Princezcv9's Xanga

EDNOS

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 08:34:31 GMT

It’s amazing how time goes by, how the pages from the calendar keep ripping themselves off, even as individual days seem to drag on.

Perhaps it was listening to the New York Philharmonic a few days ago that reminded me that I had different musical tastes before Jay Chou and Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous” took over my Youtube playlist.

Ravel’s “Tzigane” is probably the second violin piece (after Sibelius’d minor concerto) that I ever fell in love with. There’s something incredibly exciting about the intense vibrato, the uneasy chordal harmonies, the thematic turnovers, and the way it can maintain its mystery and passion (well, except for the last two or so minutes, ugh) even when played unaccompanied. I didn’t like it at first, but after hearing it performed numerous times at string camp a few years back, I guess the mere exposure effect took hold.

The mood of the piece was far from the orchestra’s repertoire that night, but I suddenly remembered Tzigane’s opening bars and couldn’t get it out of my head. John hadn’t heard it before. The day after, when I saw him, he told me that he had listened to a recording when he got home. I was slightly surprised and touched to find out that he takes seriously what I say, however offhand in conversation. It was one of those moments that reminded me how grateful I am for him but also highlighted how much I don’t deserve that level of attention from him.

It’s nice to think we may have been enjoying the music at the same time—headphones on, awake at some absurd hour of the night, darkness falling around us. We both agreed that it’s a shame Ravel is mostly known for the ghastly “Bolero” fluff that is featured on my parent’s “Sensual Classics” love CD. Gross, on several levels.

Summer always feels so strange on a relationship. To go from seeing someone practically every day, every night, to a weekly walk home and a polite goodbye exchange on my porch is pretty jarring. I would like to think that this separation is supposed to revive the uncertainty and giddy anticipation of “next time” that filled our first summer and throughout his first year of college, four years ago. It’s supposed to make every encounter that much more satisfying, and encourage us to really appreciate each other’s company. I feel guilty because I allow my anxiety and insecurity, sentiments compounded by the fact that he’ll be off to med school come August, to prevent me from being present with him. I’m intensely afraid of being alone, especially since the past year has been a difficult one. It feels like shit to be depressed. The recovery process isn’t that great, either. As much as he thought that I was angry at him and that he was useless to comfort me during the last three semesters, I needed him with me, needed to feel to his breath softly on my neck and hand over my arm. I wish I could find a way to convey to him otherwise the gentle words and thoughts and all the memories choked up behind the vomit and behind the stupid, weak, immobile hands that couldn’t return a hug, no matter how much I wanted to.

He has seen more sides of me than anyone else, a lot of them extremely ugly. I believe that we have gotten closer, our lives increasingly intertwined. Though I don’t know if that is synonymous with saying that our relationship has improved, at least in his eyes. He takes every setback we have to heart, which worries me because how he feels and reacts affects how I respond. Rather than reassuring him that I love him and we’ll be okay, I end up breaking down too.

Currently, of course, many days are okay, even good, maybe even fun. Yet on others I find myself a crying mess—slouchy and unable to look anyone in the eye. Those days seem to weigh disproportionately on my confidence, motivation, ability to wake up and be eager for the hours ahead.

It may seem really gross, but I haven’t gotten over thinking of throwing up as infinitely more therapeutic and gratifying than swallowing pills and talking to nodding figures who think you don’t notice when they discreetly check their watches. This is a totally inappropriate and nonsensical comparison but when I see the colorful contents of my dinner in the toilet bowl, and taste the flavors come up from my stomach in the order I’ve eaten, I think to the scene in the fourth Harry Potter movie when Harry’s wand forces Voldemort’s to malfunction and spit out all the spells casted that murdered others, starting with the most recent. It’s something to mull over as I ignore the burning in my throat and the rawness of my knuckles.

Unfortunately, the perverse benefits of induced vomiting are escaping me, since I’ve also been eating much more at home. In fact, I’ve gained 8 pounds since June 12. I feel so fat and unattractive, which in turn spurs me to mindlessly dip my spoon straight into a container of cookie dough.

