Thanksgiving

Eyelids are heavy.  Stomach feels bloated.  I am slowly drifting off to sleep with 50 pounds of meat and stuffing inside me.  Happy Thanksgiving.

Mama's Breakfast

Every morning I wake up to the sound of an obnoxious ringtone that sounds like a cross between an over-caffeinated hamster and a hyped-up track from a Daft Punk album.  Despite having a rather persuasive alarm, it usually takes me several snoozes to entice me to slide out of my bed and crawl into the shower.  After ten minutes of sluggish scrubbing and washing, I take another five minutes to groggily pick out my outfit for the day.  Then I commence downstairs to have breakfast.

As I make the first few steps of my descent downstairs to the kitchen, I try to guess what my mother might have whipped up in the kitchen.  I inhale deeply, attempting to identify the sources of the scents that waft from the kitchen counter.  On some mornings the scents would be from an average Continental breakfast.  But most of the time, my olfactory senses invite the rich and savory aroma of solid Korean fare to their humble abode. 

And I absolutely love Korean food.  There has never been a single day when I devoured a platter of spicy tofu or downed a steaming bowl of seaweed soup without relish.  I attack that potato noodle salad with alacrity.  I masticate on that seasoned mackerel like a hunting dog maiming its prey.  Every breakfast, a feast is laid out for me. 

But who makes all this food?  Who gets up everyday at 5:00 to fix breakfast and pack my lunch?  My mother.  Yes, she is a busy woman and could be occasionally be more forgetful than my father and I put together, but she will always make sure that I get to have breakfast.  Why, that lady will cook even if there was a war going on outside!  That sheer determination, that undying devotion, that utter joy that is conveyed through her furrowed brow and crooked smile is powerful enough to move a couch potato to take up rigorous exercise.  At first glance she seems just like any other stereotypical Asian housewife: short, temperamental, and diligent.  But when she lays her hands on the knife and the stove, she becomes an alchemist, a conjurer of savory magic and delicious spells.  Her bony fingers stir and weave the freshest ingredients into the most delectable dishes available in Korean cuisine. 

Yet, when I watch my mother cook, I am overcome with pangs of guilt.  Here is this woman who has fed and taken care of me for my entire life, and yet here I am, her son, unable to remember even her birthday.  When was the last time I got her a card or a bouquet of flowers?  When was the last time I said “thank you” or “I love you” to her? 

But my mother’s love is unconditional.  I can tell by the way her breakfast tastes.

Some kids have parents who give them $150 for their allowance. Others have parents who buy them clothes from Armani Exchange and Dolce & Gabbana.  But I have a mother who cooks breakfast for me every single day.  And for the last 17 years, I proclaim with pride, my mother has been the greatest cook in the universe, not because of her excellent culinary skills, but because of the effort that she puts into creating the greatest breakfasts in the universe.                         

hot

It's too hot
It's hotter than a cookie.
It's hotter than a frying pan.
It's hotter than curry.
It's hotter than India.
It's hotter than brown people.
What am I going to do

Viva la Revolucion

My eyes have been cleared.  The thirst for education and enlightenment is once again calling, screaming, begging for my attention.  The will to care has returned to me after so many days, weeks, and months wasted on senseless indulgences.  I'm a bit worn out, but still remain optimistic for I still see a hope in the unseen, a gleam of light for my inner revolution.  Cynics love to torment me.  And I embrace them, because I know that I will pull through while they sit on their asses pointing their fat fingers at me.  I still find some people repelling, and I will feel that way about these individuals for quite a while.  But let them be.  They need to live their own way too after all.

Never knew I'd have so much fun with Roller Coaster Tycoon.

EAGLES CONCERT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

music is so magical
I can't even describe how amazing that was

Endings

On Thursday night, I couldn't sleep.
I was lying in bed, feeling like shit, tired, but not sleepy.
So I went and found that story I had written so long ago. It was sitting squished under a pile of old crap, and it looked forlorn and unfinished. I hadn't been able to look at the story since my realization of what an asshole PassionFruitJuice actually was and how stupid I had been to think I was in love with him.
Anyhow certain life circumstances finally convinced me to let go of that story for once and for all. I would lay it to rest by finishing it.
I gave PassionFruitJuice an ending. The ending I wrote was completely different from all the endings I thought I would give it, different from the endings I thought I would give him.
When I was a lovesick little seventh grader, I always thought I would end the story with an engagement scene that would sweep you off your feet and melt your heart or at least an epic kiss in the snow with sparkling snowflakes on everyone's eyelashes.
Then as a bitter and disillusioned ninth grader, I couldn't even bear to think of the hours I'd wasted writing the stupid story, all out of love for him. And if I did chance to think of an ending for the story, it woud have been quite the violent and unhappy ending for PassionFruitJuice. Perhaps he would end up being eaten by a ten-headed slow-torturing monster from hell. Or he'd be trapped in a sewer forever or something fun like that.
Two nights ago, I realized that I really didn't care that much about this boy anymore. But the story didn't need to die because of that. I didn't have to kill it, or him, figuratively, just because I had fallen out of love. The ending was acceptance that not every little girl's crush ends up being a gorgeous fairy tale, but it doesn't have to end in blood and guts either. It felt good to move on without destroying the past. I'm actually getting back into this story, but not as a sort of manifestation of an affection gone awry. It's just a story that I wrote when I was younger, and it's quite amusing and fascinating to see the way I thought. Plus the story's not terrible either.
PassionFruitJuice has strolled nonchalantly back into my life, but not as an object of adoration or abomination. He's just a piece of the past that I'm rediscovering.

