aka my column for my epic application...i basically argued a point i didn't agree with, but it was fun nonetheless. it certainly opened my mind.
As life changes to fit the volatile needs of modern society, both men and women alike are given opportunities for a more ideal destiny. Unfortunately, if each one of my male companions is an accurate representation of your average Joe set out to rule the planet, the only future I’ll have after graduation will be in the kitchen, producing what seems to be the recent object of every guy’s affections – a sandwich.
09 October 2010
26 September 2010
This is an ambiguous post
It is filled with vague words with depressing connotations so that my problems sound worse than they may or may not really be, who knows what’s real and what isn’t? It doesn’t matter anyway; the whole point of this blog entry is to not name any names and make everyone wonder what in the world is wrong with me today. Of course, I could just write this on a private blog or maybe even a Word document, but no one has to know that, right? I’m just here to “express my feelings,” and while I’m at it, I might as well make all my stalkers and followers curious and grab their attentions.
14 September 2010
I'll probably never finish this, so never mind.
this is what happens when gloria tries to come up with a story idea for the epic and realizes that if she writes about something she truly cares about, she’ll probably come off as way too informal for a formal newspaper that 1900+ people will read. -_-
30 August 2010
kiki come home
My dog might get sent to the police. At least, that’s what my brother’s friend Ross says. My parents brought Kiki home earlier today even though the landlord told us that dogs aren’t permitted here, but it was only for a little while until she would get sent to the dogsitter and we would resume our lives as law-abiding renters again. But then Grant opened the door for no reason and Kiki ran out and started chasing the neighbor’s kids, who didn’t know any better and didn’t stop running when the manager told them to do so. One of the kids tripped and got hurt, and now his head is bleeding and Ross says that he might get a small concussion and if he doesn’t recover within three days, the police will take Kiki and she’ll get a shot from the needle and then it’ll be goodbye. Actually, no it won’t, because I won’t be there, we won’t be there so it won’t really be bye-bye. I’ll be at home sitting at my desk, learning SAT vocabulary words and she’ll be in maybe a dark room with a mob of white coats and mouthguards maybe like in the movies and then one of them will hold her eight-pound body and another will stick the needle through her and then it’ll be bye-bye Kiki. And I’ll be sitting at home wanting to be there so that I can scream at them, “She’s not a bad dog she really isn’t it’s not her fault she’s the best dog there is just let her be she’ll be better I promise we promise just let her be.”
My parents promised me a future like this: after February, when the contractor finally finishes building our house, we’ll get Kiki back and we’ll live in a nice five-bedroom home with enough space for everyone and thick walls so no one will be forced to listen to Mama when she’s on the telephone. There would be a nice living room and an island in the kitchen that we could eat on and walk-in closets and clean bathrooms and no rats to speak of. We would have Kiki to cuddle with on cold nights and Kiki to walk with on warm ones and Kiki on every other night for holding and feeding and everything else.
It was a nice picture while it lasted. Today Ross came in and said that the manager called the landlord who got angry and then the neighbors’ daddy came over and let loose a string of curse words and called Mama a bitch and Grant just stood there staring at everything even though it was his friend who got hurt and he looked like he didn’t know what to do. And then Kiki looked at everyone and whined and the neighbors’ daddy became even more furious and I learned a whole new list of swear words and now I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I can do.
I’m letting my imagination get ahead of everything. Please with a cherry on top let everything be okay let the neighbor’s boy get well soon and let Kiki stay so we can send her to the dogsitter’s house and let the neighbor’s daddy stop cussing and let Grant stop staring dumbly at everything and let my parents stop worrying, they’ve got enough to stay awake about and let me stop crying, I don’t like crying about things that might not happen but maybe will, it makes me feel silly and everything’s up to speculation and I don’t like that either, I need things to be set in stone and okay like it should be.
My parents promised me a future like this: after February, when the contractor finally finishes building our house, we’ll get Kiki back and we’ll live in a nice five-bedroom home with enough space for everyone and thick walls so no one will be forced to listen to Mama when she’s on the telephone. There would be a nice living room and an island in the kitchen that we could eat on and walk-in closets and clean bathrooms and no rats to speak of. We would have Kiki to cuddle with on cold nights and Kiki to walk with on warm ones and Kiki on every other night for holding and feeding and everything else.
It was a nice picture while it lasted. Today Ross came in and said that the manager called the landlord who got angry and then the neighbors’ daddy came over and let loose a string of curse words and called Mama a bitch and Grant just stood there staring at everything even though it was his friend who got hurt and he looked like he didn’t know what to do. And then Kiki looked at everyone and whined and the neighbors’ daddy became even more furious and I learned a whole new list of swear words and now I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I can do.
I’m letting my imagination get ahead of everything. Please with a cherry on top let everything be okay let the neighbor’s boy get well soon and let Kiki stay so we can send her to the dogsitter’s house and let the neighbor’s daddy stop cussing and let Grant stop staring dumbly at everything and let my parents stop worrying, they’ve got enough to stay awake about and let me stop crying, I don’t like crying about things that might not happen but maybe will, it makes me feel silly and everything’s up to speculation and I don’t like that either, I need things to be set in stone and okay like it should be.
21 August 2010
my neighborhood.
there is a family living just a few blocks away from me, according to my brother gavin, and he tells me if you walk straight for just two blocks and turn left, you’ll find them. my brothers don’t like this family’s children. they don’t like ross (6) nor his younger sister (4) because they’re annoying, rude, and uncivilized, they say. ross got in trouble and the apartment manager banned him from entering our block for a month the other day for punching the neighbor’s kid so hard in the face that he started bleeding, all because that kid was riding on his bike. my brothers tell me that ross is a trouble maker, and that they don’t ever want to go out and play with him. ever.
every morning when i go downstairs to find some breakfast, i glance towards the window facing the street and see two soft green eyes smushed against the glass and a smile indicating hope that gavin will come out and play. every morning, i try to look away, but it’s always too late – ross catches my gaze and starts screaming, “can gavin come play? can grant come play? please please please please please!” i ignore him, because i don’t know what to do, and i grab a bagel and run back upstairs. every morning.
gavin tells me on the way home from school that ross and his family is crazy. ross had a dog, a small black chihuahua, but it ran away. it still lives around the neighborhood, but every time ross tries to catch it, it takes its bony behind and runs even faster to somewhere where it feels much safer. gavin passed by ross’s house once, and he peered into the open garage and found a group of adults sitting in a circle, drinking bottles of beer while ross was standing on a chair in the middle, and he watched as the adults attempted to throw bottle after glass bottle at him. grant tells me over breakfast that ross’s parents have been told by the police that if they don’t pick up their act, ross and his sister will find another home. gavin chips in, telling me about the time when ross had a hundred dollars and his mom took it and spent it all on beer and cigarettes. gavin and grant both tell me that ross is crazy and not worth playing with. all the kids on the block say so, they tell me.
today on the way home from a meeting for a club dedicated to helping little kids one by one, my insides turned red and i wanted to yell at myself. i didn’t want to help ross because i didn’t want to appear nosy, but i wanted to help kids whom i didn’t know if i could help or not in faraway china because this club needed more activities to do. i didn’t know how to help ross out, but i had about as much knowledge regarding chinese youth and how to improve the conditions of their life. i got even more pissed. everyone feels like this at one point in his/her life, i muttered to myself, and it doesn’t make a difference whether you do or not. pick your ass up and do something, they can’t wait. it’s not going to matter whether you care or not; no one will know.
