in modern life: crossing the threshold from 20 to 21.

My grand initiation into the 21 Club is scheduled on Pi Day, which may be more than 50 days away, but I thought I might as well reflect on and immortalize in writing the bizarre and uninspiring person I’ve grown into over the last two decades.

The first 20 years of my life have been a collage of confused decisions, abandoned resolutions, disillusioned attempts down various career paths, and random epiphanies about both myself and the world around me.

My teenage years revolved around an emotional pendulum rooted at equilibrium, refusing to even flirt with either extreme. I’ve been frustrated and lost, hovering in a purgatory of mediocrity and indifference for the better part of the last four years. I’ve been sad but never heartbroken, I’ve been happy but never ecstatic, and I’ve dated but never in love. At times I feel like I’m incapable of feeling anything to the fullest extent, like anything I experience will only be a dimmer version of what others have already felt. I love writing–always will–but I’ve never felt that scorching thirst to sew my dreams into narratives, never been inspired enough to write for hours on end until the sun bled into the horizon and hours bled into days. Can I ever feel as passionate about anything as professional athletes do about winning a damn trophy, or as actors do about, well, acting? Can I ever commit to anything?

My state of mind is the Jamie xx album, “In Color”—not any particular track but snippets of the entire album. In electronic music, we anticipate drops. We dig bangers that take us on pulsating mind trips and emotional roller coaster rides. The spectacular is what expect from life, too, and if we don’t get it, we lash out: “I didn’t deserve this. I just thought there’d be more.” When the going gets tough, we tell ourselves to hang in there, push through the pain and wait for eminent arrival of better days. I think that’s been my attitude for the majority of my adolescent years: You haven’t seen shit. Just wait for the bass to drop.

The bass never drops in “In Color.” It’s just an impressionistic painting of intelligent beat-making and ethereal atmospherics, delicate but brimming with wonder. Some tracks (“Far Nearer,” “Loud Places”) bottle a fountain of youthful emotions–optimism, desire, dread, yearning–into a quiet and exquisite world of gentle, fluttering synth sequences and stirring vocals. “Gosh” builds up to a two-minute climax of lush keyboard soundscapes that douse you with euphoria and hope. On the other side of the spectrum, “Stranger In a Room” envelops you in spellbinding warmth using minimal percussion beats against deep baselines, hinting that life can be okay without staggering achievements or life-changing revelations.

Electronic music is an enormous and expanding world of countless sub-genres that defy categorization. Bangers comprise a recognizable but very small part of that world; extraordinary milestones comprise but a small part of ours. I’ve been so lost and frustrated that my youth–the most exciting years of my life–has so far been defined by a maddening indifference, and that I couldn’t find the motivation to reach my full potential to make my parents proud.

But maybe I’ve been asking too much. The way we package our emotions determines the way we experience them. I’ve never been euphoric about anything, but I’ve been happy about plenty: getting into college, road-tripping with mom, feeding my dog, hanging out with friends. I just need to believe that happiness can give me the same satisfaction as euphoria. I’ve never been obsessed with writing, but I want to write and I’ll continue doing so, inspired or not. What if you don’t need to live life to the fullest to be at peace with it? I’m not in love with life, but I feel lucky to be alive and to live this life.

I doubt much will change about my appearance or attitude 12 months from now. Maybe I’ll be single and jobless at 25; maybe I’ll be profiling Leonardo DiCaprio for Vanity Fair. I can’t see either happening, but I have always been dreadful at predicting the trajectory of my life. And I’m still young. I want to believe that one day I will fall in love with life.

 

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What am I Even Saying

Musings/Rants

You know what’s the most frequently asked question in my life?

“Why are you so emo?”

It comes in several different forms: “Why are you so angsty?” “Why are you always so mad?” “Why do you never smile?”

