home of the enslaved and cowardly

Hey there. I haven't died  I apologize. That was a tasteless statement to make, especially in the wake of Grandfather's passing. If you have condolences, I will politely accept them, but to be honest - I'm not quite sure of how to react. Probably not the best wording. Sorry, this is a very new emotion for me. As with many other second generation immigrant children, I did not know know my mother's parents very well. What I do know is that my mother was raised by a man who was school principal during the Cultural Revolution in China. I cannot say what his birthday was (because my mother's family, like many others in the countryside of the Henan province, used the lunar calendar for important dates) or what his favorite dish is, but I can say that the "no-nonsense" man who watched (really listened, because his eyes were starting to fail him) the news for the international weather forecast to keep an eye out for his only daughter in foreign lands (my mother)....

I hope you have a wonderful day together. The sun will shine, and the birds shall sing. Your footsteps will draw the melody of - just kidding. I hope that you have a fantastically mediocre day. This way when tomorrow is super terrible (read: step in a pile of shit, get crapped on by a bird, wake up late, forget to turn in homework, take two midterms in a row...) you won't be entirely crushed. Not to mention, you won't be caught entirely off guard because the sun and the birds won't distract you. So may you have a joyously, regular day. No tilde necessary.

I was about to post something that I am certain I would regret, but then my fingers decided to rebel against the  mess of concern, worries, and general vomit that my brain was emitting. So, all is fine. I am still alive ( but I'm barely breathing sorry, I promise you that that was not my fault. Blame Mr. Bumming-webs). Hopefully though, I can focus on something besides cannibalism for the next 24 hours (just for my midterms). Until then, pray that I can hold it together and not spontaneously combust as I fret over human emotions and my inability to process my own. Attractive. I know. In the mean time, some eye candy for you?

College. Just the word stirs the hearts of teenagers. Attending college for only a little over a week, I can honestly say that it might very well be similar to how you may or may not imagined it. Highly specific. I know. The truth is, I really can't say. And not in the IknowalreadybutIdon'twantyoutoknow  way. I simply have had very few run-ins with the extremely socially-centered groups. A lot of my friends in college are people from my high school (this sounds extremely provincial, but my friends are a group of intellectual/nerdy folk). The few nice people I have met for the first time...well, the one or two people that have introduced themselves to me, we'll see how they all turn out. That sounded shady. We'll see how our relationships turn out? We'll see if they don't shoot me in the face the next time they see me. As a means of getting back into dance (not to brag, but I like to brag that I have 12 years of dancing experience. I am a diva), I tried the...

As I pack away my sweaters and cardigans, I cannot help imagining the anxiety I will face away from my home and family. At college. By myself. Alone with thousands of others. Will I completely lose all of my social capabilities? Or perhaps by some twisted act of fate, I may rise to the peak of social life. To anyone else who may feel a smidgeon of what I currently face, let's just think back to all of these speeches (see: Cue Pimp and Circumference) that we thought to be cliched and cheesy. Let us disregard the cliches and cheese to entertain the words of strength, encouragement, and confidence. May your footsteps be steady and your endeavors successful. Alright. Enough optimism. I am going back to my Opera station on Pandora. Good night.

A rather frightening for young children is sleeping in a bed infested with bugs. Of course in a child's imagination, bedbugs are not minute creatures that merely reside in piles of dust and skin cells. Bedbugs are the stuffs of nightmares that crawl their way into your skin and reproduce parasitic offspring that consume your flesh until you are reduced into a pile of clothes (yeah, think of the Mummy film franchise). Even though I am no longer eight years old, finding a miniscule, yet highly visible organism scurrying back and forth across my pillow into who-knows-where miraculously transforms my adult person into a paralyzed mass of goosebumps. So, for now? I will be sleeping on a leather (read: bedbug free) daybed and (illegally) amassing DDT.

After working out with my exercise-holic mother, I have come to the conclusions that a) I am disturbingly out of shape and b) my mother is the Terminator. When I tell someone that I cannot accomplish a pushup to save my life, I don't mean the pathetically-overused humorous manner. I mean that if a twisted serial killer were to appear, point a revolver in my face, and ask me to do a pushup for his twisted pleasure, he would have to shoot me to put me out of misery as I struggle to descend halfway to the ground. My biceps/whatever-muscles-I-still-possess-in-my-arms are that useless. Not to mention this has already happened to me in middle school (instead of a killer with a gun, I faced a coach with the power to humiliate me in front of many-same sense of sick humor between the two). Oh, and my mom? She's just a BAMF.

As college tuition and the associated bills have turned my face into that of a gigantic, grumpy toddler, I have realized that I do not have a current "go-to" website or blog to forcefeed myself some comedic relief. I used to visit Dear Blank, Please Blank on a regular basis until it started to become more moralistic and less sardonic online humor. I was also a big fan of Grouchyrabbit, one of their other sites, when it first started up (I sound like such a hipster). Once their posts started to repeat, I really lost interest. After I got into anti-jokes a few months back, I realized that anti-jokes are meant to be told in person by a sort of dead-pan gracefulness. For now, I shall just leave my online existence in a slightly less bitter mood since I have found Ewan McGregor's old Scots joke. Two Scotsmen are walking down the street and pass a local bakery. The first man looks in the window and turns to ask the second man, "Is that a cake or a meringue?" To whi...