And those times I cut myself, they hurt but were never deep enough to cause serious injury. They have all faded by now, which is a good thing I suppose. I could not do it anymore after John found out and put a razor over his own arm. I totally freaked out and promised to stop. Though these past few weeks, I have small, tugging urges to do it again. I guess that’s a red flag telling me I need to see the doctors again.

The latest incident was a huge mistake. It definitely hurt me a lot more than I thought it would. And I definitely hurt John a lot more than I thought I did.

Do you remember that scene from the last episode of season 1 of “Gossip Girl”? When Dan said to Serena, “I didn’t sleep with her [Georgina]” But just before Serena could breathe out a sigh of relief, Dan drops the bomb—“But I may as well have.”

I’m really angry with that asshole of a guy. I thought that we could at least maintain a friendship. I deserve an explanation. Instead I get total silence afterwards. I feel humiliated; my body violated, dirty. Something more than dignity was taken away from me. I let him know that he was one of the first new friends (friend having an objectionable and flexible definition) I made in a long time since the onset of depression. I don’t know if that means my expectations have been any different but in any case, I opened a part of myself to somebody else, and he was a huge let-down. Not to mention fucking ungrateful.

I’m even more angry at myself for getting caught up with him. I was being a self-indulgent bitch. Sorry will not be enough. It’s only starting to sink in that I betrayed John’s trust. The question I knew was coming a long while ago that we’d have to face, is finally here: “What now?”

Because I don’t see John as often, it imparts a sense of embarrassment and tentativeness I had almost forgotten. Even the prospect of holding hands kind of stresses me out . . . Though this kind of emotional throwback to our initial courtship period is charming, I feel a more ominous, pounding insecurity underlying the teenage awkwardness. The uncertainty of when “next time” will be is sometimes more scary than exciting; it causes me to cling even more in every goodbye such that when he leaves me, I feel like he’s actually leaving me.

And as for physical intimacy, it’s been pretty hard. The last opportunity, after a lengthy dry period, would ideally have been desperate and animalistic, but in the middle, I just completely lost momentum. Part of it I suppose was nervousness/ performance anxiety, part of it was feeling fat and gross, and the last part was the douchebag’s face flashing in front of my eyes. I did not expect to think of him but as soon as that happened, I felt so ashamed and disgusted with myself that I was about to cry. Thankfully, I don’t think John noticed the tears.

I remember some time ago, a different guy I met said something I found really perceptive. He told me that I had this fragile, vulnerable quality about me (incidentally, a quality which he found umm a turn-on). Others have commented that there was something soft or sad about me that they couldn’t quite put their finger on. I used to think I was very good at hiding my feelings, of making people think I’m a certain type of fun, gregarious person, but I guess not.

So, what now?

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 22:06:18 GMT

I wonder how many more chances I have, how many more phone silences broken by "Are you still there . . ." will it take before he runs away. My mother told me this morning that she's given up on me. She's never said that before.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Tue, 08 May 2007 09:31:25 GMT

Question: aren't all first times so romantic?

Aren't they supposed to be? Maybe romantic isn't the right form of the word. Romanticized. Yes, they are so easily romanticized. First day of school, first 100 on a spelling test, first bully,first best friend, first pimple (or not), first pair of high heels, first bra, first drink, first flower from a boy, first kiss, first love, the "first time." Other possibly significant first times: first time swimming without floaters, first time on an airplane, first time watching a rated-R movie, first time being hit on, first time drunk, first time being groped by a stranger, first time with pot, first time heartbroken, first time intentionally vomiting, first time cutting.

I haven't done the last item yet, but it plays itself so vividly in my mind. Over and over again right now. Unwillingly, I let the thoughts consume me-- can't resist. I see exactly where I would do it, how I would hold the razor, the number of times, the pattern of the blood on the floor, how I would wrap it; I hear the casual tone of voice I would use.

"I'm really sorry. I wish I knew how to help you. I do hope you feel better. Take care."

Is there a worse way to end a session than with these sentences? Today was the last official appointment of the semester with the therapist. I spend my Monday nights with her, wasting trees with my snot. I hate the forced self-revelatory moment of each session. The one that comes when she nods, then sits back with her hands folded and asks me, "What do you think you can do?" Wouldn't I do it if I knew?

I have a problem but I think my real problem is myself. It's unfortunate, for there are so, so many terrible things happening especially in the world today.