ross won’t know. he won’t care. it won’t matter. he’ll continue to punch a few faces when their corresponding bodies ride their bikes, he’ll continue to chase a dog that won’t come back, he’ll continue to live with his mom and dad who don’t seem to have quite grown up themselves just yet. won’t he?
those soft green eyes will always be there to greet me in the mornings. won’t they?
every morning when i go downstairs to find some breakfast, i glance towards the window facing the street and see two soft green eyes smushed against the glass and a smile indicating hope that gavin will come out and play. every morning, i try to look away, but it’s always too late – ross catches my gaze and starts screaming, “can gavin come play? can grant come play? please please please please please!” i ignore him, because i don’t know what to do, and i grab a bagel and run back upstairs. every morning.
gavin tells me on the way home from school that ross and his family is crazy. ross had a dog, a small black chihuahua, but it ran away. it still lives around the neighborhood, but every time ross tries to catch it, it takes its bony behind and runs even faster to somewhere where it feels much safer. gavin passed by ross’s house once, and he peered into the open garage and found a group of adults sitting in a circle, drinking bottles of beer while ross was standing on a chair in the middle, and he watched as the adults attempted to throw bottle after glass bottle at him. grant tells me over breakfast that ross’s parents have been told by the police that if they don’t pick up their act, ross and his sister will find another home. gavin chips in, telling me about the time when ross had a hundred dollars and his mom took it and spent it all on beer and cigarettes. gavin and grant both tell me that ross is crazy and not worth playing with. all the kids on the block say so, they tell me.
today on the way home from a meeting for a club dedicated to helping little kids one by one, my insides turned red and i wanted to yell at myself. i didn’t want to help ross because i didn’t want to appear nosy, but i wanted to help kids whom i didn’t know if i could help or not in faraway china because this club needed more activities to do. i didn’t know how to help ross out, but i had about as much knowledge regarding chinese youth and how to improve the conditions of their life. i got even more pissed. everyone feels like this at one point in his/her life, i muttered to myself, and it doesn’t make a difference whether you do or not. pick your ass up and do something, they can’t wait. it’s not going to matter whether you care or not; no one will know.
ross won’t know. he won’t care. it won’t matter. he’ll continue to punch a few faces when their corresponding bodies ride their bikes, he’ll continue to chase a dog that won’t come back, he’ll continue to live with his mom and dad who don’t seem to have quite grown up themselves just yet. won’t he?
those soft green eyes will always be there to greet me in the mornings. won’t they?
19 August 2010
I should've filed this under 'Satire'
Look, people tell me I’m high-maintenance, but that’s really not the case. When it comes down to it, the only two things I want out of life are a career in something English-related and at least ten hours of sleep a night. You young little boys and gurlz of today’s generation have what, twenty million things on your wishlist? You’re asking for an iPhone here, a webcam there, and oh! maybe a pair of Nudies (or was it True Religions?) somewhere, and you’re telling me that I’m asking for too much? C’mon now, let’s get real. An iPhone is a only a debit card away, but to pursue a career in English, now that’s something only a true student could go for. And what’s more, only the truest of brave students would be able to come up with reasons why (s)he’d be so determined to spend his/her life on something all Asian parents of the Bay Area tell her is a waste of time. So, Moms and Dads, Mamas and Babas, Ummas and Appas and anyone else whom I’ve forgotten, this one is for you.
Dear parents, I am writing this letter to inform you that a child, Gloria M. Lin, would like to pursue a career in a field which none of you seem to give a crap about. Your extent of passion for this field goes about as far as making sure that your own children breeze by all related classes with an A, and…well, that’s about it. Most of you have told Miss Lin to her face that she’ll be teaching little kids where to put their commas and semi-colons in grammatically awkward phrases and reciting “i before e except after c” to ESL students for the rest of her life. Thanks for your input, but I would have to disagree. Without children like Gloria here, we’d all be labeling certain human body parts as “tung” and “yeer” and of course, the almighty “filltrum” in your physiology classes. Without English experts (in training!), no one would be around to decipher the Scarlet Letter for you or tell you that there’s a deeper meaning to be found in Lord of the Flies – not that either (or any) of these books would be around in the first place, but then what would you be doing when your parents ground you from all forms of technology? SAT class homework? God, no! You’d read a book, and without the assistance of dear Mr. Kindle, thank you very much!
See here, English is important to me because it allows me to think and express those thoughts to everyone around me. Nearly seven billion people inhabit this planet, and I’m willing to bet that at least a couple million know of or are fluent in English. I swear if you’d give me some more goshdarn time, I’d be able to pull out a few statistics for you and show you just how powerful this language is, but you’re so busy telling your kids off for getting an 89% on a Calculus test that I really don’t know how I’m supposed to interrupt you and tell you that the missing 11% may have come from a lack of skill in reading comprehension. Calc is difficult, I know, and physicists make more than $100,000 a year (compared to the measly $30,000 I’ll earn if I’m lucky), but a scientist familiar only with the official language of Yugoslavia will be carrying nothing but air in his wallets if he’s trying to make a living in the US of A with his knowledge.
You’re probably all extremely busy trying to figure out why your eldest son didn’t get into Harvard, and how your other kid can learn from that mistake, so I’ll sum this up nice and fast. Mom and Dad, money doesn’t matter to me, and neither does glamour. I’d rather teach a couple of kids to read and have them only remember me as the “lady who taught me how to read” than find the cure for cancer, because what good does a life-saving theory do if no one can read the directions? Someone’s gotta be the one to teach you how to earn a million bucks from a textbook before you go out and attempt to blindly stick a finger into a bottle of Hydrochloric acid. There is a use for us potential English majors, and though you take us for granted, you know we affect everyone’s lives. C’mon, just admit it now. You know you want to.
With all due respect,
Gloria M. Lin
Writer, Academic Failure, and Sleeping Extraordinaire
Dear parents, I am writing this letter to inform you that a child, Gloria M. Lin, would like to pursue a career in a field which none of you seem to give a crap about. Your extent of passion for this field goes about as far as making sure that your own children breeze by all related classes with an A, and…well, that’s about it. Most of you have told Miss Lin to her face that she’ll be teaching little kids where to put their commas and semi-colons in grammatically awkward phrases and reciting “i before e except after c” to ESL students for the rest of her life. Thanks for your input, but I would have to disagree. Without children like Gloria here, we’d all be labeling certain human body parts as “tung” and “yeer” and of course, the almighty “filltrum” in your physiology classes. Without English experts (in training!), no one would be around to decipher the Scarlet Letter for you or tell you that there’s a deeper meaning to be found in Lord of the Flies – not that either (or any) of these books would be around in the first place, but then what would you be doing when your parents ground you from all forms of technology? SAT class homework? God, no! You’d read a book, and without the assistance of dear Mr. Kindle, thank you very much!