The answer is very simple: smiling is painful. It literally hurts my face to smile more than a minute straight, even when I’m having a good time around people I like. Who the hell decided to make curved lips on full stretch the universal expression of happiness? It’s physically exhausting, like holding a coffee mug in your palm for an extended period of time. But some people can smile for hours on end like their jaws were born ajar. I used to think those people were phony as fuck until I got to know a few of them and discovered that they’re the sweetest people ever. That’s when I realized that I’m the phony one, baring my teeth like a fucking vampire when all I wanted to do was curl up in my bed and cry. And it made me wonder: are introverts just inherently more depressed and cynical than extroverts?

That’s a difficult question to answer because most introverts are camouflaged among extroverts. We all lie somewhere on the introvert-extrovert continuum, and the more heavily you lean toward the introvert side of the spectrum the more excessively you have to lie. Pretending to be outgoing and outspoken people has become our defense mechanism. Obviously some of us are better at lying than others. I suck at lying. I drop my smile when it gets even slightly unbearable. I stop socializing with people as soon as I detect the emergence of an headache. I flow in and out of my own reality when conversations get awkward. I retreat back to solitude the first chance I get. The longer I dwell in my own head the more depressed I get. So if all introverts are like me then yes, maybe we’re just a bleak species. But I can rarely distinguish the hidden introverts in a sea of extroverts.

Amazingly, even I have managed to fool some very intelligent people. A classmate said she didn’t believe I was an introvert. A relative complained that I was “too gregarious.” If an atypically shy introvert like I can convince people that I’m “too gregarious,” imagine what normal, less awkward introverts could do. Regardless of how good a liar an introvert may be, I’m sure we’re all sick of putting on a bloody mask all the damn time.

Sometimes I just want to start over. I’m not talking about going back to a particular moment in my life. I don’t want to rewind the clock because I don’t need more regrets gnawing at my messed up mind. I just want to be in a different place, like Budapest or something, with a different name, preferably something asexual like Alex or Taylor or Jaime. I’d reset, find my place in new surroundings, among people who can never unearth my past transgressions. As much as I love some people in my life right now, there are just too many others I can no longer deal with. Remember how Forest said life is like a box of chocolates? For me it feels more like a box of Bean Boozled jelly beans. You know, the ones containing both nasty and yummy flavors, except my box is 80% the former, so I’d get three boogers every time I get a strawberry.

Anyway, I’m well aware that life isn’t all rainbows and butterflies and sometimes it’s compromise that moves us along (lol thanks Maroon 5). I know it’s mostly my own fault that I’m so unhappy with myself, and I know that I can fix my situation without ditching everything I’ve come to know. I also think fate is bullshit. Your life’s not gonna be some perfectly structured skyline with proportionally distributed peaks and troughs, interrupted by occasional periods of dullness. Who knows? Maybe my life will turn out to be some downward sloping curve that gets steeper as time goes on.

But right now it isn’t. It doesn’t have to be. As I said before, I don’t know how many of you out there are introverts going through the same identity/life crisis I am, but if you’re reading this then this next part is for you too. Maybe self-pity and self-doubt is something we’ll always have to deal with, but we will work through it and it will get easier. And here’s a crazy thought: maybe we need that pang of self-pity and self-doubt to remind us of who we really are. Lying is a skill that can be improved, even perfected, through practice. The more we pretend to be the extroverted, outspoken individuals this fucked up society pressures us to be, the more we’ll be convinced that that’s who we were made to be. We’ll start to believe that introversion was an illness that we have finally cured.

And that’s absolute bullshit. It took me almost twenty years to stop hating my preference for self-reflection over social interaction. Introversion is not a problem. It’s a personality trait that’s every bit as beautiful and important as extroversion. It may not thrive in this stupid 21st Century world, but it needs to exist.

Dream as if you’ll live forever, Live as if you’ll die today

My Awesome Life

We’re responsive creatures, always yearning for some kind of carnal or spiritual fulfillment. So many of our conversations are dedicated to that one question: What makes us feel alive? For me it’s neither people nor adventures. It’s the shapes and colors that make up a city I love.

