Having committed an offense, crime, violation, or wrong.
I can't help it. I like Paris Hilton's "Nothing In This World". I think Nelly is one of the greatest artists of all time. The fact that "Lindsay Lohan" was one of the answers to the online College Jeopardy qualifier makes me feel giddy.
I'm a product of pop culture. But there are worse things than that in life. Like being a meth addict. Or being gay and afraid to show it, so you hide behind a shady organization called Scientology. Or getting implants only to take them out a year later cause everyone is ridiculing you.
Tease me about my poor taste all you want. I don't think I should be ashamed of this anymore.
(By the way, the answers were: Fergie, Tom Cruise and Tara Reid.)
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
pre·ma·ture
Happening before the proper, usual, or intended time.
My mother is trying to set me up with a Stony Brook senior.
Being a strict Catholic would make being single a lot easier, by the way.
"He's 183 cm!" She also tried to woo me to him with his stellar SAT scores. And his stunning good looks. Of course she's never seen the kid.
"What's his name?" - thinking I could Facebook him.
"I don't know, but he got 1560 on his SATs!"
I have no idea if his mother's doing the same to him. But I can't imagine what possible material she could have. If she's also trying to wow him with numbers, how about, "She's had White Manna for lunch 5 days in a row!"
I won't tell you how many I have at a time because that's just gross.
My mother is trying to set me up with a Stony Brook senior.
Being a strict Catholic would make being single a lot easier, by the way.
"He's 183 cm!" She also tried to woo me to him with his stellar SAT scores. And his stunning good looks. Of course she's never seen the kid.
"What's his name?" - thinking I could Facebook him.
"I don't know, but he got 1560 on his SATs!"
I have no idea if his mother's doing the same to him. But I can't imagine what possible material she could have. If she's also trying to wow him with numbers, how about, "She's had White Manna for lunch 5 days in a row!"
I won't tell you how many I have at a time because that's just gross.
Friday, September 22, 2006
per·cep·tive
Having or showing keenness of insight, understanding, or intuition.
(This counts because sometimes the best way to show what something is is to show what it is not... or some other combination of those words...)
At my dad's hospital, there are exactly 2 types of nurses: cute blondies and all the others. I'm personally in love with one named Sandy. I've also noticed that the blondies all have names that end in "ee" - Sandy, Kelly, Tori. I love it. But anyways, the rest of them are aite. Some of them are very strange.
Like the big black girl who doesn't like things to touch her back. She was adjusting the IV lines when she aggressively pulled back the curtain, muttering, "I don't like things on my back. I don't know why. I just hate it. Nothing on my back." These curtains, mind you, are pretty much the only source of privacy we get in the hospital. Pull them back and we're 2 feet from the guy in the next bed.
And over in the Intermediate wing (that's a step below the ICU), they don't have too many singles, so unless you literally have shit oozing out of your body, you will be sharing your space. My dad's been next to a psycho who kept banging on the furniture to get the nurses' attention all day and all night. He's been next to a Muslim man who had the entire Muslim community come visit him at 11 P.M. I had to walk over and tell them to shut up at 11:30 because they were talking SO LOUDLY.
But what I'd really like to pull your attention to is my dad's roommate from Tuesday. This man was brought up in the evening and left on the Bipap, a machine that pretty much breathes for you. The nurses whispered that he wouldn't make it and telephoned his family. They all piled in at 10. With his wife and kids by his side, he was responsive and alert. He asked for ice chips and blankets. I breathed out a sigh of relief - he was going to make it. Or so I thought.
At 4 A.M., a nurse came and woke me up, telling me that they would have to move my dad because his roommate needed to be in isolation. "I'll be back in an hour."
At 5 A.M., she wasn't back.
At 6 A.M., I woke up to hear my dad arguing with her. He didn't want to move. She was forced to tell him that the patient next to him needed a single that couldn't be provided for him. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but he has an infection with open wounds all over his body." I told her that we would cooperate.
At 7:30 A.M., I woke up from my sleep. Breakfast had come. After waiting a few minutes, I scurried out to the nurses' station and asked when we would be moved. Cause we don't want to start eating if we're gonna be moved soon. I gathered a few funny looks from the nurses. One of the nurses who has always been on the awkward side said, "Oh, he died so you don't have to move."