Why do some friendships end up being crazy mind games?

I wonder how I'm going to find time for the things that I truly enjoy doing, while trying to fulfill "priorities" that are obviously more "important" than reading a good book or playing my clarinet.  Junior year seems so promising...

Dammit

Everything seems to be absurd these days.  A friend you've trusted for years suddenly becomes your worst enemy.  The hard work and effort you've allocated for a good cause goes to bust when you realize that no one gives a rat's ass about it.  And then you find out that your lover's been harboring malicious feelings towards you for reasons completely irrelevant to your relationship with her.

When things end up like this, nothing seems to matter.  It's all absurd really, so I don't care what happens anymore.  Hell, I wouldn't even blink an eye if a horny rhino came charging into town and destroyed everything.  Just ignore everything.  It will all pass.  They can't touch me.  I'm friggin' immortal.  

Laughter Redux

I heard a child laugh today.  It made me regain some of my sanity.  This day's off to a pretty good start.

The Grudge

It frightens me how one can invoke a killing intent over petty reasons.  All thought process and emotional stability cease to exist when a person is overwhelmed by the desire to kill.  He does not bother to think about the consequences nor does he think about how he will cover up his crime.  The only thing that moves him is the incessant chanting of his brain, "kill...kill...kill."

How many times have we said "I'll kill you" to a friend while horsing around?  Sure, it may seem like a joke at first because killing someone in the act of making merry is highly unlikely.  Yet, what are the ramifications of that statement, "I will kill you?", even when just having fun?

Could it be possible that people are inherently murderous creatures?  Maybe that is the reason why we gain satisfaction from bullying and threatening others over trivial things. 

Formspring is a prime example of the manifestation of the killing intent.  There were people who apparently found it amusing to write "Why don't you just kill yourself?" on my friend's wall.  Just what did my friend do to deserve such treatment?  How can any teenager, their life full of ambitions and blooming with forthcoming possibilities for greatness, be urged to give up their lives for the satisfaction of crude, immature individuals?

Life is something that cannot be taken on a whim.  Yes, the idea of a despicable person being liquidated is temporarily satisfying, but remember that even the most disliked person has friends, lovers, and dreams. 

Today, I was the victim of my own killing intent.  I rose from my bed, half-frenzied from sleep-deprivation and stress, and grudgingly boarded the school bus to begin my day.  When I got to school I encountered my reagent to my killing intent.  It was a girl that had used her good looks and charm to screw with my head and make a complete asinine out of myself.  She was chattering away with another guy, who was completely unaware that this cute-looking girl had hurt countless number of other people with her persona. 

I looked at the girl.  Her face broad with an ingratiating smile and her body curved in a coy posture, she resembled a teenage Mrs. Robinson.  My anger at her boiled over.  She seemed so nonchalant about herself that it made me want to smash the glass door through which I was observing the whole scene.  My hands curled into fists and my jaw began to ache from being clenched so hard.  I imagined myself running her through with a knife.  As I envisioned this, my lips twisted into a crooked smile.

Then the killing intent dissipated.  For the rest of the day, I felt awful for having had such cruel and violent thoughts.  I wanted to cry when I got home but I was too numb from my killing intent to do so.  I never imagined that I could have had such a vivid murder scene conjured in my very own head just because some girl had irked me with her insincerity.  God, I felt terrible.  I almost wished that I was the one who was dead.

Today, I had demonstrated that I too, am crude and immature.  The only difference between the Formspring bullies and I is that I had kept my killing intent to myself.  But otherwise, we are all the same.  We are always at each other's throats, ready to strike at the moment a bare spot is unveiled.

Can we ever be freed of this killing intent?  Can we ever learn to genuinely love each other?  I wish I could forgive people and move on, but to no avail; I still hold grudges against people that certainly don't deserve them.  I get annoyed even at well-acquainted friends when they reveal their flaws out of the blue.