When I took a semester off in Cali, all I could think about was how much I missed NYC and how exciting it would be to blog about college life there. But four months after I returned to NYU I’ve only written four posts on my adventures here in the Big Apple. Ostensibly it’s because I just haven’t had the time. In reality it’s because I’ve kind of lost confidence in my writing. I don’t think I’ll ever be as good a writer as I would like to be, and I certainly don’t think I’m good enough to capture the sense of wonder I feel every time I step out onto the streets.

I’ve experienced no shortage of epiphanies walking on the same blocks, seeing the same things in different ways. Paradoxes run riot: tattoo parlors next to corporate banks, museums sandwiched by takeouts, apartments stacked atop liquor stores, and chains of buildings in alternating colors – black, tan, maroon – adorned by staircases twisting like rusty vines. It’s homogeneous yet dynamic, indifferent yet inviting. None of it makes any sense yet it all feels so right.

It’s a convoluted maze with a constellation of neon lights and no exit. Horizontal and vertical lines converge to make intersections that look exactly the same whether you’re in FiDi or Dumbo. You’re lost every time you’re out, but you never feel more at home. Last night I was strolling through Washington Square Park in the nicest weather in a long, long time, and I see the arch–silver silhouette inked against the black sky–illuminating the fountain and everyone around it. It was just so liberating. In that moment I actually felt so blessed to be alive. And I just couldn’t help wondering: Why then? I’ve seen that sight countless times in the past year and a half, and I’ve walked through the park in every weather, every hour. But that moment last night was the only time I’ve felt that kind of relief, the only time that those random bursts of sadness and rage I experience everyday felt so far away.

Despite the incurable bleakness of life and the shittiness of human nature, the world itself is still as sublime a vision as you will ever imagine. That vision alone is worth the effort of waking up every morning with a smile. It’s far more beautiful than life is ugly. It’s far more sincere than people are fake. Loving a place is far more satisfying than hating everything else.

Live with hope and live with love, if only for your surroundings. Find somewhere you love. See as much as you can before it’s too late.

Yay May

Musings/Rants

Hi. I’m going to crash in about 29 seconds so this will be a quick post. May is always the last month of the school year, so in about two weeks I’ll be essentially a junior. Half of my college career has come and gone. I can’t even begin to describe the aching emptiness that realization stirs up in my heart. I’m more than happy with the strides I’ve made this semester, socially, emotionally, and professionally…but whenever I look back I just can’t stop wondering how much better my life would be right now had I made different decisions, had I been courageous enough to trust my gut. Regrets are such a bitch to deal with. Yes they help you reflect and mature, but honestly I’d go back to being that retarded immature kid if I could roll back the seconds and erase some booby tracks on my road map. I don’t care about lessons. I just want those years back.

You know how people always say mistakes and regrets teach you shit? That with them you’ll be a better, more complete person? So rather than loathing them you should appreciate them? But I just don’t, you know? Whenever I reminisce on my regrets (which I guarantee you is a lot of the fucking time), I don’t think about the lessons they’ve taught me. I think about the things I should have and could have done instead but will never be able to because time doesn’t rotate counterclockwise.

Yeah well I’m still crying over spilled milk. Can’t help it.

Moments.

My Awesome Life

If you’re one of those few awesome people who follow my blog regularly, you’d know that I’m obsessed with time. I used to write about it frequently until I realized that my obsession is so ironic because I’m always wasting time.

If I have a two hour gap between classes, I’d spend it stalking people on social media or playing that stupid new iPhone game instead of finishing those seven excruciatingly long pages in Symposium. That means those seven pages are reserved for midnight, after Netflix and dinner with friends and the internship columns and the ten other distractions that I can’t even remember right now. But at midnight I’ll remember that I haven’t showered in two and a half days and, being obsessed with time, I’ll feel obliged to change that. So instead of reading those pages and getting a good seven-hour sleep for the test tomorrow morning, I’ll hop in the shower and start thinking about the dumbest shit like the first time I’ve ever listened to Nirvana or that remarkably beautiful moment each fall when I realize that the leaves are no longer green.