See here, English is important to me because it allows me to think and express those thoughts to everyone around me. Nearly seven billion people inhabit this planet, and I’m willing to bet that at least a couple million know of or are fluent in English. I swear if you’d give me some more goshdarn time, I’d be able to pull out a few statistics for you and show you just how powerful this language is, but you’re so busy telling your kids off for getting an 89% on a Calculus test that I really don’t know how I’m supposed to interrupt you and tell you that the missing 11% may have come from a lack of skill in reading comprehension. Calc is difficult, I know, and physicists make more than $100,000 a year (compared to the measly $30,000 I’ll earn if I’m lucky), but a scientist familiar only with the official language of Yugoslavia will be carrying nothing but air in his wallets if he’s trying to make a living in the US of A with his knowledge.
You’re probably all extremely busy trying to figure out why your eldest son didn’t get into Harvard, and how your other kid can learn from that mistake, so I’ll sum this up nice and fast. Mom and Dad, money doesn’t matter to me, and neither does glamour. I’d rather teach a couple of kids to read and have them only remember me as the “lady who taught me how to read” than find the cure for cancer, because what good does a life-saving theory do if no one can read the directions? Someone’s gotta be the one to teach you how to earn a million bucks from a textbook before you go out and attempt to blindly stick a finger into a bottle of Hydrochloric acid. There is a use for us potential English majors, and though you take us for granted, you know we affect everyone’s lives. C’mon, just admit it now. You know you want to.
With all due respect,
Gloria M. Lin
Writer, Academic Failure, and Sleeping Extraordinaire
meet my surrogate grandmother. she’s not really a grandmother so much as an old lady friend of mine, but when my parents first came to america she was the one who taught them english and helped them learn how to survive in a country where they didn’t have a penny in their pockets to spend. in an act of gratitude, my mom raised me and my brothers all up to refer to her as “grandma,” which we think of her as to this day. grandma was my santa claus during my childhood; my family has never been big on giving presents but she faithfully fed-exed a package to us every christmas. most of the time, what she gave us was for children much younger than we were – for christmas last year, i remember finding a “barbie in china” waiting at my doorstep when i got home. i’ve never really minded, since overall it’s the thought that counts.
grandma sends me emails every week regarding things she finds interesting. because of her, i know what it’s like to live through a western rhode island winter; i hear about aurora borealises (sp?) from fifteen years back; i always have a story about her sister’s journalism days to read when i log onto the computer. this week, she sent me photos from my birth so that i’d know she was there then too. despite the fact that she’s been doing teaching and volunteer work in various countries, she’s always found the time to send me a quick little something or two. she’s 80+, her son is spending the first half of his adulthood in an alcohol rehabilitation center, she’s probably much busier than i the stressed out high school student am, and yet she always makes sure to let me know that she has time for me, whom she hasn’t seen since i was two.
i don’t think i’ve responded to a single email in over a year now. i’m not sure why.
05 August 2010
A bit of family history
When I first started this blog, I did it with the intention of having this place be a blog where I could write about all the shit that ran through my mind. I have this thing about not trusting anyone, not because I’m cynical and I think everyone I pour my soul out to is going to run up behind me and stab me in the back, but because I’ve always had a problem with admitting to my feelings. I often catch myself putting at least part of the blame for this characteristic on my childhood, because I grew up with a mother who wasn’t diagnosed with bipolar disorder and depression/anxiety until I was in my teens and so she often expressed her feelings through domestic violence and all that shit (being the oldest in my family, I was often the victim of all of this emotional expression, but that’s not the point), but obviously the blame eventually comes down to me and how I reacted to my life. I didn’t want my mom to see me cry, I didn’t want her to see me react to what she was doing, because then she’d get even angrier and react from that… but I did have the choice to react in a different manner. As a result (well, if you’re into that “there’s a meaning behind this and a reason behind that!!” psychobabble bullshit. I’d like to think I’m not but one can never be completely invulnerable), I grew up with this thing about suppressing my feelings and not wanting to admit to feeling anything but happy, which is still true today. I like to avoid pain and hardship as much as I can, and so I often find myself quitting or taking new routes just to take the easy (aka the foolish) way out. I see this in action when (WARNING: over dramatic analyses follow) I find myself quitting and restarting a game of Hearts after receiving the Queen of Spades, and I see this when I wait until the morning of to study for a Chemistry test even though I’m failing that class, simply because I don’t want to study and I’m lazy and unmotivated as fuck. I avoid hardships, and tell myself that all is fine and dandy because – well, isn’t it?
I’m getting off-topic. Basically, I’m avoiding responsibility and putting all the blame on my mother for who I am, which really isn’t fair at all. That’s the tl;dr of the previous paragraph; now that we’ve established that, let’s get to what this paragraph is supposed to be about. I wanted this blog to be a place where I could let go of all that I’ve been hiding – in a way, I wanted this blog to be yet another “this is my life, I’m fucking complicated and special and I have secrets~~~~ so don’t judge because you should get to know me, you won’t regret it!!1!!” I suppose.
But when I get down to the basics, I really am not complicated. Life isn’t complicated. I am me, I am a California teenager and I like to keep things simple and happy and sad feelings will eventually go away – right? I thought I’d be able to let go of that with a Tumblr the people I knew in real life wouldn’t know about, but of course I was being silly and stupid and wrong. Personalities are personalities – they’re not going to change just because of a silly fucking bullshitty blog. Is bullshitty a word?
This blog was created with the intention of being me, of letting go of all that keeps bothering me because I thought I was fucking complicated~* enough to do so. Obviously, I’m not. And so this blog will continue to be about random matters that run through my mind and out, about things that interest or intrigue me but don’t really make an impact on how I live my life. I’m still going to sound like an overly-confident try-hard who writes with the intention of entertaining, I suppose. But at least I’m not actually an overly-confident try-hard, am I? I’d like to think so.
Writing for the hell of it isn’t too bad. Right?
I’m getting off-topic. Basically, I’m avoiding responsibility and putting all the blame on my mother for who I am, which really isn’t fair at all. That’s the tl;dr of the previous paragraph; now that we’ve established that, let’s get to what this paragraph is supposed to be about. I wanted this blog to be a place where I could let go of all that I’ve been hiding – in a way, I wanted this blog to be yet another “this is my life, I’m fucking complicated and special and I have secrets~~~~ so don’t judge because you should get to know me, you won’t regret it!!1!!” I suppose.
But when I get down to the basics, I really am not complicated. Life isn’t complicated. I am me, I am a California teenager and I like to keep things simple and happy and sad feelings will eventually go away – right? I thought I’d be able to let go of that with a Tumblr the people I knew in real life wouldn’t know about, but of course I was being silly and stupid and wrong. Personalities are personalities – they’re not going to change just because of a silly fucking bullshitty blog. Is bullshitty a word?
This blog was created with the intention of being me, of letting go of all that keeps bothering me because I thought I was fucking complicated~* enough to do so. Obviously, I’m not. And so this blog will continue to be about random matters that run through my mind and out, about things that interest or intrigue me but don’t really make an impact on how I live my life. I’m still going to sound like an overly-confident try-hard who writes with the intention of entertaining, I suppose. But at least I’m not actually an overly-confident try-hard, am I? I’d like to think so.
Writing for the hell of it isn’t too bad. Right?