Much like the tone of the sayings found in the "quotes to live by" section of Reader's Digest, she says that I'm my own worst enemy. I'm most frightened by the voice at the back of my head that keeps saying that I want pity and excuses, I want to keep holding onto the medications, and breathe sighs of relief when the dosages are increased. Please, more. When I recently had the flu, I stopped taking them. I was upset to find that I didn't go through withdrawal, nor did my mental "symptoms" change for the worse. Maybe there's nothing wrong. I'm cowardly and can't admit responsibility or initiative to understand why I feel this way. Am I afraid of getting better?

I would throw up but I haven't ate anything substantial in the past few hours, so it would only frustrate me if nothing came out.

I have two finals lined up for today. Maybe that is the momentary reason I have such a desire to cut myself. That it would be a way out. Don't get me wrong, I have no intention of trivializing cutting-- it's only that maybe I'm not rational anymore that I can think of the blade going through the skin as easily as the next thought of what I should eat for breakfast.

I would cut myself, skip my first final in the morning, and pathetically go to my dean, still in my pajamas, and show her my wrists. The rule for petitioning for Incompletes for courses is at least one day before the exam. Today are the exams. Maybe she can waver the rule. I thought only one Incomplete was necessary and the rest I could handle, but I really can't do this. I didn't start studying for either final. It's is past 5 in the morning. I can't claim I'm not worried at all, but frankly I don't really care much-- about most things now-- which is the worst feeling, that makes my heart feel like it disconnected from the arteries and veins holding onto it and hid itself somewhere in the recesses of my colon, or another terrible metaphor like that. I feel cold. I feel . . . unfeeling.

I don't know if I'm that desperate yet. That will be decided soon enough.

I thought about making this private or whatever function that is that will make this visible only to my eyes. But then again, these thoughts are so loud that I think that people can already hear them. Besides, there's something necessary if not morose about words staring back at me, telling me the things I struggle to ignore.

So it turns out there's a name for it.

Tue, 17 Apr 2007 20:43:45 GMT

Severe depression.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Sun, 08 Jan 2006 07:08:04 GMT

Andrew, on my facebook wall: I miss dancing to the seductive sounds of the vending machine.

Me: "me too!" <-- essentially my message

That is meant to both perplex and disturb, from someone who neither drinks nor parties BUT has been "backed up into" numerous times by someone's "train" (read: butt) at clubs! In case you can't tell, I'm trying to make myself sound cooler and more attractively fun by mentioning that unnecessary latter tidbit.

I've [unofficially] stopped making sense. Hopefully, it's a winterbreak thing. I want to think that my brain is on vacation after my last final and spending a ten-hour Naked Juice-fueled marathon at Butler library struggling to learn seven hundred years of Early Medieval history.

Yes, it's January.

How is it possible to put almost five months into words?

First, it was McAfee. I didn't know what to do. It took advantage of my computer-jargon ineptness when no one else was around. I thought I could trust McAfee. He was supposed to protect my parents' investment-- my Dell Inspiron 6000. When that little box popped up as I tried to log in, McAfee alerted me that this site was trying to send me cookies. Naively, I remembered that my mother told me never to accept food or beverages from strangers because they would drug 'em and then try to rape me. Kind of like in Freaks and Geeks, when Lindsay cuts Latin class and her dad chides her.

Mr. Weir: You know who cut school?

(Lindsay looks down and doesn't respond. Mr. Weir goes on.)

Jimi Hendrix.

(Pause. Mr. Weir glares at Lindsay.)

You know where he is now?

Dead!

I'm not going to state the connection. I just wanted to bring it up. I think it's funny. There.

Anyway, cookies seemed bad-- not in a sexy Jesse (of the Gilmore Girls) rebellious way, but dirty (however not a sexy dirty) bad. McAfee gave me only three choices: Accept (my mother wouldn't approve?), Reject, or Cancel (I'm not going to wimp out . . . ) I pressed "Reject All Cookies."

That was, in short, how McAfee took Xanga away from me, and later scared me away from downloading AIM (may contain potential viruses my butt!)-- not that that's sufficient excuse for why I haven't made an effort to talk or see anybody. For that, I'm sorry. I'm lax about holding on to friendships. I reassure myself with the status quo rather than try to develop something more. I let them go quietly.