And before I know it it’s 12.40am, but for some reason I don’t start reading until 1.40am. By then I’ll feel so guilty for wasting so much time that I only read 3 pages for 20 mins and hop into bed at 2am. But ofc I don’t sleep till 2.30 because my perpetually nostalgic mind will wander down memory lane to a bunch of obscure memories from 6, 7, 8 years ago that I had long since forgotten.

I haven’t stopped feeling guilty about my inability to conserve time until yesterday morning at 5am, when I went to sleep. I got back from a friend’s friend’s birthday party (because I have no friends of my own) at 3am, slightly tipsy and quite lonely and very, very depressed because all my (very few) friends ever talk about is their significant other halves while I, talented kind and exceptionally beautiful, remain directionless in life and partnerless in love. Anyhow, right after I got back two of my friends wanted to Skype together. I obliged despite my exhaustion because in that frame of mind I would have slept next to the security guard just to be next to someone. And as we Skyped and bitched about people and life and love and school, my drunkenness and loneliness and self-loathing slipped away one by one, so subtly that I didn’t notice anything until happiness, the intoxicating happiness associated with familiarity and company, pretty much made my head explode. Life is better with company. I fucking hate that line because it’s so fucking true.

And that, finally, brings me to my grand epiphany. Maybe wasting time is how we’re supposed to college. Maybe not knowing how to focus on the important shit is the beauty of our 20s. Drinking past midnight. Talking till dawn. Procrastinating on absolutely everything. Sleeping so late every night that morning doesn’t begin until the clock hits double digits. Reminiscing on the not too distant past, speculating on the not too distant future: nostalgia and optimism so closely intertwined that they’re almost interchangeable. It’s toxic, I know. But it’s temporary. We can’t afford to waste time and abuse our bodies so carelessly in our thirties, or forties, or God forbid fifties. Maybe it’s okay to be that reckless, spoilt college kid once in a while.

Why I Don’t Want to Turn 20

Musings/Rants

It’s a week till my 20th birthday. I wish those seven days could stretch on for seven years. I don’t want to be 20. It nauseated me to think that in seven days I’ll have to start saying, “I’m 20” instead of “I’m 19.” I love being 19. I want to be 19 forever. I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with 19 but I do know why I don’t want to be 20: I don’t want to stop making excuses.

I originally made a list of 10 reasons I’m afraid to turn 20, but none of them are remotely funny so I just scrapped the whole thing. I think this mini existential crisis I’ve been experiencing over the past three days has drained every last ounce of my creative energy. Right now I’m just a boring, empty shell of the vastly fascinating person I usually am. Lol. I think I’m having an identity crisis because everything is just happening way too fast. Besides all the obvious perks of being a teenager – blaming everything on hormones, getting a multitude of second chances that you don’t deserve, listening to shitty music without anyone questioning your sanity – I’m going to miss the sense of stability I’ve settled into over the last six years. The constant, suffocating sense of disappointment directed at us from all angles, our penchant for making the same mistake two billion times over, our inability to choose the right path even though we know exactly what it is. And temptation, the one thing we never fail to fall for.

The beauty of being a teenager is that your actions are self-explanatory. By virtue of hovering anywhere between 13 to 19, you’re expected to be an absolute moron. When you smoked the wrong shit or slept with the wrong guy, you can just say you’re a moronic, hormonal teenager and after some grounding and some yelling and possibly some crying you’ll be forgiven because, after all, what you did was expectedYou lived up to your expectations, congratulations. And I like that. I like having people place bets on when I’m gonna pull the next stupid shit I’ve got on my agenda. I like people expecting me to almost kill myself and jam my future in the shredder, and I fucking dig the flabbergasted expressions on their stupid faces when once in a while I actually made the right choice and ultimately got into a decent college.