03 August 2010
On the 2PM Concert
Look, I’ve never given a shit about ridiculous fan fawning over artists of any sort, whether your favorite celebrity is Joseph Gordon Levitt or Jeffree Star or Hyunah or Tupac. I’m a firm believer in the …well, the belief that all people are entitled to their own opinions and should be allowed to think and love and hate as they please. You could’ve told me back in seventh grade when I was obsessed with Olympic speedskaters that Apollo Anton Ohno is an ugly ass motherfucker, I wouldn’t have cared (well, your usage of profanity may have bothered me but your opinion wouldn’t have fazed my love for the guy and his goatee. Mostly the guy.) You could tell me that Sarah Palin is fine as hell and deserves all the love in the world – I wouldn’t have given you so much as a blink (I would’ve barfed instead, but that’s beside the point.) You could say anything, any freaking thing, and I really would probably not bother to give you the time of day. That’s how I operate. You hold on to your opinions, I hold on to mine. Simple as that.
01 August 2010
“Guys are douchebags…they all cheat.”
Girl, I don’t care if your fragile little heart has been broken a thousand times and over, you have no right to say that. There is no way you have met every single man on the face of this planet, thus there is no way you would know this for sure. Maybe I’m being just a little bit stupid because I don’t indulge myself in relationships very often (or ever), but you still have no excuse for creating such a generalization. While many cases have sprung up during which a boy was a playuh and dated fifty young things with long legs (that makes me think of lambs but apparently this is not the case for all so I will go ahead and integrate this cliché into this tirade anyhow), there still are some nice guys scattered around here and there. So don’t belie the male population with your little whines and hisses and tears and bitch fits, please and thank you.
Because really? Accusing all guys of being insolent careless jerks gives them the right to call us ladies overly emotional and weak in return. Sobbing into the telephone while telling your best friend that the bastardly actions of your latest ex is total evidence for every other girl’s Theory of Males (aka guys can’t commit, all sweet girls date the assholes, yadeyadiyada) is only more proof that we just might be what people say we are: weak. And we’re fucking not. Just like how they aren’t what we say they are. You can cry, you can hurt, you can eat a bowl of chocolate chip ice cream while reading GMH (or FML, if you’re into that shit when you’re depressed), but write about how all guys, every. single. fucking. boy., are assholes and you’re pretty much asking for one of those assholes to come your way.
Because really? Accusing all guys of being insolent careless jerks gives them the right to call us ladies overly emotional and weak in return. Sobbing into the telephone while telling your best friend that the bastardly actions of your latest ex is total evidence for every other girl’s Theory of Males (aka guys can’t commit, all sweet girls date the assholes, yadeyadiyada) is only more proof that we just might be what people say we are: weak. And we’re fucking not. Just like how they aren’t what we say they are. You can cry, you can hurt, you can eat a bowl of chocolate chip ice cream while reading GMH (or FML, if you’re into that shit when you’re depressed), but write about how all guys, every. single. fucking. boy., are assholes and you’re pretty much asking for one of those assholes to come your way.
pretentious pile of shit
As first and second generation Asian Americans of the 21st century, we the teenagers of the Bay Area often find ourselves faced with a sort of injustice. This injustice, which is most conspicuous during June and college admissions season, acts much like a sort of dark looming force, a sort of large grey cloud leering at and watching over rejected high school seniors, while frightening insecure little underclassmen living in this socio-economic bubble known as Silicon Valley as they keep tabs on who’s going where. When it comes to colleges, high school students of the Bay Area find that their biggest enemy (and greatest fear) is not a rejection letter from Harvard, but the greedy fingers and glittering eyes of nosy parents who await your arrival at one’s doorstep for the senior pullout and the mindblowing stats of those accepted on College Confidential. So it seems that the main source of pressure we receive from planning our individual futures may be directly derived from those who choose to give us life in the first place. These strange creatures who feed us, shelter us, and give us their undivided care and attention are the same ones who inform us that anything short of Columbia University is worthless. Because of the pressure that they incorporate into our lives, we cry out in frustration, outraged at the fact that we are expected to live up to their seemingly unattainable standards.
But really? Part of the fault lies in ourselves. We feel upset when we are curtly notified that an enrollment at UC Irvine will result in an unsuccessful life, but at the same time, we allow ourselves to believe such misrepresentations. While teenagers such as you and I sit at home, sulking over the fact that we are spending the first eighteen years of our lives at the Ivy League boot camps that we call home, our minds are also giving in to the beliefs arrogantly expressed by our parents. We begin the path of life thinking that all college students are incredible beings whom we will never catch up to in terms of intelligence, and then we somehow find ourselves sauntering through high school, holding the belief that UC Santa Barbara is for failures and those who wish to party hard.
But really? Part of the fault lies in ourselves. We feel upset when we are curtly notified that an enrollment at UC Irvine will result in an unsuccessful life, but at the same time, we allow ourselves to believe such misrepresentations. While teenagers such as you and I sit at home, sulking over the fact that we are spending the first eighteen years of our lives at the Ivy League boot camps that we call home, our minds are also giving in to the beliefs arrogantly expressed by our parents. We begin the path of life thinking that all college students are incredible beings whom we will never catch up to in terms of intelligence, and then we somehow find ourselves sauntering through high school, holding the belief that UC Santa Barbara is for failures and those who wish to party hard.
22 July 2010
This is how I operate.
I don’t know if anyone I follow happens to be sensitive about losing followers, but just in case, I figured that I may as well express in writing when and why I usually press the “Unfollow” button because it’s been on my mind of late and I need to spit it out before I start going to sleep every night thinking “should I unfollow so-and-so because of this-and-this? But…” That would drive me insane. It would also make me look insane, but that’s a different story and I’d rather not make myself look even more strange than I already probably do to you. Thus, this blog entry is for mostly me but maybe you, so I can sort out my thoughts and go to sleep thinking about normal things, like what there is to eat (for tomorrow, not during my sleep, you doofuses.)
21 July 2010
On Stairs and Symbolism
I could tell you about how whenever I’m printing something upstairs I stand halfway at the stairs to see if the printer downstairs will finally listen to my computer, which signifies that I am a hopeful person since the printer never does but I don’t want to let my hopes go up too high because I’m afraid of disappointment or some shit. I could tell you about how I run both upstairs and downstairs which symbolizes the way that I live my life, quickly and without looking back. I could tell you that this easily exhausts me, which shows that I have very little stamina in life and that I don’t go slowly nor steadily, but quickly and without worrying about the future. I could tell you that my brother takes the stairs one by one, carefully, much like how he solves his problems. I could tell you all of this, and more.
But I’m not a profound motherfucker, so I’m not going to bother. The only thing I want to tell you is that I fucking hate my stairs because whenever I run upstairs I trip at the top step because I’m clumsy and that always hurts and I’m always tired when I reach the top which makes me feel like I need to go on a diet that I’d fail anyway. The only thing the stairs mean to me is that I am not fit, godamnit. And considering my laziness, I probably will never be some the second Jillian Michaels. That’s fine by me – I like my 30% MORE! Lays right where they belong, in my stomach. ‘Sall good.
But I’m not a profound motherfucker, so I’m not going to bother. The only thing I want to tell you is that I fucking hate my stairs because whenever I run upstairs I trip at the top step because I’m clumsy and that always hurts and I’m always tired when I reach the top which makes me feel like I need to go on a diet that I’d fail anyway. The only thing the stairs mean to me is that I am not fit, godamnit. And considering my laziness, I probably will never be some the second Jillian Michaels. That’s fine by me – I like my 30% MORE! Lays right where they belong, in my stomach. ‘Sall good.