I feel as if I've lost much of my confidence since last year-- the praise, the smiles, the excitement, the awards, the grades, the acceptance letter, the feeling of making a statement in school and a difference in the community. The first semester of college was a breakdown of my expectations of myself, expectations for myself. It was fun, though? I worry high school was my peak. That was also when I knew how to properly use semicolons. I feel as if I'm losing touch with what mattered to me; I feel unsure of what matters to me now.

I haven't been able to stomach serious movies lately. So I've been watching a string of romantic comedies this week, most-- wait, all-- of them awful. Yet I cried anyway during A Cinderella Story, 13 Going on 30, and Love Actually. You can laugh. It took a round sixteen years for my feminine side to emerge during movies. (Titanic broke my willpower.) I'm not ashamed . . . Some reputable modern film adaptations of Shakespeare and Jane Austen's works are slated for next week. They are more "feel-good" romantic comedies.

I watched Serendipity. I was thrilled to see in available at the library, after remembering how John said to me a while back he enjoyed it (though it is questionable of whether he enjoyed the movie or Jon Cusack more.) Serendipity, John said, refers to a fortunate accident. Serendipity sounds like a sentence in itself, I remarked. The movie questioned how much one would be willing to give up based on his or her intuition about one "perfect" moment with a stranger. Jon was the skeptic and Sara was the New Age wacko who was convinced that everything works out according to fate. Humans are unable to change their destiny, but fate does send out signs (like perhaps that first meeting between the two, at Bloomingdale's). It's how you read the signs that determines how happy you are, she says. After Jon asks her for her name and number on a whim (he was in a relationship), she refuses to give it to him straight. Instead, she writes her information in a book and sells it to a used bookstore. She tells him if that book makes its way back into his hands, then they are meant to be. Four years later, both he and she are engaged to other, perfectly wonderful people. However, none can stop wondering about the mysterious other, whether the other was indeed, Mr. or Mrs. Right. They start to look for each other but we know that fails. Until the day of Jon's wedding when everything starts to "fall into place." I hate that term. I was disappointed because I didn't find the film believable. I don't (or can't) believe in things "falling into place." The film was too idealistic to the point it was annoying. It felt as if that phrase existed only in the movie. Maybe that was what scared me the most.

[And of course this entry will have something to do with John. I don't know anymore how to write about myself without writing about us.]

13 Going on 30 actually made me think (ha. ha.) I'm hoping to avoid a summary. If you ask me, the title is self-explanatory. After a movie 1hr 40min too long, Jennifer Garner realizes that her future lies in her past-- that is, Matty. Awwww. . . cliched . . . but awww.

The 30 yr-old Jennifer Garner, after realizing the path she chose was a dud, had the fairy-dust means of going back to age 13 and choose the other. John is my first relationship. How much can I know if I don't know anyone other than him? I guess I assumed he would be my future too. I'm afraid of making the wrong choice, of missing my only chance. Oh, Inexperience. I grew up with Disney movies, expecting and accepting a happy ending. The predictability factor was comforting. "What if" was never a question. Now I'm insecure and cynical-- which is a bad combination because each quality fuels the other.

To those who asked how things are between me and John with always, a *wink*wink* addendum, I have responded differently, depending not just on who they were but on how I felt at that moment. I may have said fine, *wink*ed back, or told you I don't remember a time when I cried so much.

While checking a less used e-mail inbox, I found an apology he e-mailed me after we reconciled over a disagreement of wills.

...You just hung up and said bye. There's something wrong with me right now. I hate it when you simply say bye, and keep repeating it even after I ask you to wait. I feel it's hatefully artificially abrupt, like we're trying to create distance. I feel incredibly angry for no reason, at you for doing that, even. I think I am angry at myself. Ever since you came to Columbia, our friendship has never been the same, and I feel it's mostly my fault. The first months after we met are starting to feel like a dream to me that I lost. I am starting to have worries. I am not trying to worry you by saying this, just trying to be honest. I have to be honest. I've been holding this in for so long that it hurts. And I think it's holding in worries about you and me that makes me act stupidly, like I did just now and last night. I just don't know what to say.