As a human of the XX chromosomes, I have owned and written in my fair share of journals, diaries, and notebooks. Recently, in the sweltering evenings of the summertime, I have returned to writing in a journal to cure my insomnia (even though it is about 12:16 AM right now) and have neglected my online existence. Especially here at blogspot. As much as I enjoyed visually spreading out my thoughts to observe, my brain moves too quickly from subject to subject. The end result is always a restless mind full of thoughts and a severe hand cramp. Seeing as I am back online, a viable conclusion is that I have once again given up on a physical journal. And for the n-th time, I feel guilty for neglecting my journal. Even though it is a nonsentient object. I have countless notebooks from my childhood that have twenty pages filled out and then...nothing. What do I do with those blank pages? I don't want to waste them, but those notebooks are so immature and uninspiring.

Ah. It is that time of year again when it is acceptable for people to prepare teary-eyed speeches of opening doors, taking flight, and many other cliched metaphors. But, of course, it will always be culturally appropriate to wish young adults good luck with the cold cruel world. Even if they're still going on to be students for the next seven years of their existence. In anycase, like the rest of the American populace, may I wish good fortune upon those who, like myself, are graduating in the almost apocalyptic year of 2011. May all the doors, fences, gateways, windows, and any other entryway that may stand in your path open to you at the most inconvenient time right as you are giving up and planning to go around. Yeah. Good luck to us all. We'll probably need it.

Oh, I feel the return of my sanity. Thanks to a heavy dosage of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (the radio broadcast version is so soothing) and some David Mitchell-induced laughter, I am feeling my spirits rise. And you know what happens when spirits rise... bad jokes and awful puns. What's green and sings?                                                                                          Elvis Parsley What's orange and sounds like a parrot?                 ...

Well fuck you then. Look at me any longer and I'll pull out your eyes with rusty pliers and castrate you with a spoon. What? You didn't expect for me to say the truth? It is of no consequence to you so go back to your pointless existence. Fascinated by me? Entranced by the pathetic abomination that is my life. Well, you are utter stoolwater. Arse gravy of the worst knockhole. Sometimes there just isn't enough vomit in the world.

If it is indeed called Facebook, then I shall only friend you if I wish to observe your face. Otherwise, it is and should be remembered as completely acceptable for me to reject your offer of friendship as if I was friendly acquainted with you, unfriend you after realizing that I do not wish to further gaze upon your visage, or to mark you as spam on my news feed. This should not make me a cruel and bitter person. Fact: I am only as cruel and bitter in the sweetest and most reasonable manner, if I do say so myself. There should be no reason for you to force yourself to befriend people on Facebook whom you do not enjoy accompanying in real life. So stop telling strangers "ZOMG HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" when you clearly are not familiar with then in real life. You are adding to your pretentious air that you genuinely appreciate them and celebrate in the anniversary of their birth. Cynical? Perhaps. Or perhaps you are just faking nice. Oh poo. Don't look so down. Here's a joke....

n. the act of assessing something as worthless (you can thank my newfound appreciation for the show 'QI' for this knowledge. the British always seem like they're enjoying a hilarious/witty/clever inside joke) I must practice pronouncing this word to appear smarter in front of those I wish to insult.

I enjoy when people do not pronounce "picture" correctly. I suppose, what with living in the South and all, it's alright for people to pronounce the word as "pitcher"---oh wait, I DON'T. PRONOUNCING "PICTURE" AS "PITCHURR" WILL NEVER BE ACCEPTABLE IN MY BOOK. SO NEVER ATTEMPT TO TAKE A PRETTY "PITCHUR" OF ME AGAIN.

a process of reforming the psyche as a form of self healing, a proposed explanation for the phenomenon of psychotic breakdown Thank you Carl Jung for giving me this excuse. I am sure that my friends will appreciate this explanation whenever I fall into mental seizures. Of course, my friends  would appreciate it the most if they weren't imaginary. Just kidding. You can be my friend if you'd like. All you have to do is recognize the difference between they're/there  and its/it's . Is that too much to ask? Well then, that's too bad. I feel so sorry for missing out on all of the potential friendships I could have had with tweens & gurlz who tlk lyk dis . Because I enjoy tlkng lyk dis all of the time.

304th viewer. I feel so accomplished. Just kidding, it has been saying that for a couple of hours now.

"Ain't no party like a Marseilles party cuz a Marseilles party don't arrete" I forgot how amusing frenglish jokes were until Jean K. Jean reappeared on SNL.

Sometimes when you feel upset, you (or someone else) may point out that things could be worse or that you are not the center of the universe, to which you would like to reply, "OH YEAH? I AM THE CENTER OF MY UNIVERSE!"      Then you realize that you are not the center of everyone else's universes. So serve yourself some nice pity pie and slap the next person who looks like they might have a problem with you. I assure you that I have never tried this and would never suggest this, but in my mind, I would totally kick ass like this all the time.

ORIGINALHAIKU, SON Springtime is here now  How the birds sing and sun shines Even loofahs bloom.