He had expired at 7 A.M. The curtains had been drawn, his family (that had stayed overnight) had vacated the room and the loud Bipap had been shut off. We had unknowingly been lying next to a dead man for almost an hour without knowing it.
And because of some confusion with the funeral home, he was lying there until noon. Which means, we were there with his corpse for 5 hours. Gross.
This is already a too-long entry, but what the heck. I've got another one for you. More "perceptive."
Apparently, my dad's restaurant was reviewed by the NYT on the 20th. We, of course, found out through the Korean newspaper on the 21st. Here's the rave review.
(This counts because sometimes the best way to show what something is is to show what it is not... or some other combination of those words...)
At my dad's hospital, there are exactly 2 types of nurses: cute blondies and all the others. I'm personally in love with one named Sandy. I've also noticed that the blondies all have names that end in "ee" - Sandy, Kelly, Tori. I love it. But anyways, the rest of them are aite. Some of them are very strange.
Like the big black girl who doesn't like things to touch her back. She was adjusting the IV lines when she aggressively pulled back the curtain, muttering, "I don't like things on my back. I don't know why. I just hate it. Nothing on my back." These curtains, mind you, are pretty much the only source of privacy we get in the hospital. Pull them back and we're 2 feet from the guy in the next bed.
And over in the Intermediate wing (that's a step below the ICU), they don't have too many singles, so unless you literally have shit oozing out of your body, you will be sharing your space. My dad's been next to a psycho who kept banging on the furniture to get the nurses' attention all day and all night. He's been next to a Muslim man who had the entire Muslim community come visit him at 11 P.M. I had to walk over and tell them to shut up at 11:30 because they were talking SO LOUDLY.
But what I'd really like to pull your attention to is my dad's roommate from Tuesday. This man was brought up in the evening and left on the Bipap, a machine that pretty much breathes for you. The nurses whispered that he wouldn't make it and telephoned his family. They all piled in at 10. With his wife and kids by his side, he was responsive and alert. He asked for ice chips and blankets. I breathed out a sigh of relief - he was going to make it. Or so I thought.
At 4 A.M., a nurse came and woke me up, telling me that they would have to move my dad because his roommate needed to be in isolation. "I'll be back in an hour."
At 5 A.M., she wasn't back.
At 6 A.M., I woke up to hear my dad arguing with her. He didn't want to move. She was forced to tell him that the patient next to him needed a single that couldn't be provided for him. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but he has an infection with open wounds all over his body." I told her that we would cooperate.
At 7:30 A.M., I woke up from my sleep. Breakfast had come. After waiting a few minutes, I scurried out to the nurses' station and asked when we would be moved. Cause we don't want to start eating if we're gonna be moved soon. I gathered a few funny looks from the nurses. One of the nurses who has always been on the awkward side said, "Oh, he died so you don't have to move."
He had expired at 7 A.M. The curtains had been drawn, his family (that had stayed overnight) had vacated the room and the loud Bipap had been shut off. We had unknowingly been lying next to a dead man for almost an hour without knowing it.
And because of some confusion with the funeral home, he was lying there until noon. Which means, we were there with his corpse for 5 hours. Gross.
This is already a too-long entry, but what the heck. I've got another one for you. More "perceptive."
Apparently, my dad's restaurant was reviewed by the NYT on the 20th. We, of course, found out through the Korean newspaper on the 21st. Here's the rave review.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
sha·man
A person who acts as intermediary between the natural and supernatural worlds.
There is currently a Korean game show similar to the late To Tell the Truth called The Truth Game. My mom, my brother and I like to watch episodes during dinner.
Some of our favorites have been: "Who is not a real girl?", "Who is the real transexual?" and "Who is the real child?" (out of a group of youthful-looking thirtysomething-year-olds).
While there may be some argument over what the best one was, the BS-est one was, without a doubt, "Who is not a real shaman?" Which meant that, on stage, there were 6 real shamans and 1 fake. I mean, why not have an episode on "Who is the fake Santa Claus?"
But I accepted it. It's minor culture shock, but my mother seemed to swallow it just fine, so I tried my best to do so, as well. So what if Koreans accept the existence of shamans? Let them believe what they want.
