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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?