I'm afraid I've steadily deteriorated in both character and maturity.  Hopefully there will come a time when this downward spiral comes to an end and a new chapter in my life brings to me the true meaning of virtue and happiness.  I'm not going to stop searching for that time.  I will make it happen, for no one is as miserable as the vengeful, grudge-fixated individual.

this is not poetry

So apparently
People think that
If you write with broken, short lines
It's automatically poetry
That's a stereotype
and stereotypes are bad
That's like saying
Oh, she's yellow, she must have had sushi for lunch
I actually had popcorn for lunch
Anyhow
This is OBVIOUSLY not a poem
It's simply a paragraph where I chose,
stylistically,
to break
lines
very
often

I Wanna Become a Good Kid

They tell me that I need to do this and that.  They say that I act crude and boorish and they tell me that I need to change and be more accepting and caring.  I look back at them.  Nothing.  No ideal.  No vision.  Pure sanctimony.

They tell me that I am up to no good.  So they guide me through their archive of morals and ethics and decency.  They show me pictures, stories, films, moralistic paraphernalia.  And yet while the show goes on, they flash their crooked grins and resume their self-indulgence.

Preach on.  I will listen.  Show me the way to righteousness and purity.  Show me how to become the ideal human being.  I will listen.  I will conform.  I won't complain.  I shan't rebel.  I will gladly  adhere to your sententious words.

 I wanna become a good kid after all.


Oh boy, I can't wait until the next lecture.  I will pay for the lesson, don't worry about the money, I've got it.  4:00?  ...okay, let's do this.  Time to become moralized!  I feel like I'm getting enriched everyday!  Preach on brother, preach on!  ...this program has helped me become a better person.  I am so great that I joined it.


...and yet while the show goes on, they flash their crooked grins and resume their self-indulgence.

Direction

Sometimes I wonder if parents actually remember what it is like to be in high school. They constantly tell me to treasure being young. They tell me that it's these years that will be the best years of my life.

And honest to god, I'm tired of being young. Sure when I'm older I'm going to have to think about marriage stability, and children, and bills. Sure, I'm going to have to make a living.

But as a kid, I lay awake at night wondering who I'm going to be. Wondering what direction I should be taking. Whether I'm making the right choice, whether I'm going to be happy in the end. I can't stand being ignorant. I'm in a place where I can't ask for help being this place is my life. My realities.

I wonder if parents remember those feelings.

Once upon a time there lived a very cute banana girl.

She loved to eat curry and make friends with people who yelled "ALLLAAAHHHHHHH!!!!"

She had an elephant who liked to wear pink turbans and a deranged duck who had a penchant for Indian cusine.

Everyday the happy trio would go to Mecca and buy Shish Kebabs.

The banana girl loved happiness so she made a vow to bring happiness to the world.

And to this day, the banana girl fulfills her promise, one crochet at a time.


-Lucy Pei, your laughter cheers me up everyday.  I'm so glad to have become your friend.

  Minjeh

:)

Once upon a time there was a dolphin from outer space who came to visit the planet earth.
He was a brilliant musician, talented writer, amazing artist, and
he was the captain of a ship that sailed pilgrims to Mecca
he was the lead quacking duck in his entire state
he was the champion elephant rider in India
he was also a funny, caring, and genuine friend.

Happy Birthday Minjeh :)
thank you for being so amazing

The Death of a God

The pianist died.  No one knew how.  Some suspected foul play.  Others suggested suicide.  But one thing for certain was that the death of 23-year old Zachary Mortenbaum was far from normal.  Not a scratch could be found on the body.  No blood had been shed. The police could not find the murder weapon within the vicinity of the crime scene nor could they trace any usual suspects. There was one thing however, that suggested that some extraneous factor had taken the young pianist's life; his pupils were gone.

An orchestral conductor who had once looked into the eyes of Zachary Mortenbaum exclaimed, "Those aren't the eyes of a man!  They are of God!"  And this was no mere adulation.  Mortenbaum's eyes indeed had radiated with a god-like aura.  His golden-brown irises and sharply defined eyebrows were reminiscent of Hermes.  His affirmative and charming stage presence captivated audiences and critics around the world and captured the hearts of many aspiring young musicians.  There had also been a rumor in which a beautiful violin student from Juiliard fainted after throwing a cursory look into Mortenbaum's eyes.  No one could corroborate that such incident had taken place, but the fact that Mortenbaum possessed divine charisma and virtuosity remained incontrovertible until his death.  

The dark circles where his pupils had once remained were now enveloped by the golden-brown irises.  This made Mortenbaum look like a vampire.  Yes, Mortenbaum did resemble a vampire in certain ways.  He was handsome, but a bit gaunt and pale.  His fingers were long and delicate and his jet black hair was always combed to the side so that his bangs fell mostly to the right-side of his face.  When he played the piano, the whole world stood still.  No one could ever play as beautifully as he could.  Melodies would literally drip from his fingers as he commanded the Grand to submit to his will completely.  He was only 4 when he gave his first public performance.