The "shamans" are introduced. Each is unique; one is especially good at advising on relationships, while another is still in high school. One male is rocking a tight pink shirt and fashionable jeans. My Gaydar is going off big time - if this were Real World, we'd all be pointing and saying, "He's the gay one."
The celebrity panel is allowed to ask the contestants some questions. His effeminate nature is brought up in the first few minutes. Easy explanation: the soul that he communicates with is female. That's why he started taking care of his eyebrows and lipglossing his pretty puckers. When did he first have contact with the female soul? Around 8 or 9. (As in the age wee ones start getting curious.)
So by his monologue, I've been convinced that this man is undoubtedly gay and my mother (and the majority of the in-studio audience) has been convinced that this man is undoubtedly a shaman. In the end, he was announced as a "real shaman." (My mom: I knew it!)
Strange - how the Korean culture so readily accepts shamanship over homosexuality.
There is currently a Korean game show similar to the late To Tell the Truth called The Truth Game. My mom, my brother and I like to watch episodes during dinner.
Some of our favorites have been: "Who is not a real girl?", "Who is the real transexual?" and "Who is the real child?" (out of a group of youthful-looking thirtysomething-year-olds).
While there may be some argument over what the best one was, the BS-est one was, without a doubt, "Who is not a real shaman?" Which meant that, on stage, there were 6 real shamans and 1 fake. I mean, why not have an episode on "Who is the fake Santa Claus?"
But I accepted it. It's minor culture shock, but my mother seemed to swallow it just fine, so I tried my best to do so, as well. So what if Koreans accept the existence of shamans? Let them believe what they want.
The "shamans" are introduced. Each is unique; one is especially good at advising on relationships, while another is still in high school. One male is rocking a tight pink shirt and fashionable jeans. My Gaydar is going off big time - if this were Real World, we'd all be pointing and saying, "He's the gay one."
The celebrity panel is allowed to ask the contestants some questions. His effeminate nature is brought up in the first few minutes. Easy explanation: the soul that he communicates with is female. That's why he started taking care of his eyebrows and lipglossing his pretty puckers. When did he first have contact with the female soul? Around 8 or 9. (As in the age wee ones start getting curious.)
So by his monologue, I've been convinced that this man is undoubtedly gay and my mother (and the majority of the in-studio audience) has been convinced that this man is undoubtedly a shaman. In the end, he was announced as a "real shaman." (My mom: I knew it!)
Strange - how the Korean culture so readily accepts shamanship over homosexuality.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
de·sul·to·ry
Digressing from or unconnected with the main subject.
I make nice with everyone at the hospital. You get to meet some real characters there. Once my dad was waiting to get his CAT scan done and the lady next to us was there for her boyfriend who had hit himself in the forehead with his own golf ball at the Bogota range. Physics majors, figure that one out.
Back to today's story. A few days ago, my dad was moved into a new room because his old roommate had a ventilator machine that was beeping like crazy and driving him bananas. I got friendly with the patient's wife the next day. Shortly after our conversation, I heard this through the grapevine/divider curtain.
Woman: You want me to get you some of that pizza from the cafeteria? The girl recommended it to me.
Man: What girl?
Woman: The girl with the father in the other bed.
Man: She recommends it? But she's Chinese.
Woman: She's not Chinese.
Man: What toppings? General Tso's chicken?
Woman: Don't speak like that, she's not even Chinese. She's Korean.
Man: Is there Korean pizza?
Me (yelling, but not loud enough to be heard, apparently): Yeah!
Woman: She's young, and young people like pizza.
Me (same volume and enthusiasm level as before): I love pizza!
It took me a while to realize that I had just had my first encounter with "racism." The guy's really sweet. We've chatted. He means well. So what's the right word for this?
Anyways, the reason it took me a while was that I had to get the thought of General Tso's pizza out of my head. Doesn't it sound divine? Delicious, I bet.
I make nice with everyone at the hospital. You get to meet some real characters there. Once my dad was waiting to get his CAT scan done and the lady next to us was there for her boyfriend who had hit himself in the forehead with his own golf ball at the Bogota range. Physics majors, figure that one out.