I’m all for news in every way, shape or form – but an exception of this would have to be kpop news. Wait no, that’s not accurate enough. I fucking hate kpop news, which is irony in its purest form when you consider the fact that this is the girl who is an active writer at not one, but two kpop sites speaking.
bottling up my feelings all the time can’t be healthy…
Therefore, I’m going to try to vent more in an attempt to take care of my sanity. I would apologize for sounding like a whiny little bitch, but then again, who reads this thing anyways? No one, that’s who. Other than the amount of random visits I get from tagging my posts (which I can pretty much count with the fingers on one hand), this blog is mine, mine, mine, all mine! So no worries.
So what’s chippin’ away at Gloria’s sanity today? Nothing like her very own mother, of course. I don’t think I’ve directly addressed my grievances against ma mere since last year, when not only did I sound like a whiny little bitch, but I was one as well. All of my blog entries were basically directed against her, because we did and still do have fights just about every day. I let those arguments get ahold of my emotions, and if you were the type to judge someone based on his or her blogging habits, you would’ve thought that my mother is (I know it sounds awkward but she’s still alive so “is” is grammatically correct! I love studying SAT grammar hehe) basically the Creator of All Evil Known to Mankind or something. Admittedly, she’s not. I hate to admit this because right now I am incredibly annoyed at her (more on this in the next paragraph), but you know what? I need to give credit where credit is due. She cares. She’s excessively nosy, abnormally aggressive, and just plain ridiculous (I’ve noticed that I tend to use that word to address a TON of situations but oh well), but she cares. And I guess I can’t hate her for that, right?
Anyways, today I am extremely irritated with mi madre because of the first thing I mentioned about her: she’s excessively nosy. And when I say nosy, I MEAN nosy. She regularly goes through my room, desk, and backpack to check for things she wouldn’t approve of (i.e. random doodles, less-than-spectacular test scores, etc.), and she’s been known for demanding to see what goes on in my email/Facebook during the past. Can you spell “invasion of privacy?” Well, I guess I’ve been letting my guard down for a while now, ’cause I haven’t really been protecting myself against a privacy attack as much lately since she’s been pretty decent about letting me have my own space (or as decent as she can get.) Today, however, she took a turn for the worse.
While I was checking Facebook for who-knows-what, she silently tiptoed into my room when the door was open and stuck her nose right behind my shoulder. Upset with the fact that I was on Facebook, she began yet another one of her annoying part-lecture, part-yelling, part-whining, wholly-irritating tirades against my doing something that wouldn’t boost up my SAT I score by a million plus twenty-three thousand points. Honestly, I can’t even do my AP assignments without getting lectured about not studying for the SAT; it’s driving me bonkers. I then told her to get out because I can’t stand it when my privacy is invaded; it seriously is one of the few things on Earth that can automatically transform me from Happy/Chill Gloria (at least, I’d like to think so!) to Super Unreasonably Bitchy and Bipolar Gloria (I think I’ll compile a list of this later…hehehe.) She leaves for about 5 minutes and then comes back in the same fashion to snoop on me again. This time, I was on Sparknotes, but unfortunately for me, Sparknotes utilizes a lot of cartoon graphics in its layout, so she automatically assumed that I was “fooling around” again. The true purpose of Sparknotes has been an ongoing argument between the two of us for about a year now; she currently is under the belief that anything with pictures on it is not an educational site, while I constantly try to show her that Sparknotes is about school. Doesn’t work. Anyhow, I got pissed off again and told her to get out and stop being so nosy for about the six millionth time in my life. She stomps out, takes a shower, comes back 15 minutes later, guess who I feel breathing over my shoulder? Repeat this cycle one more time, except I actually bothered to shut and lock my door again. Does this work?
N-O. The woman freaking blasts my poor door open like a beast and is greeted by my tirade about how I freaking need privacy, goshdarnit, and can she get any more annoying? I don’t think so, but knowing her, it’s plausible.
I need to calm down. I’ll feel better tomorrow, I think. I would certainly hope so, as I’ve got quite a day ahead of me.
Gloria out.
So what’s chippin’ away at Gloria’s sanity today? Nothing like her very own mother, of course. I don’t think I’ve directly addressed my grievances against ma mere since last year, when not only did I sound like a whiny little bitch, but I was one as well. All of my blog entries were basically directed against her, because we did and still do have fights just about every day. I let those arguments get ahold of my emotions, and if you were the type to judge someone based on his or her blogging habits, you would’ve thought that my mother is (I know it sounds awkward but she’s still alive so “is” is grammatically correct! I love studying SAT grammar hehe) basically the Creator of All Evil Known to Mankind or something. Admittedly, she’s not. I hate to admit this because right now I am incredibly annoyed at her (more on this in the next paragraph), but you know what? I need to give credit where credit is due. She cares. She’s excessively nosy, abnormally aggressive, and just plain ridiculous (I’ve noticed that I tend to use that word to address a TON of situations but oh well), but she cares. And I guess I can’t hate her for that, right?
Anyways, today I am extremely irritated with mi madre because of the first thing I mentioned about her: she’s excessively nosy. And when I say nosy, I MEAN nosy. She regularly goes through my room, desk, and backpack to check for things she wouldn’t approve of (i.e. random doodles, less-than-spectacular test scores, etc.), and she’s been known for demanding to see what goes on in my email/Facebook during the past. Can you spell “invasion of privacy?” Well, I guess I’ve been letting my guard down for a while now, ’cause I haven’t really been protecting myself against a privacy attack as much lately since she’s been pretty decent about letting me have my own space (or as decent as she can get.) Today, however, she took a turn for the worse.
While I was checking Facebook for who-knows-what, she silently tiptoed into my room when the door was open and stuck her nose right behind my shoulder. Upset with the fact that I was on Facebook, she began yet another one of her annoying part-lecture, part-yelling, part-whining, wholly-irritating tirades against my doing something that wouldn’t boost up my SAT I score by a million plus twenty-three thousand points. Honestly, I can’t even do my AP assignments without getting lectured about not studying for the SAT; it’s driving me bonkers. I then told her to get out because I can’t stand it when my privacy is invaded; it seriously is one of the few things on Earth that can automatically transform me from Happy/Chill Gloria (at least, I’d like to think so!) to Super Unreasonably Bitchy and Bipolar Gloria (I think I’ll compile a list of this later…hehehe.) She leaves for about 5 minutes and then comes back in the same fashion to snoop on me again. This time, I was on Sparknotes, but unfortunately for me, Sparknotes utilizes a lot of cartoon graphics in its layout, so she automatically assumed that I was “fooling around” again. The true purpose of Sparknotes has been an ongoing argument between the two of us for about a year now; she currently is under the belief that anything with pictures on it is not an educational site, while I constantly try to show her that Sparknotes is about school. Doesn’t work. Anyhow, I got pissed off again and told her to get out and stop being so nosy for about the six millionth time in my life. She stomps out, takes a shower, comes back 15 minutes later, guess who I feel breathing over my shoulder? Repeat this cycle one more time, except I actually bothered to shut and lock my door again. Does this work?
N-O. The woman freaking blasts my poor door open like a beast and is greeted by my tirade about how I freaking need privacy, goshdarnit, and can she get any more annoying? I don’t think so, but knowing her, it’s plausible.
