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.
30 August 2010
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.
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