Back to today's story. A few days ago, my dad was moved into a new room because his old roommate had a ventilator machine that was beeping like crazy and driving him bananas. I got friendly with the patient's wife the next day. Shortly after our conversation, I heard this through the grapevine/divider curtain.
Woman: You want me to get you some of that pizza from the cafeteria? The girl recommended it to me.
Man: What girl?
Woman: The girl with the father in the other bed.
Man: She recommends it? But she's Chinese.
Woman: She's not Chinese.
Man: What toppings? General Tso's chicken?
Woman: Don't speak like that, she's not even Chinese. She's Korean.
Man: Is there Korean pizza?
Me (yelling, but not loud enough to be heard, apparently): Yeah!
Woman: She's young, and young people like pizza.
Me (same volume and enthusiasm level as before): I love pizza!
It took me a while to realize that I had just had my first encounter with "racism." The guy's really sweet. We've chatted. He means well. So what's the right word for this?
Anyways, the reason it took me a while was that I had to get the thought of General Tso's pizza out of my head. Doesn't it sound divine? Delicious, I bet.
Friday, September 15, 2006
frus·tra·tion
A feeling of dissatisfaction resulting from unfulfilled needs.
After watching non-stop television for the past 2-3 weeks, I have finally realized my answer for this fill-in-the-blank: "The hottest and sexiest thing is _______."
Buzz. I'd like to answer, Trebek. What is "sexual tension"?
I love the chase, the mind games, the electricity, the "accidental" physical contact - forget Wild Things, let's watch those flirtations between Lindsay and that guy in Mean Girls. It's torture wanting something so bad and "knowing" that you can't have it, either due to fear of rejection or its status as taboo. But good torture. At least in the movies, cause it usually results in steamier love sessions.
Sadly, I am fairly certain that I'll never come close to experiencing sexual tension. And because of this, I want it even more.
To become a player of sexual tension, you need to keep your impulses in check. I can't do that. Which sucks, cause I know for sure that it's so much better when you're 90% into the movie. The 10% girl rarely makes it all the way to the end. That is why I will never have a boyfriend again. (But let's save that entry for another date.)
After watching non-stop television for the past 2-3 weeks, I have finally realized my answer for this fill-in-the-blank: "The hottest and sexiest thing is _______."
Buzz. I'd like to answer, Trebek. What is "sexual tension"?
I love the chase, the mind games, the electricity, the "accidental" physical contact - forget Wild Things, let's watch those flirtations between Lindsay and that guy in Mean Girls. It's torture wanting something so bad and "knowing" that you can't have it, either due to fear of rejection or its status as taboo. But good torture. At least in the movies, cause it usually results in steamier love sessions.
Sadly, I am fairly certain that I'll never come close to experiencing sexual tension. And because of this, I want it even more.
To become a player of sexual tension, you need to keep your impulses in check. I can't do that. Which sucks, cause I know for sure that it's so much better when you're 90% into the movie. The 10% girl rarely makes it all the way to the end. That is why I will never have a boyfriend again. (But let's save that entry for another date.)
Thursday, September 14, 2006
route
A course, way, or road for passage or travel.
(10 minutes into my quest at Target.)
Me: Excuse me, do you work here?
Salesgirl: Yes.
Me: I was looking for cleaning sprays. Do you know where they are?
Salesgirl: Hm... yeah. Make a right at that intersection over there, and then a left when you see Tide.
Me: Thank you.
Afterwards, it took about 5 minutes to get there, even with her directions. I had to brake at the intersection. Heavy traffic, what with all the 4-wheeler shopping carts and the senior citizens on the road. Plus I had to go slowly cause of course there are never any rest areas when you need them.
(10 minutes into my quest at Target.)
Me: Excuse me, do you work here?
Salesgirl: Yes.
Me: I was looking for cleaning sprays. Do you know where they are?
Salesgirl: Hm... yeah. Make a right at that intersection over there, and then a left when you see Tide.
Me: Thank you.
Afterwards, it took about 5 minutes to get there, even with her directions. I had to brake at the intersection. Heavy traffic, what with all the 4-wheeler shopping carts and the senior citizens on the road. Plus I had to go slowly cause of course there are never any rest areas when you need them.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
quick·ie
Something done or made in a hurry: as (a) a quickly and usually cheaply produced work (as a motion picture or book) (b) : a hastily performed act of sexual intercourse.