That last sentence burned my eyes. We dorm two blocks away from each other and there's distance.

Ten minutes after I found out I got into college, I e-mailed John at his Columbia address with the message, "See you in September!" likely followed by more exclamation points and smiley faces. I was excited because I thought we'd be closer.

The most hurtful experience was the reality of a fantasy.

When we first met, we were enamored by each other, dreaming of a trip to Alaska and watching the stars. I had just turned seventeen. He wrote me letters and I would whisper his words back to him, that we'll wake up next to each other in the morning . Then we would shyly look away. Both of us were drawn into the perfect beauty that moment epitomized.

And then we did. And I feel we went downhill from there, both of us clinging to a moment that existed only in words. I keep thinking of "falling into place" and "only in the movies." I'm sure that's the first incident he was referring to with "ever since you came to Columbia, our friendship has never been the same."

I'm know I'm happy when I'm with him. I do. I make all sorts of promises and pleas to create a future of the here and now. There are these spectacular times we have after which I come home and smile myself to sleep but then I wake up. When I'm not with him, sometimes I start to wonder this terribly upsetting "what if." Can this sort of happiness still be called happiness?

Oh right. Happy New Year, albeit belatedly.

I'll try to get in touch with more people. And I will restart commenting. I do miss you guys. I just don't show it well.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Thu, 11 Aug 2005 20:03:21 GMT

I found this saved IM conversation from like a month ago:

Rusty (12:16:42 AM): id like to call my first math porn movie "Partial to You"
R (12:16:53 AM): but i dont want it to be too derivative
PrincezCV9 (12:17:23 AM): my god
PrincezCV9 (12:17:36 AM): john never talks to me like that....
R (12:22:58 AM): not even during bijection?
PrincezCV9 (12:23:32 AM): what's that?
R (12:23:38 AM): you know
R (12:23:45 AM): one-to-one and onto
PrincezCV9 (12:24:17 AM): ?
R (12:24:33 AM): http://mathworld.wolfram.com/Bijection.html
PrincezCV9 (12:25:14 AM): that's really hot
PrincezCV9 (12:25:25 AM): i've never thought of it that way before
R (12:25:44 AM): also
R (12:25:57 AM): if u call it a bj, itll seem cooler
PrincezCV9 (12:27:23 AM): rusty-- you're a math slut, aren't you?

We met on math team. Yeah.

"Being a woman is a significant risk factor . . . " haha.

I despise Alcoholedu.com. There should be a big "Duh!" disclaimer at the bottom of the page. Two-and-a-half to three hours to complete Chapters 1-3? That website is a liar. Why does it force me to listen to a woman speaking ridiculously slowly about family members that may or may not influence you, drunk friends that may or may not affect your decisions, hangovers that may or may not affect your academic performance, strangers or friends or dates that may or not try to get you drunk and rape you?

I'm packing for Argentina. =) I'm so ready for a beef binge. In Argentina, there are more cows that people. I'm really excited, because I've never been south of the equator (on a globe, that is). Leaving this Saturday (13th), coming back Orientation morning. Moving in seems so far away; at the same time, it feels too close. It's silly to be scared-- but I'm always scared of what I don't know-- when I live a subway ride away from Columbia.

Oh no! "Jason can't seem to focus on what is going on while he's partying and knows that he should stop taking Ritalin® for fun. He's cut back on how often he takes the pills but isn't sure what partying will be like without it." Like, what the fuck? And Nisha-- that slut-- has just come back from a drunken one-night stand. "He said he'd call her, and she is looking forward to seeing him again. Nisha's sister told her to be careful about STIs (sexually transmitted infections), but Nisha isn't concerned."

"As long as we're on the topic of sex, let's talk about pregnancy." Let’s.

“Alcohol is a drug.” Okay.

John came over yesterday with two bouquets, which made me feel doubly horrible. We had a talk consisting of my crying and him rationalizing. One big therapy session during which we tackled my inability to let go and my disastrous self-image and the hurtful aspect of being the odd one out. John knew about my whole Jonah complex before we met. I’ve liked many boys growing up. But he was different from Jeremy the nose-picker that I kissed in kindergarten on a dare. The first boy one “shares candy” with is always memorable. I’d never ever say John was the outlet for my depression, but he provided a welcome distraction at the time.