From then on, Mortenbaum appeared on every prestigious musical competition known to men.  And won them all.  His father  worked little Mortenbaum to near death, forcing him to practice 18 hours a day, only allowing him to take breaks for meals.  When the child begged his father for a respite, the cruel man beat him savagely.

When Mortenbaum turned 14, the world knew that it had conceived the most brilliant pianist of the century.  He was a regular at Carnegie Hall and performed with internationally renown orchestras including the Berliner Philharmoniker and the Chicago Symphony.  Fame had made Mortenbaum a rich teenager.  Yet his father appropriated the pianist's earnings and forced him to acquire even more well-paying venues.  

At age 19, Mortenbaum recorded his 4th album, a Rachmaninoff piano concerto.  It went on to become one of the best selling classical albums of all time.  His father at the moment was a rich man himself, because he had completely drained the pianist of his savings.  

Mortenbaum then decided that he had had enough with his father.  He filed a lawsuit against his father for child abuse and theft.  He won the case.  As his father was dragged away from the court to start a new life in jail, he cursed his son, "You are nothing without me!  I gave you that fucking piano!  I gave you life!  I gave you your whole fucking life and this is how you repay me?!"

Mortenbaum afterwards was so depressed that he cancelled his upcoming tour in Russia and retreated to his summer home in San Fransisco.  He then disappeared from the classical scene and remained reclusive for the next two years.  No one knew what happened to him during this time.  The police speculate that Mortenbaum began harboring suicidal thoughts at this time of his life when his existence became virtually evanescent.  

But then he came back.  A 23 year-old Mortenbaum came back on stage after two years of living as a recluse.  His comeback concert at Carnegie Hall was a full house.  His repertoire included Beethoven's 5th Piano Concerto and Shostakovich's Piano Concerto in C minor.  When he finished playing, the crowd went wild.  Mortenbaum was given a standing ovation from nearly everybody in the hall.  Shouts of "Bravo!" and "Encore!" refused to dissipate even after the pianist had left the stage for the night.  Critics said that this concert was the highlight of Mortenbaum's career and that Mortenbaum was destined to lead the musical world to greatness and prosperity.  However, Zachary Mortenbaum never had the chance to accept such honors.  In two days, he was found dead in his apartment.

As a coroner, I can't say for sure just what exactly killed Zachary Mortenbaum.  Maybe all the fame and renown was too much for him to handle.  Or was it because his father's curse haunted him to death?  Who knows.  I for one thing, have never gone to a Mortenbaum concert before.  I confess, I am a philistine when it comes to the arts.  But is it really my fault?  My parents never took me to a concert before, let alone take me to a kiddie show.  They would always tell me, "James, remember.  Work always comes before play".  And I've kept that promise since I was 5.  Now I look at myself and realize that I'm just a coroner.  And the young man I am examining was a god.  

With the help of a colleague, I gently lifted the delicate frame of Zachary Mortenbaum from the carpeted floor and placed him in the body bag.  Then I took hold of the zipper and drew it slowly downwards.  I watched as the zipper closed over the pale face of the divine pianist, forever covering those golden irises that had once mesmerized the world.  Before the zipper clicked shut and sealed the body of the young god, I thought I saw his pupils reemerge.  Then I thought, Look Jim, he's only a corpse.  So I dismissed the fact that there was still some hope for the reincarnation of Zachary Mortenbaum.  Although I had never been to any of his concerts, I felt a tinge of sadness as my colleague and I carried the bag on a stretcher and took the elevator to the lobby where the ambulance was waiting.  My colleague got onto the vehicle first.  He pulled the stretcher upwards as I held onto the back.  The body bag was in place.  I got on.  The doors shut.  Then the ambulance pulled off the driveway and we were off.  

      

"I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all.  Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around...nobody big, I mean, except me.  And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff.  What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff...I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to  come out from somewhere and catch them.  That's all I'd do all day.  I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all."  -Holden Caulfield
                                                                                                                                            

somebody to love

Can anybody find me
sombeody to love

Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody?
I just need someone to love

There's gotta be somebody for me out there

When everybody loves me
I will never be lonely

Don't you think that you need somebody?
Don't you think that you need someone?
Everybody needs someone
You're not the only one

After the Blizzard...

The harsh, cruel winter of '10 has finally passed.  Spring says hello.  I'm liking this weather.

Things were rather harsh for me this winter, weather-wise and personally.  Between November and January, I was seized with countless anxiety attacks.  I was always depressed, though I couldn't always find a reason why. I'm not blaming anyone.  I just felt depressed.  Maybe it was the weather.  Maybe it was something within me.  

But the cruel winter of '10 has finally passed!  Spring says hello.  To tell you the truth I've never cared much about spring.  To tell you the truth, I'm really digging spring this year.  