1. I told myself I was falling in love with the iRiver Clix. I swore that my next MP3 player purchase would not be from Apple. But who am I kidding? I've been in love with them beasts ever since they came out. Do your research and look at the second-generation Shuffles and Nanos, if you haven't already. Bejeweled on iPods? Dead sexy.
2. My brother splashed some Burberry cologne on himself before getting on the bus this morning.
3. Cheetah Girls 2 is available on demand at the Disney Channel website until the 15th.
4. Gas at $2.47 on Hackensack Avenue, right next to White Manna. My dirty little secret, 'til now.
1. I told myself I was falling in love with the iRiver Clix. I swore that my next MP3 player purchase would not be from Apple. But who am I kidding? I've been in love with them beasts ever since they came out. Do your research and look at the second-generation Shuffles and Nanos, if you haven't already. Bejeweled on iPods? Dead sexy.
2. My brother splashed some Burberry cologne on himself before getting on the bus this morning.
3. Cheetah Girls 2 is available on demand at the Disney Channel website until the 15th.
4. Gas at $2.47 on Hackensack Avenue, right next to White Manna. My dirty little secret, 'til now.
Monday, September 11, 2006
sta·ple gun
A hand-held machine for driving staples home.
9/11 is a big deal this year. Which, at first, I thought was pretty silly - I mean, why not get Big Bush up in NYC for each and every anniversary, right? But, I kept thinking about it and thinking about it, and the number five just kept sticking out to me.
5. That's presidential term +1. World Cup +1. Olympics +1. High school +1. Not a short span of time at all.
Whatever, blah blah blah, five five five.
I caught "The Path to 9/11" on ABC yesterday. The media world was going crazy about it, I had to see what the fuss was about. I hated it, by the way. It's like they're "24-ing" 9/11. Poorly done with poor taste. (I'll still probably watch the rest of it.)
Okay. So I go to bed in my lawn chair. (That's what I sleep on in the hospital. I try to keep it covered with sheets, but sometimes they slip off and I'm frantically trying to cover the weatherproof leaf-print fabric. Cause, you know, it's embarrassing.) And I had a terrible nightmare.
I entered an elevator with two of my faceless buddies. We tried to get comfortable in the crowded space. Just as the doors were closing, three punks in flannel shirts (circa Boy Meets World) slipped in. I groaned cause it meant even less air for me to breathe, but my female friend caught one of the boys' eye and smiled at him.
The doors finally closed and I felt the elevator move up. I was getting a bad vibe from these flannelled figures, so I decided to get off at the next stop. I pushed my way to the front. The three elevator-crowders blocked the doors and slowly turned around to face me and the rest of the people. They had covered their faces with bandanas and were now pointing staple guns at our heads.
I yelled at the leader of the group, the one that had impressed my friend. I insisted that he let us out. I said that he wouldn't have the guts to shoot me and I shoved past him. As I ran away, I felt the staples pierce my skin, at my neck and my head. I think I died.
Dreams (and nightmares) amaze me. How do they do this? Just piece everything in my life together in one seamless story? One of my psychology professors once told me that there was a theory that dreams were a way for our minds to flush out unnecessary information. That's why they seem so ridiculous and meaningless, at times. But after a night like this, I can't possible believe that.
1. My first dream about terrorists. Remarkable, that they make their grand entrance precisely on 9/11's fifth anniversary.
2. Reminds me of my fear of staple guns. I think it was our 4th-grade teacher who thought it'd be wise to include "mini-staplers" on our school supply lists. Half our class made it down to the nurse's office that year, including me, with a not-so-mini staple in my thumb.
3. What a character-defining situation. Refuse to believe that there's no substance there.
4. I live in elevators nowadays.
9/11 is a big deal this year. Which, at first, I thought was pretty silly - I mean, why not get Big Bush up in NYC for each and every anniversary, right? But, I kept thinking about it and thinking about it, and the number five just kept sticking out to me.
5. That's presidential term +1. World Cup +1. Olympics +1. High school +1. Not a short span of time at all.
Whatever, blah blah blah, five five five.