A year and a half later, I want to believe that everything is different; that I am changed; that I am completely in love with one person. John is the most wonderful thing to have happened to me.

There are those who might ask, “What the hell was she thinking at the time?” I have no idea, either. John said to me that alcohol doesn’t create a new character—but it does bring to the surface another side of a person.

I was upset that night when Jonah mentioned— albeit drunkenly— what a mistake it was to reject me. In junior year, I asked him to a grade-wide dance (he was a senior) and he said yes. I asked him because I liked him and I thought he liked me back. He said yes but he didn’t hide, even in front of me, that he wanted another girl’s ass. It’s like crying over spilt milk—I wasn’t ready for the drama (or maybe reality is a better word) of teenage relationships. Too much Disney and expectations of love at first sight. It was cruel that he was using me as a fallback. On Saturday night, I, unwantedly, revisited those memories. It clicked in my head what a joke I must have been to him and the bunch—the lovesick girl at whom everyone laughed, whose feelings everyone trivialized. It was then I wanted to drown those feelings. And there I started to lose the inhibitions. It’s not that drinking is cool—which I don’t need AlcholEdu to tell me.

John understands. I’m so glad.

It’s been over three weeks since I’ve last seen him. The first bouquet was gladiola bunch; the second was two unequally sized sunflowers. John said he bought the latter on a whim. He said the pair reminded him of us.

Me: “So which one am I?”
John: “The bigger one, of course!”

We went on a major chocolate binge, courtesy of unhealthy one-part tofu three-parts butter but insanely [triple-chocolate] good brownies I baked. Then we went to the elementary school playground and ran, jumped, walked backwards, pushed each other, etc… fully clothed, through the sprinklers. At least I had the decency to wear underwear yesterday. Through white pants, everything shows.

The vain boy couldn’t stop fretting about the state of his hair after our wet adventures. He denies it, but, frankly, he is addicted to his hair wax and gel.

John, as he puts on Chapstick: “I’ve kissed you so much today that my lips are dehydrated.”

I know it’s unfair to call a day “the happiest one in my life,” simply because I’ve called so many other days by that name. But I will call yesterday one, anyway.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Mon, 08 Aug 2005 14:09:55 GMT

Hangovers and tennis don't mix.

Shuttup I get Asian-red! <-- a facebook group name

My real first time (and John wasn't there, to stop me from making an awful decision.)

My parents picked me up from the party at 10:45 p.m. and I was completely inebriated. How I didn't fall down the stairs was amazing. Aghh felt like dying (probably a combination effect of alcohol and inhaling some of Jonah's special stuff...).

Four bottles, five people, of which one was a non-drinker. Four empty bottles. I think I started drinking not as much to fit in, but to prove I'm not a quiet mathphile priss. I made a real funny ass of myself over spinach and fillet de sole. My elbows kept missing the table edge and the birthday girl built a sculpture of silverware which I found very poetic. I butted in conversations with, "Methuselah is fiiiiiiiinnnne name for a vampire, duzzzzzzzzon't you theenk"? I had conversations with his cats, one of whom I was convinced was a reincarnation of [the emperor] Constantine. I was also handcuffed to myself or someone else at some point... I frenched Ana after the gazpacho (this was while sober) and I made out with her later on in front the other John pretty drunkenly. I patted Jonah on the back for letting me use his wonderful toilet and then went back to pat the toilet. By the time the cake was out, I was laughing at everything that came out of the other John's mouth. I was touching him an absurdly large number of times. Jonah talked about regrets and my taking my clothes off. I kissed Jonah and he definitely put his hands in my shirt and holy shit I didn't resist real hard.

On one morally corrupt hand, it was so much fun to lose control and feel liked and feel included with a group of people that I tried so hard to be since junior year; on the other, I hate myself.

I hate remembering the next morning (and every morning after) details down to the ingredients that went into every menu item because it shows that my mind was there, that no matter how drunk I claim to be, I can't argue that I wasn't thinking at the time. "No" was one of the first words that I learned but it is a word I don't use enough.