It's that time of year again. Time to leave home and join your local gypsy troupe. Unless, of course, you live in the capital of Suburbia. If you do, then you'll just have to use your imagination. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must leave for the planet Lexicon (wordgirl allusion) with my Seven League Boots even though they're actually Tibetan, but who would know that?

Dear 50 year old hairdresser, Thanks for convincing my mom that we should get haircuts at eleven at night in your kitchen. Oh, and thanks for letting me know about all the clubs you hit up with your friends. Now I know that before 10:00PM, it's happy hour for senior citizens at all of the blacklight parties. Sincerely, Probably your youngest customer. P.S. I need a trim for my fringe.

Even though school has just restarted, I already wish for school to be over (read: more sleep please). Not to mention, I remembered this song from when it first came out (yes I know, I prefer this slightly more acoustic version of the original and I enjoy shamelessly plugging famous youtube-ers). Now if you will excuse me, I must lay in my bed and do nothing at all (instead of studying for a Calculus BC test).

Really? Do self-conscious females really need this? What was once the uniform of strippers, the monokini is now a swimsuit style anticipated by the coming summer. Like we needed another nylon reminder of all the un-shapely body parts we have. Remember kids, putting a pretty shirt over your muffin top does not make you a cupcake.

Thanks awkward Biology textbook chapter on Animal Reproduction. From now on I will no longer be left out when my peers make lewd references to when spermatozoon is deposited in or near the female reproductive tract. I will understand the contributions that the seminal vesicles, prostate glands, and bulbourethral glands make. No worries, this child will understand all future innuendoes. Or face further embarrassment in all things birds-and-bees related. Who knows?

No joke. My brother will now have a crazy battle scar from his epic brawl with the sidewalk (read: he fell off his skateboard after tripping himself). Unfortunately, I had to patch up the underside of his chin. While his wound was spouting blood, we utilized our supply of rubbing alcohol wipes and Neosporin only to find that his laceration would not stop bleeding. I was about to tape a sanitary napkin (read: pad) to the bottom of his face. Thankfully we found a miniature first-aid kit that possessed a humongous sized band-aid. We taped the not-really-appropriately-shaped band-aid to his face with masking tape and called it a day.

Now I've really done it. I'm committing to my teenage-y passions and whoring out my creation (read: made whilst "taking notes"). So, don't look at it too closely.

In honor of Valentine's Day, like all bitter, teenage girls, I must spend part of my day stoning happy couples and part of it wallowing in my pity party (which, of course, you are invited to). However, I have also taken the time to analyze the appealing qualities women (read: high school girls) must possess to attract members of the opposite sex. Here are some questions I would like to have answered: 1). Is it attractive to refer to male genetalia? Certainly we are not all as killer/cute as Natalie Portman, thus we cannot simply tell others to                                                                     "suck my d...

To the curious ones, Mommy is well. She says her health is returning, steadily I hope. Otherwise, I have been reassured by Mommy and friends that all will be well. I don't want to get too ahead of myself, but I am starting to feel better as well. Hopefully, this is a one time occurence. Until the next disaster, let's dance. Not in the shall we dance? manner. Like the dancelikenooneiswatching kind. Remember when we were little and had dance parties to the Mickey Club music. Yes, would anyone like to join me in a dance?

As I have learned from this morning, when someone experiences an anxiety attack, all of their fears are physically expressed by their body. Anxiety attacks are pretty high up on the list of things children never wish to see their parents experience, along with crying and fighting. Something pulls their young heartstrings and causes quivering chins and teary eyes. In such a weakened state, their parents may accidentally let slip all their fears and unfinished tasks, which, to the child, equals I'm dying and I won't be able to take care of you. Especially when this happens to your seventeen year-old self, just as you are about to go to school, you forget that you are almost an adult. Instead, you wish that mommy will come back and tell you that she's fine and make the big bads go away. Like she always did. Like she always does. In the end though, you realize that you have to respond to the EMT and take care of younger siblings. And you just wish to be taken to the Sixth Stati...

Since it has been raining nonstop, I have regained my appreciation for puddles. For my grouchy, angsty, hormonal classmates puddles mean wet sneakers and drenched jeans. Perhaps it is because of my stress-free(read: college application-free) life, but I have started to find joy in the petite pools of delight in my school parking lot. Grab a pair of galoshes and I'll see you at the puddle of the rainbow's end!

Because every once in a while, I am reduced to a blubbering mess of oversensitivity. I wish I could put this song in my pocket and carry it around as a amulet/medallion. I know the song is mostly about the girl he pines after, there is some attitude in it that I wish I had. Plus, I'm pretty sure we all need to say fuck you on our worser days. So, here's to those who deserve a good fuck you.

An old tale in a new year. For this past Christmas, I received a single white envelope from my father. Although I wasn't expecting much from this underachiever, I nearly pissed myself from laughing after I opened the envelope. Inside was a card that said "Merry Christmas" and a scratch-off lotto card. Niiice. My younger brother also received one, worth $49,000 more than mine. Not to mention, he actually won some money. Does this merit a FML? Thanks Dad. Cheers.