home of the enslaved and cowardly

At least, I  am still not cool enough. I thought that I had a hold of my kpop (pronounced: kuh-pop, according to my brother) withdrawal...turns out, it's got a hold of me. Messy withdrawal is messy. I blame my love for Bom. On another note as I am too afraid of judgment on tumblr to post this there , I feel that the BIGBANG boys would have a grand ole time discovering the numerous, hilariously cute gifs of Miss Park Bom on tumblr. Yeah - mentioning tumblr anywhere other than tumblr makes me instantly the lamest kid on the block. I can see how you are judging me so hard right now. NO MATTER. On a side note, the word of the day is philtrum.

Here's to a ( hopefully) successful withdrawal from kpop, being a responsible adult (on time paperwork and all), not mistaking boredom for hunger, and of course a studious new semester (complete with planner usage and proper bedtimes). God save the Queen. And me.

It is terribly disgusting of me, and I can probably help it. But. I don't want to. Help it, that is. The sweet scent is to powerful. I cannot help but think of simpler times when my father's embraces held the fragrant burnt nicotine scent. I know my argument is not much of one. But cancer, the expenses, your life, secondhand smoke-all for what?  If mahjong tiles plinking together is the original soundtrack of my childhood, then cigarette smoke is smell of my childhood. Overpowering and inescapable, not matter how long you hold your breath, where you turn your head, or if you breathe through your mouth. I was taught in school, like everyone else, smoking is a death wish . And I went through a phrase of trashing all of my father's cigarettes (see: Ramona Quimby ). But now, I envy that child. I wish that snapping little nicotine sticks were the biggest of my concerns. I don't expect anyone to agree or understand, but for my own good - I would like to agree with myself. O...