John once told me that he was in the middle of writing a letter (to me). I suggested that he write stuff like "I miss you like ice cream for sprinkles" and gaudily romantic lines like, "I've been waiting all my seventeen years for you." I suggested in fun, but the next day, I received a note that included those exact words. And I was touched, because he meant it.

I really screwed things up with John. Apologies never reverse betrayal. He trusted me, and I let him down.

"John. It's me. We need to talk," goes the first of many messages on his answering machine.

Monday, August 01, 2005

Mon, 01 Aug 2005 03:36:09 GMT

What's that time of the month when breasts look bigger? I like that time.

My mom (on the phone with my aunt): "Christina is improving greatly! She hit four balls today. In a row!"

Since my mother wants me to be more Asian, she has her boss' son (he's twenty years old and cute!) giving me casual tennis lessons.

Edward: "You have to RUN! You can't stay in one place and wait for the ball!"

That above quote summarizes my laissez-faire attitude towards sports.

On Friday night, my parents and I came back from a week in Rochester being slaves for-- I mean, visiting-- my brother (he does the med school scene there). We fixed up his apartment.

Rochester is the third largest urban area in New York. It's hard to believe. The only traffic experienced there was the back-up of cars resulting from Canadian geese taking their sweet time to cross the street.

To think-- U of R was the school I almost applied to. I wouldn't mind going. Except I've been metaphorically jacking off to Columbia viewbooks since tenth grade . . . so yay Columbia. Rochester is fabulous! The Distillery-- a bar/restaurant-- is especially fabulous. Their juicy juicy beef burgers are better than sex and their buffalo wings more saliva-inducing than Jude Law's face!

I noticed that the more time I spend with my parents, the more terrible my grammar gets! Except for the occasional abscence of an auxiliary verb, I'm think I'm okay now.

As my father and I were putting together a bookcase for my brother as he la-la-la's off to the lab to mash up worm livers or something like that, my father got frustrated with the unclear instructions:

My dad: Shit! Damn Chinese! (It's funny for two reasons: one, we're Chinese; two, it wasn't even made in China but my dad assumed that's the place of origin of any seemingly malfunctioning crap.)

We also visited Niagara Falls like every good tourist should and it didn't disappoint. Erie Canal, Lockport Caves, Letchworth State Park, WAL-MART (my first time . . . and it was good!!!!!!! It was a supercenter no less. SIGH.)

On Wednesday, I'm going to see Wedding Crashers (hopefully) with my elementary school lesbian lover. There's nothing like silly white people movies with good-looking girls.

Monday, July 11, 2005

Mon, 11 Jul 2005 17:12:12 GMT

The girl I tutor came back from Disneyland. I asked her if she remembered to say hi to Mickey, Minnie, Pluto, and the gang from me-- she did!

I have read the intro to Lattimore's trans. of the Iliad; I plan to actually start Book One sometime this week.

I went to the advising session on the 6th. I don't know what I want to take anymore! There doesn't seem to be enough credits to do math, anthro-archeaology, anthro-sociocultural, east asian studies, asian american studies, music, and history. I probably should give up the 3-2 plan too. Goodbye to looking at boilers and playing with chemical explosives and circuits. =(

I dread deciding.

My mother, who's so happy I got in Columbia, picked up every single brochure on the tables. She also took home a handful of Proud Columbia Family pins (two of which are on her backpack, right next to each other). And in her enthusiasm, she also pocketed a pack of thumbtacks (to pin feedback up on the board outside the auditorium), thinking the pack was more Columbia paraphernalia.

I'm going to be in a Hartley double. It's no carpeted, A/C-ed Furnauld, but it's suite-living, combination of grades, co-ed (boys! older boys! and co-ed bathrooms! experiencing conniptions galore!), up to sixteen people. Duplex, with stairs! How awesome is that?