I spent a third of my life being a teenager. An immature, hormonal, spoilt leech on society. I’m so used to being this imbecile that I’ve kind of grown to love it, and I’ve also forgotten how to be anyone else. I don’t want people to take me seriously and expect the best of me. I don’t want to enjoy my 20s and make intellectual, “mature” friends. I don’t want to grow up, okay??? And you know what hurts the most? I can no longer say Teen Spirit gets kids like “us” in a way no one ever has. Imagine claws digging into your shoulder blades, sinking so deep and hard into your flesh that they lacerate your tendons and scratch your bones; imagine them trailing down the length of your torso, shredding your muscles to rip your bloody, throbbing organs out your body. Yeah, that’s about a tenth of the pain I feel every time I see the word Teen in Teen Spirit, and every time I remember that Kurt Cobain is dead.

Lonely and Alone

Musings/Rants

“If you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.” – Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper

Parts of that quote are always lingering in the back of my mind, but I never could remember the whole thing. So I cheated and searched it up on Google. As a life-long introvert, I know exactly what she’s talking about, and if I let myself I’ll always agree with her. It sounds so good. It makes me sound so good, like I’m this quirky social misfit who’s just too hipster, too smart, and too mature for the crowd she’s unfortunately stuck with. But I don’t think that’s how it works. It’s true that loners like me don’t enjoy solitude, but it’s not because the rest of the world keeps disappointing us. It’s because we’re too afraid to disappoint the rest of the world.

It’s difficult to explain this to socially adept people, but to hermits like us the world is a stage upon which we’re always terrified to fuck up, and because of this fear we always do fuck up. You see, for everyone else it’s so simple: you plan one thing, you practice, you execute. Most of the time that plan becomes reality. You think of something in your head, you decide it accomplishes what you’re trying to accomplish, and you say it out loud. The effect on your audience is instantaneous – they’ll laugh or cry or cheer or boo at your command. You’re the puppet master when you open your mouth.

It’s different for us. In our heads we can come up with the wittiest jokes and the most eloquent arguments, but in front of other people we sound like dyslexic four-year-olds reading a poem for the first time (sorry if that was an offensive analogy). I’m not even talking about expectation vs. reality in the philosophical, existential sense. I’m talking about simple mind-mouth coordination here, the ability to coherently translate into speech what we’re thinking. That’s why we live in our heads all the time. Because it’s the reality we want to be stuck with, even if it meant never being quite present in the reality we’re actually stuck with.

So we retreat into ourselves. We develop what we’re good at to avoid stepping out of our comfort zones. We find solace in the alternate universes we’ve built for paranoid minds. And we’re always in denial: “alone but not lonely,” “company is overrated,” “everyone is so fucking phony anyway,” “I’m happy this way.” Pretty much the, “people continue to disappoint them” point that Jodi Picoult was making. I’ll just speak for myself here: I’m a coward. Maybe the reason I’m an introvert and so many aren’t is that I just can’t handle humiliation. Maybe it’s that I’ve experienced that particular sensation way too many times when I was younger and couldn’t string together the simplest of sentences in the English language. Maybe I’m not happy being alone but it’s sure as hell a lot sweeter than stepping right into that feeling again.

We’re just tired of trying, even though we haven’t even tried all that hard. Hope always feels so small in comparison to failure. When you want to try just one more time, you can’t help but remember what happened the last time you tried – that frustration of failing to say what you’ve planned to say, the subsequent disappointment of knowing you’ve failed to make the most of yet another opportunity. And eventually you start wondering what the fuck is the damn point. That life of always having someone to drink with, shop with, walk with, talk to is just not meant for you. You will have people around, people you really care about, but most of the time you’ll be alone and you damn well better accept it.