I need to calm down. I’ll feel better tomorrow, I think. I would certainly hope so, as I’ve got quite a day ahead of me.
Gloria out.
18 July 2010
dear future, what do you have in store for me?
This is going to sound ridiculous, but one of my dreams is to move to South Korea after a career in journalism in the States and teach English to the thousands of Asians there who seem to be willing to do anything to learn to speak like a real thug chillin’ in da streetz of Brooklyn, yo. This may have something to do with my year-old kpop obsession, in which case I’d have to admit that I’ve let my interests in fob culture go way too far. Therefore, I’d prefer to think that my dream has nothing to do with my undying respect and admiration for Epik High, or my pledge to watch every single video there is of Taeyang performing “I Need a Girl” (LOVE that song!), or the fact that I’d probably be willing to marry a beautiful Korean idol in a heartbeat, even if I didn’t know a thing about him (note: this is an exaggeration, created for the purpose of, well, exaggerating – what else?) Anyhow, a love of the Korean culture can’t be the only thing that drives my determination to teach English, because then I might as well break into a plastic surgery institute and then join the ranks of Korean celebrities who are permitted to shake their butts onstage only because their physical appearances would give them A+’s in beauty school. No, what really makes me want to do would have to do with the following:
1.) I really love English. Seriously, I do. Despite its quirks and rules and stupid little “i before e except after c’s,” I love being able to express my feelings in what appears to be the world’s most popular language. The US of A may be losing its power little by little, but language is much stronger than a nation. No matter how many World Wars break out, people will always need to be able to communicate and English is so widespread that I may as well teach it to those who want to speak the language. Since every other Korean song I listen to nowadays has a bit of English (and in some cases, Engrish) in it, I may as well teach listeners to be able to distinguish between which phrases in their favorite songs make sense (“I’m so sorry but I love you; it’s all a lie”) and which don’t (“number one man scandaling asldkjafslkjdf bling bling.”) Make sense? No? Oh well.
2.) I want to live in an Asian country, but unfortunately for me, the silly Asian girl who refused to go to Chinese school when she was four, I don’t know any Asian languages. I once attempted to teach myself Chinese, and let’s just say that after sitting my butt down for five minutes in an attempt to figure out how to write the characters for “me” and “you” and my very own Chinese name, I gave up. (There goes what could’ve been my success in getting revenge from all the Chinese merchants who scared me into paying them ridiculous clothes last summer – I can’t haggle to save my life, and without a relative to help me out, I usually just pay whatever the seller demands at first – read: 90000000% of the original price, oh fuck my sorry life.) I’d love to learn Japanese, but for some reason the language simply doesn’t appeal to me as much as Chinese and Korean do (this lack of interest applies to Vietnamese, Cantonese, Cambodian, Thai, Filipino, and whatever else I have failed to include. Sorry if this makes me sound racist, but there you go.) I’ve taught myself how to read Korean, which is no large feat, but bit by bit I’ll get better, I think. Hopefully, anyway. I guess I can always study an Asian language in college, no?
3.) After keeping up with my pledge, and watching 5000 performances of ‘I Need a Girl,’ I realized that although each performance is nothing short of H O T, I really don’t like it when the word “girl” is mispronounced as “girrr.” It annoys me, even though I’d probably mangle up “yeoboseyo~” and make it sound like “yuhbuhuhuhbananawhuh?” or something (yes, I’m lame; yes, you can tell me that; no, I won’t care.) At least “girr” sounds something like what’s it’s supposed to, I guess…but still, I’d really like to be able to help someone brush up on his/her pronunciation skills. I think it’d be fun: I could be sitting at a desk next to some girl in dark-rimmed glasses, saying, “BAAAAAAANG! bay-eh-eh-eh-ehng!” while she attempts to emulate my voice. It’d be nice to make a difference in the life of someone who wants to learn something I can teach – though what my parents will say to being forced to deal with the thought that they’ve given birth to a child who won’t be bringing home a salary with at least 5 zero’s trailing behind in annually, I’d prefer not to think about.
Anyhow, I just read over what I’ve written down and I feel even more ridiculous than I did before. I think I’ll stop vomiting words and phrases on the internet before everyone realizes just how silly I really am – why bother to begin this blog with a bunch of “deep, depressing” text entries if I’m just going to ruin the whole effect by talking about a dream that probably isn’t the most realistic thing a human being has come up with? I’ll stop here so I can go back and re-evaluate the English of Korean pop idols and dream about which ones I’d like to teach English to while doing so.
1.) I really love English. Seriously, I do. Despite its quirks and rules and stupid little “i before e except after c’s,” I love being able to express my feelings in what appears to be the world’s most popular language. The US of A may be losing its power little by little, but language is much stronger than a nation. No matter how many World Wars break out, people will always need to be able to communicate and English is so widespread that I may as well teach it to those who want to speak the language. Since every other Korean song I listen to nowadays has a bit of English (and in some cases, Engrish) in it, I may as well teach listeners to be able to distinguish between which phrases in their favorite songs make sense (“I’m so sorry but I love you; it’s all a lie”) and which don’t (“number one man scandaling asldkjafslkjdf bling bling.”) Make sense? No? Oh well.
2.) I want to live in an Asian country, but unfortunately for me, the silly Asian girl who refused to go to Chinese school when she was four, I don’t know any Asian languages. I once attempted to teach myself Chinese, and let’s just say that after sitting my butt down for five minutes in an attempt to figure out how to write the characters for “me” and “you” and my very own Chinese name, I gave up. (There goes what could’ve been my success in getting revenge from all the Chinese merchants who scared me into paying them ridiculous clothes last summer – I can’t haggle to save my life, and without a relative to help me out, I usually just pay whatever the seller demands at first – read: 90000000% of the original price, oh fuck my sorry life.) I’d love to learn Japanese, but for some reason the language simply doesn’t appeal to me as much as Chinese and Korean do (this lack of interest applies to Vietnamese, Cantonese, Cambodian, Thai, Filipino, and whatever else I have failed to include. Sorry if this makes me sound racist, but there you go.) I’ve taught myself how to read Korean, which is no large feat, but bit by bit I’ll get better, I think. Hopefully, anyway. I guess I can always study an Asian language in college, no?
3.) After keeping up with my pledge, and watching 5000 performances of ‘I Need a Girl,’ I realized that although each performance is nothing short of H O T, I really don’t like it when the word “girl” is mispronounced as “girrr.” It annoys me, even though I’d probably mangle up “yeoboseyo~” and make it sound like “yuhbuhuhuhbananawhuh?” or something (yes, I’m lame; yes, you can tell me that; no, I won’t care.) At least “girr” sounds something like what’s it’s supposed to, I guess…but still, I’d really like to be able to help someone brush up on his/her pronunciation skills. I think it’d be fun: I could be sitting at a desk next to some girl in dark-rimmed glasses, saying, “BAAAAAAANG! bay-eh-eh-eh-ehng!” while she attempts to emulate my voice. It’d be nice to make a difference in the life of someone who wants to learn something I can teach – though what my parents will say to being forced to deal with the thought that they’ve given birth to a child who won’t be bringing home a salary with at least 5 zero’s trailing behind in annually, I’d prefer not to think about.