I've always hated spring with a passion because of my allergies and the bugs and stuff like that  Yet, after this painful, grueling winter, I learned to appreciate the sun, the daffodils, and even the pollen in the air.  After being in so much pain for such a long time, I had finally found joy.

But I'm not here to share my drama with you.  I just wanted to tell you that this spring weather is lovely.  That's it really.  And I also learned something else, something that assures me every time I think about it.  I now understand why pain exists in the world.  Pain, and other forms of suffering serve to inculcate people with the understanding of love and warmth.  I used to hate pain and fantasized about a painless life; how great it would be to never have to mend a broken heart or experience bitter failure or lose a loved one, how great it would be to never have to worry about war, famine, and death.  I look back to these past few months and realize how reactive and superficial I had been with my thinking.  

In the past, I'd bitterly attack friends that I thought were insincere.  I'd insult people whom I judged as foolish and incompetent.  Now I regret having been so bitter and cynical for these past few months.  Now I ask myself, who am I to judge people in general?  Why do I criticize people when I'm full of holes myself?  I've only lived for 16 years on this planet.  I have so much more to learn.

I can't change people.  I can't change society.  The least I can do is to take what the world offers and make the best out of it.  I have friends who think that battling the system is evading responsibility.  Not true. That's exactly what the system wants you to do.  Because it doesn't matter a rat's ass to the system if a student fails. There are plenty of replacements.

I hate antagonizing people.  I mean, life's way too short to be angry all the time and blame everyone for all of your troubles.  You won't gain anything if you go around insulting people all the time like me.  I thought that attacking and criticizing would bring people to their senses, but hey I've said it once and I will say it again: I can't change people.  I attempted to this once.  It brought me more pain.  I learned it the hard way. 

The winter season changed me into a more understanding and perceptive individual.  But I'm afraid I've become somewhat insensitive.  For instance I get sick of listening to people rant about petty things quite easily.  I can't stand girlfriend/boyfriend arguments and the typical high school drama bullshit anymore.  I know I sound like a self-centered bastard right now, and to tell you the truth I am, but after my revelation, I no longer care about those things.  Oh don't get me wrong.  I certainly care about people, but I choose not to be swept in to the circle and become another reactive adolescent.  

People say I am pretentious because I say these things.  I will be honest, I am.  I actually have a huge ego.  But I consider mine a legitimate ego.  Not the one that is derived from superficiality and arrogance (usually the ego that most teenagers possess), but one that is established on experience and rationality.

I feel much better when I admit my negative traits.  It's better than acting "fake".

Anyway, I'm beginning to digress and my writing is awful right now.  Forgive me.  I've been on a blog-writing sabbatical without leave. 

What I want to say is, we can't appreciate peace without war.  We can't feel happy without knowing what if feels like to be sad.  We can't understand what it's like to be warm without cold.  We can't discern kindness from contempt if the latter didn't exist.  Therefore, we cannot live in this world if we wish it to be completely pain-free.  We need pain.  We gain experience from pain.  It's good medicine for a complacent world.  The only way to  escape pain is to die, and I believe the majority of us would like to stay alive, no?

So stop fighting and ranting and shouting to defeat pain.  Doing so would be equivalent to supporting a lost cause.  Accept it.  Live with it.  Things always get better after all.

When your life is coming down around you
It really helps to have people who care about you

"Whenever this world is cruel to me, I've got you to help me forgive..."

i'm so happy

because

i made someone a birthday card

and it made him happy

omg srsly

like omg that has to be a joke
no really
OMG WHAT
TELL ME
NO SERIOUSLY
are you for REAL?
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG

so yeah
I went to my first real sleepover two days ago
it was the classic
rows and rows and rows of girls in their sleeping bags carpeting the basement floor
maybe an aerial view would have shown some sort of subconcious pattern
but I wasn't on the ceiling
so it just seemed like randomly strewn lumps of people to me

there was a movie playing
I didn't see a single scene of it
you go to the movies to watch movies
at a sleepover, you have to whisper whisper whisper shriek whisper until 3 o'clock in the morning
duh

that's what I did
I'll admit
OMGOMG SERIOUSLY NO TELL ME YOU'RE KIDDING NO WAY WHAAAATTT
is all you could hear
but
if you knew how to listen
you would hear more
well there's this guy I really like but...
it may have sounded like stupid shallow talk about boys
but
if you knew how to listen
you would hear about nights spent sleepless in tears
anguish endured every day as raw wounds are torn open again and again
the resilience of a downtrodden hope
broken hearts being picked up and pieced back together
the courage it takes to care about someone else
don't cry, honey, it's okay, really, it's gonna be okay...
it may have sounded like empty cliche
but
if you knew how to listen
you would hear understanding
the shared pain that every girl has suffered
endless support, a network of friendhip to fall back on
true caring beyond giggling and chatter
love that is unconditional
well I really like him but basically I hate guys...
it may sound like a dumb oximoron
but
if you knew how to listen
you would hear the terror and confusion
frustrated feelings crushed under self control
self-denial creating a walled-up heart steeped in bitterness
tentative stirrings, disturbing because they shake down all those defenses
the green shoot of love that refuses to die
it will work out, I really believe it, don't be afraid, we're here for you...

