The Joys of Procrastinating

There is something about getting nothing done that makes me feel accomplished.  Yesterday, for nearly the entire day I've managed to put off my priorities to the last minute and spent the time doing absolutely useless things instead (such as writing this entry).  I think that's quite a feat, getting nothing done.  And it makes me feel full instead of empty, because although I didn't get anything done, I still stuck to procrastinating for an entire day.

I wonder just how much I'd get done if I channelled all the focus and energy that I spent on procrastinating to doing actual work.  Probably alot.  But still, procrastinating is fun...as long as you ignore its consequences.

I spent the day taking stupid pictures of myself :P

I should really be getting off the mac right now.  But my fingers are making love to the keyboard and I'd hate to ruin such an intimate moment.

That just reminds me, I have to go to school today for this dumb fundraiser that's going to last for four hours or so.  Well, it's not completely dumb because it's the only way our school band makes any money, but I find it ridiculous that my fellow band members and I have to invest our precious sunday free-time in playing some lame band songs while watching people eat pasta.  That's four hours of precious procrastinating time gone.  

There's not enough time to procrastinate.  We should just be given an entire week off for procrastinating mindlessly.  I'm a firm believer in hard work and effort but there are times when I think that us kids, are being overworked and over-scheduled.  Give us a break already, dammit!

SHUT. UP.

Some people should really get their lips sewn shut.

What Happened to You?

It just occurred to me that the only thing I excel at is sitting on my ass doing absolutely nothing.  Quite an epiphany no?  It sure as hell doesn't make me feel any better about myself.  I remember one time I put up a sign that said "Whatever you do, be enthusiastic about it".  It still hangs proudly on my door, ignored consistently, but on my door nonetheless.  And as time makes its mark on that sign everyday, I lose enthusiasm for just about everything.  Even my clarinet, which I used to treat like a lover, has become an ex-girlfriend whom I no longer wish to see.  When I play it, I'm not playing music.  I'm just blowing notes.

What is up with me these days?  I find myself wishing to go back to the times when I was always eager to do something, whether it be helping out mom in the kitchen or doing a science project.  I remember in fourth grade I formed a newspaper club and I was editor-in-chief.  I remember we published nonsensical articles about fat people overeating themselves to self-combustion and President Bush's illicit affair with his secretary of State.  The news in those papers were completely phony, but we sure had a blast writing them.  And the best part was handing them out to the other kids who would read the funny stories and have a big laugh.  And everyone would be happy from the laughter and the joy.  I also remember the countless journals and diaries that I filled with stories and squiggly little drawings.  I let my creativity run rampant in those brightly colored notebooks and had to keep a sharp look out on mom, who'd tried to take a peak into one of my entries whenever possible.  I remember in those days, I was a bright, intelligent, and actually quite a nice little boy.

Take a look at me now "Ew, what happened to you?" you say.  Quite right.  Just what the hell happened to me?  I grew up.  That's what happened.  I grew the hell up.  And in the process I lost interest in everything that was dear to me.  I abandoned drawing, I abandoned sports, I abandoned writing, I abandoned music, and I abandoned myself.  Frankly, I don't have a personality.  I'm just a mixture of imitations of people that I want to be. 

Am I burning out?  Maybe.  I'm not sure.  But I'd rather burn out than lose myself like this.  I have absolutely no idea where I'm going nor where I want to be.  I have no idea what I'm capable of nor do I know what I want to get out of life.  Everything I say is either in the past tense or the future tense.  But I am never able to determine exactly what I am doing in the present.  

This isn't a case of low-self esteem.  This is reality knocking on my back door.  I'm no longer a child but I have yet to become an adult.  And the idea of assuming full responsibility for myself sometimes scares the bejesus out of me.  

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