That was a much longer post than what I usually put out, but this is a topic that’s very personal to me. I’m not depressed, and I am proud of the way my life has turned out. Being an introvert has many perks, like being just a bit more perceptive, introspective, and sardonic than others, but it’s really not a pop culture joke. Sometimes it’s refreshing and relieving, but it’s not fun being a social hermit. I just wanted to clear some misunderstandings about…us, I guess. If aloofness is how we project ourselves then it’s just a defense mechanism. We want to belong, trust me. It’s just that much harder when you’re trying to hide your nerves all the time.

Home Again

My Awesome Life

Weee I’m back in the hospital. And it’s fucking awful. It’s 2 a.m. right now and I’m pretty sure no one is asleep…maybe with the exception of my 70-year-old roomie. I’ve been in the ER waiting to be assigned a room in the renal ward for the last 12+ hours. Mind you, 12+ hours ago they told me I only had to wait 1-2 more hours. Weeee. Yeah, you know, fuck this shit. Since I got back to New York about 3 weeks ago, I’ve pretty much contracted every sort of basic illness around – cold, fever, diarrhea, nausea, insomnia due to fever, headaches, cold sweat, and apparently very low white blood count, which is ultimately what landed me in here. Weeeeeeee.

The best thing is that I haven’t gotten a break at all. First it’s the stupid cold that hit me a week after I got here and has FINALLY, ALMOST ended. What kind of fucking cold lasts two fucking weeks? Then cometh my little diarrhea episode that lasted an entire fucking week. I know it’s probably tmi, but I think I’ve gone to the bathroom like 10 times a day that whole week. Now for the last three nights, I haven’t been able to sleep that well. Right before I get into bed, I’d be super cold, like shivering cold. Then I’d wake up in the middle of the night burning like bacon. And I wouldn’t be able to sleep. This morning I took my temperature and it measured 102.9. WEEEEEEEEE.

Which brings us to today. Well today was pretty uneventful. I spent the last 14 hours I’ve been here getting poked my needles, watching my blood squirt all over my bed sheets because my nurse was apparently so amazed by the abundance of my youthful blood, getting antibiotics and other liquids passed into my blood, getting my wee tested about five times (they’re still waiting for my poop sample but hells no), watching Friends, and reading Murakami. Ohh btw, this actually made this miserable day slightly better: in Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, there’s a very graphic lesbian scene between a 13-year-old seductress and her 31-year-old piano teacher. Reading that made me so happy.

ANYWAY, I don’t actually see the point of me being here because there is honestly no way I can sleep in this room. AND I HAVEN’T SHOWERED IN TWO DAYS. OH MY GOD. I’m sure wherever I’m supposed to be transferred to has a shower or at least some shower caps and stuff, but oh no no no not in the ER. THERE IS NOTHING IN THE ER for people who are admitted for a simple fever. Okay, rant over. Not really, but I’m stopping myself. The reason I’ve been writing so infrequently this month is precisely because I’ve been feeling so bad, and it’s been very frustrating. On the one hand, I want to do well at school since I’m behind for a semester, and for the first time in…ever, I’m actually involved with extracurricular activities – internships, clubs, frat. And for the first time in college, I’m actually BUSY. I mean, I’ve never felt BUSY before, and it feels fucking wonderful because it means I’m actually starting to do something right. But my body won’t let me be busy. As soon as I start to push myself, it starts complaining and whining and writhing in pain, and the next thing I know I’m back home. WEEEEEEEEEEEEE. I guess for the first time since I got my disease, I just wish I could be like a normal kid.

ValenFUCKINGDIEtines

Relationships and Shit

Hey, it’s Friday the 13th!! I don’t know, I always get so excited on Friday the 13th. It’s always Valentine’s Eve, which I’m less excited about. I don’t want to say anything more about that stupid fucking day because I just don’t. So in celebration of this dreadful holiday, I’ll repost something I wrote on it back in senior year of high school. It’s actually the first post and last post I wrote on my first blog. Ha. I’ve come a pretty long way.