in the dark basement
flickering screen in the background
muted voices of other girls floating lazily by
the lingering scent of bagel pizza
lying in a warm cocoon
surrounded by so much love
I believed it too
I believed it would work out
I believed in happily ever after

A Contemptuous Piece of Writing

Writer's block...my best friend.  Let's get along well shall we?  Block my creative energy like a hunk of cholesterol impeding bloodflow in a feeble artery.  Render my pen dry and inkless, kill my inspiration and shred my intuition to nil.  To hell with you dear friend!  You make me sick and ill. 

But look  at this!  I am actually writing about my own incompetence!  How wonderful it feels to actually get my fingers moving again to inscribe these immortal words onto a manuscript!  My own despair is lending me creative energy to get me writing again.

Sooner or later I will stop writing.  I need to read more. 

Random thoughts for the random beggar.  Hahahahaha!  I laugh at you all. 

Think you can insult me like that?  You think so?  Damn it, I've tried to win your love and trust!  Withold all pretense and show me your inner self you coward!  Hahahaha!  I laugh at you all.

Beautiful

How beautiful it is to be able to share such an uplifting experience with friend and foe alike...  we forget our differences and let the music play on and on and dance and sing.  How beautiful...

singin the blues

I think the worst kind of hurt is the hurt that comes with being betrayed.


Once upon a time there was a sad and lonely whale named Pat.
She hadn't always been sad and lonely, but one day the majority of her life came crashing down on her head.

Pat and Iris were the best of friends.
They could finish each others' sentences, read each others' minds, talk without speaking and burst out laughing even if their eyes just met for a moment.
They were the best of friends.

There was a series of books, called Enrique Whale and the Thief of Seaweed, that both of them were quite obsessed with. The stories were touching and involved, and the characters were spectarularly developed. Pat and Iris were so into the world of Enrique and co. that they even cast nearly the entire series of characters with whales that they both knew would fit the part. For example, an exceedingly fat and disgusting villain in Enrique's world would be cast as the exceedingly fat and disgusting whale who tortured Pat in whale school and who everyone detested.
Pat and Iris had a blast.
As they were casting this wonderful little world, the news came that a movie was being made of the book. These two whales were ecstatic. It was going to be unbelievably fun. They would be able to see what the big whale directors decided, and then decide that what they had planned was a million times better. It was the one biggest event they were looking forward to for over a year.

A year rolled around pretty quickly with laughs and excitement and more laughs and even a few changes in casting. The countdown said only two days left. Pat asked Iris eagerly, "When do you want to see it?? If it shows at midnight we have to go watch that!"
Iris laughed and then said, "Umm actually I have a whale spouting competition that day. I don't think I'll be able to see it."
Pat was crushed. But she didn't give up hope. "Tell me when you have time to see it and we'll see it then, okay?"
Iris answered, "Sure!"

The morning the movie premiered, Pat woke up early and baked kelp cookies (yes I know that sounds disgusting but I can't really think of anything else that a whale would eat for a tasty snack) for Iris, in the letters of E-N-R-I-Q-U-E--W-H-A-L-E. She swam over to Iris's house and dropped them off for her, wishing her luck at her whale spouting competition. Iris was still sleeping but Iris's mother said she'd pass the message along.

Pat spent the day trying to avoid the thought of how much fun they would have had if Iris's whale spouting competition had been on another day. She ate some bananas and chocolate, and it made her feel better. I'm sure she'll swim by tomorrow, victorious from her whale spouting competition, and we can go watch the movie to celebrate.

The next day, Pat was online (haha surfing the web) when her eye snagged on a post that Iris had written as her status message. "OMG ENRIQUE WHALE WAS AMAZING! I love that hot whale who plays Enrique!!"

A little bit of buzzing was going on in Pat's mind. Her eyes became a little fuzzy. Pat's fin twitched a little. Her heart started to pump adrenaline through her system. It felt like she was drowning, like she was fighting for air and even her whale-sized lungs were giving out because there was just no air to breathe.

Pat's mind tried to search for an explanation.
Maybe Iris had suddenly found tickets floating by on the current and it just so happened that her cell phone had been swallowed by a passing tunafish.
Maybe Iris was suffering from severe amnesia.
Maybe an vampire squid had taken Iris hostage and made her see the movie with him.
Anything and everything flew through her mind.
Anything but the obvious truth.
Iris had lied to her.
Iris didn't want her.
Iris didn't care

Once upon a time there was a sad and lonely whale named Pat.