Anyhow, I just read over what I’ve written down and I feel even more ridiculous than I did before. I think I’ll stop vomiting words and phrases on the internet before everyone realizes just how silly I really am – why bother to begin this blog with a bunch of “deep, depressing” text entries if I’m just going to ruin the whole effect by talking about a dream that probably isn’t the most realistic thing a human being has come up with? I’ll stop here so I can go back and re-evaluate the English of Korean pop idols and dream about which ones I’d like to teach English to while doing so.
One day, I swear I’ll die from lack of sleep…
I always seem to have these sudden urges to write right when I’m about to sleep. Ain’t that something? The two activities which I cherish most in this world are constantly at war with each other, and if I give one up, then I always, always regret it. Always. Did I mention always? ‘Cause I meant it. ALWAYS. Sacrifice my sleep, and I end up with terrible headaches and a terrible need to catch up on them zzz’s when I’m supposed to be doing an SAT I practice test. Climb into bed instead of writing out my feelings when I feel inspired, and I lose my thought and feel frustrated when I wake up the morning after. What are you supposed to do when faced with such a dilemma? When I grow up and pursue a career in writing (I’m saying this as a “when” not “if” situation to boost my confidence, though given the amount of control my mother has over my life, we’ll see how that dream turns out, ha!), I’m going to screw myself over if this keeps on happening.
This better just be one of those only-when-you’re-a-teen things that comes with, well, being a teen. You know, like writing god-awful poetry after a break-up and thinking it’s the most beautiful sample of literature created, or thinking that everything that goes wrong in your love life is a direct metaphor symbolizing the end of the world? That type of thing. Maybe not being able to sleep until everyone else is about to wake up is just another one of those things that comes with the supposedly “best years of your life.” I’m going to try to be optimistic and hope that it is, or else a change in my career goals may be in order. Maybe I’ll work night shifts at Popeye’s or something; at least I’d have the proper waking hours instilled in my system to do so. I’ll write in my sleep or something, I don’t know. Knowing me, I’ll figure it out (I’m writing this as a definite possibility to boost my confidence, though given the amount of enthusiasm I have towards this plan, we’ll see how this dream turns out…on second thought, it doesn’t even qualify as one. A dream, I mean. It’s more of a safer alternative than anything else.. though really, rotating racks of fried chicken through an oven doesn’t sound any more secure than waking up at 3AM to write about how the colour of your underwear shows that love is pain does, now that I think about it.)
Let us cease this madness I call writing; I’m tired.
This better just be one of those only-when-you’re-a-teen things that comes with, well, being a teen. You know, like writing god-awful poetry after a break-up and thinking it’s the most beautiful sample of literature created, or thinking that everything that goes wrong in your love life is a direct metaphor symbolizing the end of the world? That type of thing. Maybe not being able to sleep until everyone else is about to wake up is just another one of those things that comes with the supposedly “best years of your life.” I’m going to try to be optimistic and hope that it is, or else a change in my career goals may be in order. Maybe I’ll work night shifts at Popeye’s or something; at least I’d have the proper waking hours instilled in my system to do so. I’ll write in my sleep or something, I don’t know. Knowing me, I’ll figure it out (I’m writing this as a definite possibility to boost my confidence, though given the amount of enthusiasm I have towards this plan, we’ll see how this dream turns out…on second thought, it doesn’t even qualify as one. A dream, I mean. It’s more of a safer alternative than anything else.. though really, rotating racks of fried chicken through an oven doesn’t sound any more secure than waking up at 3AM to write about how the colour of your underwear shows that love is pain does, now that I think about it.)
Let us cease this madness I call writing; I’m tired.
15 July 2010
Listen, Mr. Sun...
I know you probably don’t know what it feels like to be an insignificant little human being living in the middle of nowhere, California, but please try to hear me through. I am sick and tired of your cruelty; if you shine one more eight-minute-old ray in my direction I am afraid that I will sizzle straight into a crisp. It is currently 1 farking 15 AM and I don’t want to do anything except maybe strip naked and jump into a freezing pool…too bad the only thing I can jump into around here is a strip of concrete (though I suppose when it comes to concrete, you jump onto, not into it. Oh well, the middle of the night isn’t the time for a lesson in grammar anyhow.) And the thought of traumatizing my family with finding a naked Oriental girl in their backyard who on closer inspection appears to be their daughter/sister/fellow family member simply doesn’t appeal to me at the moment…
On second thought, Mr. Sun, you aren’t even out. wtf. You know there’s something wrong with the world when your screen door is open, it’s pitch black outside, and you’re burning up more than a jonas brother can and ever will be able to. Fuq kew “california gurlz,” you’re not the ones who are unforgettable. It’s the weather that is, it’s always the freaking weather.
On second thought, Mr. Sun, you aren’t even out. wtf. You know there’s something wrong with the world when your screen door is open, it’s pitch black outside, and you’re burning up more than a jonas brother can and ever will be able to. Fuq kew “california gurlz,” you’re not the ones who are unforgettable. It’s the weather that is, it’s always the freaking weather.
08 July 2010
a bit on blogging
I didn’t start blogging in hopes of having others read what I wrote, at least not intentionally.
When I first signed up for a pathetic little Xanga back in sixth grade, it was because quite a few of my friends – and some other peers of mine whom I hoped to befriend – had them as well. Basically, my brain put two and two together and decided that getting a blog was the cool thing to do. I distinctly remember being quite proud of my customized backgrounds (totally not stolen off of photobucket, of course) and obnoxious proclamations of a love for Hollister (never mind the fact that my body had never been embellished with any fabric seagulls, dated 1922 or otherwise.) Ah, the days of forwarding chain letter after stupid chain letter to get the word out about my blog (because wouldn’t you know it, my email siggy was a link to the aforementioned Xanga) seem so near now that I reminisce. In my naive little sixth grade mind, I was gradually shifting from just writing about my uneventful days to a faithful follower group of oh, about two or three, to achieving a status of fame! I’d be the next Kevin Sites before your very eyes. To put it simply, I did write while thinking that I had an audience to cater to. I may not have realized it nor allowed it to cross my mind, but blogging served a purpose for me, and that purpose was not just to express. I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I blogged to impress, not to express.
Five years later, I find myself sitting here, and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I know I like to write, and I realize that writing is much more than an author’s method of putting up a show. However, in the back of my mind, I do believe that the art of forming inspirational phrases across the web whilst knowing that you have readers does have a nice feel to it. I honestly don’t think that i’m the only one who finds this to be exciting, either. Doesn’t it feel nice to have followers? Does your heart rate not quicken, at least a little bit, when you find that someone across the planet has pressed upon that unremarkable grey heart on the corner of your blog entry to leave a red one in its place? Or how about feedback, doesn’t your personal blog feel that much more meaningful when a 27-year-old college professor from a village below the Southern Hemisphere that you’ve never heard of and wouldn’t be able to locate on a map if you tried takes a bit of time out of his busy day to comment on your writing? Does it not feel good to realize that others love and appreciate your writing or photography as much as you enjoy producing it?
I probably sound stupid, or deranged, or perhaps a fair amount of both right now, and I realize it. I willingly admit that I am a lot more consumed with caring about what others think than I’d like to be, but aren’t we all? There’s no way in tarnation one can honestly proclaim that it’s easy to pretend that there are no lingering eyes waiting to read what you’ve written when you publish yourself on the internet. Of course, if you can, then I would like to present you with all the respect and honor my puny heart can possibly muster. And with even more respect (though I suppose that that wouldn’t be possible since I just sacrificed all of it), I ask that you teach me your ways. I simply can’t understand nor manage to master them; when you know that you have people watching what you produce, how do you push that knowledge out of your mind? After reaching and starting upon my sixth year of blogging, I have yet to unravel this mystery.