Oh but before that I just wanna say that last night I fell off the stairs. Completely sober, btw. I was just really cold and really pissed off because I had to get my laundry in the basement, and my apartment had no elevator, so i had to walk down the freaking stairs and I kinda hate moving cuz I’m a lazy piece of shit. Anyway, so I was kinda walking weird and then boom, next thing I know I was spread-eagled at the bottom of the stairs. At least I didn’t have to walk. Too bad it’s not possible to fall back up the stairs. Idk what’s the point of sharing that.

K, here it is:

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Valentine’s Eve

So after years of brooding over the idea, almost two years after my former best friend Emma started her blog, and over four months after my girl Victoria encouraged me to start my own blog, I finally got down to it. Here it is: my first ever post. To be frank, this whole blogging business is a lot more complicated than I had expected; it had taken me an entire 20 minutes to figure out the difference between the “blog title” and the “post title.” As 1/2600th of the population of a competitive American high school, I normally would have sulked over all those wasted minutes used on something other than studying (not really), but then I remembered this one amazing fact: I’m now a second semester senior (SSS). Apart from goddamn AP Calc, I have no homework. I guess blogging without feeling guilty of wasting time is another of the many perks of being a SSS.

Anyhow, I suppose I should start with a short intro about my life, family, friends, favorites, fetishes etc., but right now I just want to bitch about how much I despise Valentine’s Day. As I sit crossed-legged typing on my hp desktop, I can already imagine all the balloons and roses and chocolates and pink and red and lips and wasted money that will surely bombard University High School tomorrow. Maybe I’m just spiteful because the last time I, sober and under the designation of “girlfriend,” held a boy’s hand was over two years ago. And that boy whom I so charmingly called “my boyfriend” haven’t talked to me once since I supposedly broke his heart a couple weeks after he summoned the courage to hold my hand. Now he’s at UCSD apparently hooking up with some Asian chick. How he managed to become the subject of female attraction is beyond me, but then again I was the giver of that attraction only a couple years ago. Anyway, enough about that asshole. As I was saying, I may be spiteful and slightly jealous, but even if I had a date I doubt I’d be head over heels in love with Valentine’s Day. It’s just so wasteful and fundamentally useless. If you love someone so much, everyday should be filled with romance and bliss; you don’t need to waste a million dollars to create a romantic paradise for ONE FREAKING DAY just to make all your single friends FEEL LIKE SHIT (In case you haven’t noticed, I employ a very hyperbolic writing style so please don’t take anything too seriously). Don’t get me wrong, I do believe in real but ephemeral love and I sure as hell think that we all deserve love. And as much as I hate to admit it, there have been moments in the last four years when I’ve caught myself wishing that some guy would buy me a bouquet of red roses and a gigantic teddy bear. But why does love have to be manifested into this absurd public display of man-made objects? Commercialization of anything makes it much less valuable. As Elissa quoted from this Spanish audiotape we listened to in class, “Valentine’s has become way too commercialized.” And girl, if you’re reading this, know that you’re one of the few people who have reaffirmed rather than undermined my belief in true love.
Well, that concludes my tirade on Valentine’s, but my brain is still reeling from the recent flood of almost-relationship dramas around me. School dances are usually a golden opportunity for the birth of young love, and Winter Formal was no different. Except this time, the guys turned out to be enigmatic little cowards who sorta hooked up with my friends but didn’t ask them out. So now I am currently shipping three couples and consoling some very distraught girls. And here’s a intriguing scenario: you’re getting ready to slow dance with a guy who has his hands on your waist; he looks at you very intently and then bites his lips, averts his eyes, looks back at you again, bites his lips, but DOES NOT KISS YOU. What does that mean? And what the hell is the girl supposed to think? If I were the girl, I’d do a lot more than just vent in silent frustration and cuss to my friends.
Alright, that’s all for now. I’ll write again soon because this is actually very fun and a whole lot less pointless than playing minesweeper.
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That was pretty painful to reread. And that last sentence…Oh, the irony.