Farttttt

An artist lacking inspiration is as good as dead....take me for an example.  Christ, I don't know what to write about anymore.  This dinky entry is all I can muster with my dissipating creative energy...blaugh

A Conversation Between Two Men

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Why, I'm the greatest man on Earth."

"No you're not...you're an arrogant prick."

"You mean you're the arrogant prick."

"No, I meant you."

"My friend, your opinion of my character is completely invalid as far as I'm concerned.  As long as I know who I am, it does not matter what you think of me."

"My friend, with that attitude you will win a lot of enemies and lose a lot of friends."

"So life goes."

"The world will kick you in the teeth!  Can't you see?"

"So be it.  I will work the harder."

"Everyone would be against you!  Do you think they care?"

"Let me say it again, what they think of me is completely invalid as far as I'm concerned."

"You think you're such hot shit"

"Your opinions are merely the reflections of what other people say to you, my sad friend.  You have no soul, no mind of your own.  You're merely a rag-doll controlled by a collective entity."

"You're nuts."

"No.  I'm free."

"But you can't do that!  You can't just declare yourself as the greatest man on Earth and jabber about freedom and insult society and whatnot!  Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I am the greatest man on Earth, for I have honed my abilities to near perfection.  I am the greatest man on Earth for I have reason to acquire knowledge, I have intuition, I have everything that I need to validate my existence."

"You're crazy!  You're crazy!  You're a crazy son of a bitch!"

"Crazy?  Look at yourself then.  Is your life any saner than mine?  Who do you think you are?  Do you even know?  Are you even aware of your own existence?  Can't you not see that there is a dark shadow looming over you, surreptitiously watching your every move?"

"You're seeing things..."

"You're in denial."

"In denial?  For heaven's sake, let us just cease this ridiculous conversation and pretend that it never happened in the first place."

"You can't handle the truth."

"Whether your insane theories are true or not, I have to live.  And your way of living certainly violates all the principles and morals that I have lived by ever since the day of my birth.  Goodbye sir!"

"Goodbye to you too then."

"Hmph!"

A Full-Time Job Macabre

Another client on my checklist.  Well, the term "client" is a misnomer.  I mean, you can't arrange an appointment with your own death can you?  Anyways, my new "client"'s name was Roger M. Paxton.  Time of death: 12:35 pm.  30 seconds left.  I left for my destination.

And I saw him, good ol' Roger M. Paxton, strolling about the streets of a battered town, his rifle slung across his shoulder and his kevlar vest glittering with middle-eastern dust.  He seemed quite unaware of the fact that he would be dead in a matter of seconds.

So I waited.  My last job was quite tedious because there were over a 100,000 souls to collect.  Earthquake took them all.  Poor chaps.  They were mostly children too.  And here I sat waiting for Roger M. Paxton to die so that I could take him to a better place.

10 seconds.  People ask me frequently if I like my job.  "Sure," I say.  "The pay's good and you don't have to do much."  Watching people die however, can be unnerving sometimes.

Ever since the conception of this planet called "Earth", I've had over trillions of clients.  The job was easy to bear from the start since most of the deaths were consequences of natural causes.  However, as time passed, life on Earth became increasingly intelligent and concocted ways of murdering one another in the most creative and nefarious ways.  And humans think I'm evil because I take their life.  Look, I'm just here to do my job.  It's you guys who do all the killing.

I did not create guns, I did not create bombs.  I did not create wars nor did I create genocides.  For countless years I have put wretched humans out of their misery from this even more wretched planet.  In some ways I think I should deserve more thanks than I usually get.  But humans constantly make effigies of me: black cloaked figures wielding scythes, skull heads, satan, devil, the list goes on....  I get quite offended when people associate me with the devil.  There is no such thing!  Hell, I don't even know myself if God exists.  All I know is that I just do my job and people die in the process.

Stupid humans.  They always have to blame someone or something for their troubles.  They blame religion, they blame the government, they blame society.  They blame their friends, their parents, their lovers, and they blame me.  Look, if you blame me, it's just like trying to bring your murdered friend back from the dead.  IT DOESN'T WORK.  Instead of blaming me, why don't you humans come up with a resolution?  Lay down your guns, dismantle your bombs.  I'm tired of having to pull off all-nighters because you damn humans keep killing each other!  It's senseless!  This world has become a slaughterhouse!

People say death does not have any feelings, that death is merciless and reaps human souls for his own enjoyment.  But I do have feelings... I cringe when children get slaughtered and I have to cover my ears when the innocent die excruciating deaths.  I can't help it when people murder each other.  It's not my fault that humans like to kill each other.  I'm a collector and I have to do my job.