And although I do try and do a bit of both, sometimes I find that I still blog to impress, not express… such a fact really does sadden me.
When I first signed up for a pathetic little Xanga back in sixth grade, it was because quite a few of my friends – and some other peers of mine whom I hoped to befriend – had them as well. Basically, my brain put two and two together and decided that getting a blog was the cool thing to do. I distinctly remember being quite proud of my customized backgrounds (totally not stolen off of photobucket, of course) and obnoxious proclamations of a love for Hollister (never mind the fact that my body had never been embellished with any fabric seagulls, dated 1922 or otherwise.) Ah, the days of forwarding chain letter after stupid chain letter to get the word out about my blog (because wouldn’t you know it, my email siggy was a link to the aforementioned Xanga) seem so near now that I reminisce. In my naive little sixth grade mind, I was gradually shifting from just writing about my uneventful days to a faithful follower group of oh, about two or three, to achieving a status of fame! I’d be the next Kevin Sites before your very eyes. To put it simply, I did write while thinking that I had an audience to cater to. I may not have realized it nor allowed it to cross my mind, but blogging served a purpose for me, and that purpose was not just to express. I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I blogged to impress, not to express.
Five years later, I find myself sitting here, and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I know I like to write, and I realize that writing is much more than an author’s method of putting up a show. However, in the back of my mind, I do believe that the art of forming inspirational phrases across the web whilst knowing that you have readers does have a nice feel to it. I honestly don’t think that i’m the only one who finds this to be exciting, either. Doesn’t it feel nice to have followers? Does your heart rate not quicken, at least a little bit, when you find that someone across the planet has pressed upon that unremarkable grey heart on the corner of your blog entry to leave a red one in its place? Or how about feedback, doesn’t your personal blog feel that much more meaningful when a 27-year-old college professor from a village below the Southern Hemisphere that you’ve never heard of and wouldn’t be able to locate on a map if you tried takes a bit of time out of his busy day to comment on your writing? Does it not feel good to realize that others love and appreciate your writing or photography as much as you enjoy producing it?
I probably sound stupid, or deranged, or perhaps a fair amount of both right now, and I realize it. I willingly admit that I am a lot more consumed with caring about what others think than I’d like to be, but aren’t we all? There’s no way in tarnation one can honestly proclaim that it’s easy to pretend that there are no lingering eyes waiting to read what you’ve written when you publish yourself on the internet. Of course, if you can, then I would like to present you with all the respect and honor my puny heart can possibly muster. And with even more respect (though I suppose that that wouldn’t be possible since I just sacrificed all of it), I ask that you teach me your ways. I simply can’t understand nor manage to master them; when you know that you have people watching what you produce, how do you push that knowledge out of your mind? After reaching and starting upon my sixth year of blogging, I have yet to unravel this mystery.
And although I do try and do a bit of both, sometimes I find that I still blog to impress, not express… such a fact really does sadden me.
on ambiguity
If there’s anything I’ve learned from my six-or-so years of blogging, it’s this: people like ambiguity. They enjoy the protection that being vague gives them, and their reasoning behind this partiality isn’t something to scoff at, either. Even though the internet is scary and big and crazy, it’s still a small world, and you just don’t want people sticking their noses in your business, I guess. Still, sometimes I still marvel at the extent of this desire to be ambiguous; are you shielding a secret here, or do you just want to sound deep? When I log into Tumblr (or WordPress, or Xanga, or whichever site I happen to be blogging on at the moment) and see something among the lines of “You gave me so much pain and I couldn’t stand it,” I can’t help but wonder if you’re talking about your most recent ex-boyfriend who cheated on you or if you’re actually referring to the amount of trouble it took for you to relieve yourself on the toilet the other day. Granted, I really don’t want to know: if there’s anything I wish to avoid, it’s engaging myself in awkward conversation (and I mean this for both scenarios: there’s not much I can do about an ex except maybe apologize for his wrongdoings, and I can’t exactly ring your doorbell with a laxative in hand without embarrassing the both of us, now can I?) Really, now that I think about it, it’s all very silly. We create blogs with the intention of having others read it (c’mon now, if you really wanted it to be private, you could just type things up on Microsoft Word and glue them in a lockable diary), and then we shield away most of what we want to blabber on and on about for the simple reason that we just don’t want others to read it. When I stop and think about it, that simply doesn’t make sense.
I should probably take the time to say that I’m not asking any of you to relay a play-by-play account of your life stories to everyone on Tumblr at this point in my blog entry. Before you start clicking the “Ask” link under my icon to angrily express your feelings of disagreement, do try to hear me out. What I’m trying to do here isn’t inspire everyone to start writing about every single detail that happened to them which made them feel so terrible – I’m just stating an observation. Even I am guilty of writing a few entries on past blogs about how this-and-that made me fall in love harder when he had hurt me so much (though now that I think about it, nothing was even happening…ah, the joys of false infatuation.) The main point of this passage, if you’re still reading this, is just to state an observation. Oh, and pose a question to y’all: why do you do it? Why do we bother to create such vague reflections upon our lives? Does it really make you feel better… because to be honest, if something was bothering me that much, I really don’t think that a few words would do the trick. I’d still feel pretty damn terrible about the situation – unless, of course, the point of your blog entry was not to relieve yourself of your pain, but to allow your readers the chance to connect to what you’re feeling (but only because your words were spread so thin.)
Now that I think about it though, I guess I’m going to have to disprove my own theory… admittedly, if I happened to be experiencing trouble with my bathroom escapades, I too would probably try to make it sound much more serious (and by serious, I don’t mean constipation) – but then again, who writes about the amount of time it took for you to take a shit anyhow?
I should probably take the time to say that I’m not asking any of you to relay a play-by-play account of your life stories to everyone on Tumblr at this point in my blog entry. Before you start clicking the “Ask” link under my icon to angrily express your feelings of disagreement, do try to hear me out. What I’m trying to do here isn’t inspire everyone to start writing about every single detail that happened to them which made them feel so terrible – I’m just stating an observation. Even I am guilty of writing a few entries on past blogs about how this-and-that made me fall in love harder when he had hurt me so much (though now that I think about it, nothing was even happening…ah, the joys of false infatuation.) The main point of this passage, if you’re still reading this, is just to state an observation. Oh, and pose a question to y’all: why do you do it? Why do we bother to create such vague reflections upon our lives? Does it really make you feel better… because to be honest, if something was bothering me that much, I really don’t think that a few words would do the trick. I’d still feel pretty damn terrible about the situation – unless, of course, the point of your blog entry was not to relieve yourself of your pain, but to allow your readers the chance to connect to what you’re feeling (but only because your words were spread so thin.)
Now that I think about it though, I guess I’m going to have to disprove my own theory… admittedly, if I happened to be experiencing trouble with my bathroom escapades, I too would probably try to make it sound much more serious (and by serious, I don’t mean constipation) – but then again, who writes about the amount of time it took for you to take a shit anyhow?
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