A series of IMs trying to pass themselves off as an entry:

PrincezCV9 (11:18:54 PM): Am I having too much fun with facebook?
John (11:19:09 PM): My last six emails have been notifications that you've modified my wall.
PrincezCV9 (11:19:11 PM): Tell me if I go too far, lov.
PrincezCV9 (11:19:19 PM): love, I mean.
PrincezCV9 (11:19:30 PM): That's hilarious.
J (11:19:35 PM): Well, I might. But the real question is -- will you listen?
J (11:19:37 PM): I think not.
PrincezCV9 (11:19:48 PM): I will.
PrincezCV9 (11:20:08 PM): Your face is your face.
PrincezCV9 (11:20:24 PM): My fingers were itchy . . .
J (11:20:47 PM): Itchy?
J (11:20:59 PM): Itching for mischief?
PrincezCV9 (11:21:27 PM): Yes.
PrincezCV9 (11:21:46 PM): Sorry, John.
J (11:21:48 PM): Well, this quote: " John: "Bitch! I ride you like my horse!" " has got to go.
PrincezCV9 (11:21:48 PM): [Sorry] six times.
PrincezCV9 (11:22:02 PM): Seven times.

PrincezCV9 (11:54:36 PM): What kind of haircut?
PrincezCV9 (11:54:48 PM): Your hair's not even long!
J (11:54:58 PM): Mushroom.
J (11:55:02 PM): (Just kidding.)
PrincezCV9 (11:55:23 PM): Mushroom screams of sex monkey.

PrincezCV9 (12:27:46 AM): I guess I mess with your profile when I start missing you crazily.
J (12:28:06 AM): We're too predictable.
J (12:28:16 AM): I am in the middle of editing your profile right now. What does that say.
PrincezCV9 (12:28:36 AM): We're meant for each other!
J (12:29:05 AM): Two facebook losers. (She's still better than him, though, of course.)
PrincezCV9 (12:29:43 AM): Will I be surprised?
J (12:31:40 AM): Not really. I couldn't put you into a relationship with Mr. Weinstein. I tried to create an alias for him.
PrincezCV9 (12:31:54 AM): That doesn't work.
PrincezCV9 (12:32:03 AM): I tried, man.
PrincezCV9 (12:32:14 AM): I mean . . .
PrincezCV9 (12:32:32 AM): I would think it would not work.
PrincezCV9 (12:32:59 AM): He has to be an actual registree of facebook and have a working e-mail.
PrincezCV9 (12:33:05 AM): To confirm.
J (12:33:09 AM): I tried for you, Sweetheart.
PrincezCV9 (12:33:21 AM): You are the BEST.

PrincezCV9 (12:36:43 AM): Are you asking me out?
J (12:38:04 AM): No, no!
J (12:38:11 AM): Just a little get-together, dinner, a movie...
J (12:38:23 AM): (Any and all sex would be purely incidental....)

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Wed, 06 Jul 2005 04:05:00 GMT

I ate Cheez Doodles for breakfast. Agh. I hate staying at home for extended periods of time. The kitchen is my home-within-a-home.

I also, compulsively, ate all the freeze-dried strawberries in the Special K Red Berries cereal. I ate my sole reason for purchasing the overpriced cereal! Now I'm left with a shell of myself, in the form of naked-- lightly sweetened-- crunchy rice flakes.

July 4th and a series of sentence fragments to describe it:

Macy's Fireworks Spectacular was spectacular, indeed, and loud! Independence day with a BANG. Saw it from Pier 17, at the South Street Seaport. Smelling of fish and garbage dump, but all's well. (It's who you're with, not where you are, right?) Cliched, but romantic! Went with John and guess who? Mommy! (Graciously, she consented to splitting up when we got to Fulton St. and meeting up after the show.) Midway through the firework, man proposed to his girlfriend in front of us (!!!!! I know)!

Also saw:
Your usual, generic Michael Jackson impersonator. He had an umbrella that, when opened, showered sparkles on the crowd!

and

the amazing contortionist! He can fit himself in a 17"x17" cube! It's sick to the point where you can't take your eyes off of him!
Yogi (from Brooklyn, with Jamaican accent): Do you hear, everybody? I am preparing to risk my life for your amusement!
The crowd erupts in unison: YEAH!!!!!!!

New York! I love this place.

John's lab partner in background, to John: Hey, you're not being paid ten dollars an hour to talk to her!

Txt message, received 12:42 p.m.: Smooch, little pig!
Voice message, sent 12:44 p.m.: [loud kissing noise] Smooch, fat goat!

I fully realize I'm a hopeless romantic.