5 seconds.  I gazed at Roger M. Paxton's ruddy face.  He had a light beard and his blue eyes were rigid with vigilance.  I could already hear his widow weeping, his children wailing, his friends moaning.  I wish I could do something to save him.  I wish I could tell him that it wasn't his fault that he ended up in this hellhole and that he was going to a much better place soon.  I wish I could take the lives of the men who wage these wars and sign the damn contracts that send thousands of young men to their imminent doom instead.

Paxton does not deserve to die.  He has a family.  He has a life.  He has a soul.  But do the big men care?  To them, Paxton is merely a sacrificial pawn.  His existence is irrelevant because his fight and his death will bring those big men their pile of dough.

2 seconds.  Roger M. Paxton walked towards a garbage pile.  He took out a cigarette and smoked.  I shook my head sadly.  The way Paxton lighted his cigarette was so casual and humane that it almost seemed inappropriate on a battlefield.  He shouldn't be here.  He should be playing catch with his son.  He should be making love to his wife.  What is a great man like Paxton doing here?

12:35.  Things moved in slow motion.  The ground beneath Paxton's feet shook and burst forth with tremendous force.  Dust and debris kicked upwards like a spewing volcano.  Objects within the proximity of the explosion were torn apart and Paxton's body vaporized into thin air.  I stepped into the smoke and dust and got hold of Paxton's arm.  He was safe with me.  He could rest now.  He could say goodbye to this wretched world and the wretched men who killed him.  He could embrace me.  He could love me.  He could sleep forever and rest in peace.  I wished to have a chat with Paxton, but I had more clients to take care of.  So I left Paxton to go on his way and set off to my new destination.  After this I would have to race to the other side of the world to take care of more clients...sigh.  The list never ends.  It goes on forever and ever.

And people frequently ask me if I like my job.  "Sure," I say.  "The pay's good and you don't have to do much."

Laughter

 I heard the laughter of children.  It cured me of all my torments.  My weary heart was afflicted from the day's share of malediction, but the sound of laughter of the jubilant children next door stomped out all my inner-demons.  All thoughts of contempt, sadness, and anxiety vaporized.  I was smiling for a change.

What is it about children's laughter that stirs up such sentimentality within the human soul?  Is it the innocence and nonchalance in the laughter that puts us at ease?  If everyone could laugh like a child, would the world be a better place then it seems?

Laughter indicates many things.  Love, fun, merry, mockery, and even contempt.  But neither mocking nor contemptuous laughter is a genuine manifestation of joy.  Welcome to my world.  Whenever I laugh, I'm always laughing at someone.  Never with them.

Why can't I laugh so genuinely these days?  When was the last time I had a good smile or a laugh about something very humorous, yet poignant at the same time?  When was it when I looked at children without viewing them as mobile lumps of annoyance?

 I'm just a crude person.

Whenever I laugh, it's always at something crude.  Something perverse, sensual, and offensive.  Why do these things bring me joy?  What is there so amusing about sexism, racism, and stereotypes?  Why do people ridicule things that should never be ridiculed in the first place?  I am overwhelmed guilt for I laugh uproariously at these tasteless jokes.

Can't I laugh about something nice for a change?  Can't I just laugh out of utter joy for no reason?  Do any of the little things in life make me joyful?

I want to splash water on a friend's face and laugh about it because his wet hair makes him look like a mop.  I want to pin a flower on a girl's hair while she's asleep and chuckle because it makes her resemble Anne of the Green Gables.  I want to see how much of a submarine sandwich I can fit in my mouth, and then giggle uncontrollably after seeing just how much of an idiot I look like in the restaurant mirror with half the thing wedged in my mouth.

I want to learn how to laugh again.  I want to learn how to laugh again.  I want to learn how to laugh again.
So please laugh with me and spread the warmth in this forsaken world.

"When the drugs don't work and God doesn't respond, heed to laughter my friend.  Heed to laughter."

This Is It

I can never resist throwing in a Michael Jackson quote :)
This Is It
This is the start of a new year
A new decade

...And I'm sitting here, pretending to do my homework, posting, feeling bored and wishing that the new year would bring me some new inspiration or something
haha
didn't work
I've played wii until my arms lit fire
I've youtube binged for hours and hours and hours and hours
I've gone through my entire itunes library until my ears started crying
I'm like freaking j-j-jaded
My mind refuses to move
I'm like a giant fat lump sitting here, being eaten alive by boredom
and it's gonna suck even more when school starts again
OH JOY
okay well I'm back to stalking pictures of that adorable frog from princess and the frog
I'm officially in love with that movie, by the way
It's the sweetest thing I've ever seen
Makes me wish I was black haha
Really, though, what I would give to have a voice like that!
And since when were frogs that cute?? The way froggy Naveen looks at Tiana melts my heart. And he's a freaking FROG! (although Kermit is a frog and he melts my heart too...) Anyhow it's just such an adoring look that he gives her, and he has that goofy smile, and it just makes me so happy <3
Maybe all it will take to cure my zombieness is watching a few Disney movies