I caught "The Path to 9/11" on ABC yesterday. The media world was going crazy about it, I had to see what the fuss was about. I hated it, by the way. It's like they're "24-ing" 9/11. Poorly done with poor taste. (I'll still probably watch the rest of it.)
Okay. So I go to bed in my lawn chair. (That's what I sleep on in the hospital. I try to keep it covered with sheets, but sometimes they slip off and I'm frantically trying to cover the weatherproof leaf-print fabric. Cause, you know, it's embarrassing.) And I had a terrible nightmare.
I entered an elevator with two of my faceless buddies. We tried to get comfortable in the crowded space. Just as the doors were closing, three punks in flannel shirts (circa Boy Meets World) slipped in. I groaned cause it meant even less air for me to breathe, but my female friend caught one of the boys' eye and smiled at him.
The doors finally closed and I felt the elevator move up. I was getting a bad vibe from these flannelled figures, so I decided to get off at the next stop. I pushed my way to the front. The three elevator-crowders blocked the doors and slowly turned around to face me and the rest of the people. They had covered their faces with bandanas and were now pointing staple guns at our heads.
I yelled at the leader of the group, the one that had impressed my friend. I insisted that he let us out. I said that he wouldn't have the guts to shoot me and I shoved past him. As I ran away, I felt the staples pierce my skin, at my neck and my head. I think I died.
Dreams (and nightmares) amaze me. How do they do this? Just piece everything in my life together in one seamless story? One of my psychology professors once told me that there was a theory that dreams were a way for our minds to flush out unnecessary information. That's why they seem so ridiculous and meaningless, at times. But after a night like this, I can't possible believe that.
1. My first dream about terrorists. Remarkable, that they make their grand entrance precisely on 9/11's fifth anniversary.
2. Reminds me of my fear of staple guns. I think it was our 4th-grade teacher who thought it'd be wise to include "mini-staplers" on our school supply lists. Half our class made it down to the nurse's office that year, including me, with a not-so-mini staple in my thumb.
3. What a character-defining situation. Refuse to believe that there's no substance there.
4. I live in elevators nowadays.
Friday, September 08, 2006
o·ver·due
Too long awaited; needed or expected for some time.
I'm going to take this opportunity to apologize to a bunch of my homies. If it were not for Facebook, this message would reach just about 2 people. But now, thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, I'm almost guaranteed that this will reach even my long-lost cousin in New Zealand by dinnertime.
Only recently have I updated folks on the goings and happenings of my exciting life. And it wasn't all too complete. It would take a 4-hour conversation over gravy-and-cheese fries to accomplish that. (Call me - I'm down for that, by the way.)
One of the things I forgot to say was that I was genuinely sorry to those I had brushed off in the past couple of months. I got your Facebook messages. I read the Wall writings. I checked my Gmail. But I only responded to a few of you. Not because I was hierarching, but cause circumstances kept changing.
So here it is: I'm sorry for not getting back to you. I hate when people do that to me, and so I don't want to do that to you. Every single word from you guys made a difference and I wish I could tell you just how much it meant to me.
I'm currently camping out at the hospital once again, so my computer time is quite limited. I check TheSuperficial, Facebook and Gmail as soon as I get on. And when I can, I write another lame entry on Blogger. But for now, I don't have the time to get back to you individually. I promise to do so when I get the chance.
As I stated on Facebook, I am taking the semester off from Tufts. It looks like my dad will be in the hospital for a long time, so I decided to stay at home and help out. I will write more later.
I'm going to take this opportunity to apologize to a bunch of my homies. If it were not for Facebook, this message would reach just about 2 people. But now, thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, I'm almost guaranteed that this will reach even my long-lost cousin in New Zealand by dinnertime.
Only recently have I updated folks on the goings and happenings of my exciting life. And it wasn't all too complete. It would take a 4-hour conversation over gravy-and-cheese fries to accomplish that. (Call me - I'm down for that, by the way.)
One of the things I forgot to say was that I was genuinely sorry to those I had brushed off in the past couple of months. I got your Facebook messages. I read the Wall writings. I checked my Gmail. But I only responded to a few of you. Not because I was hierarching, but cause circumstances kept changing.
So here it is: I'm sorry for not getting back to you. I hate when people do that to me, and so I don't want to do that to you. Every single word from you guys made a difference and I wish I could tell you just how much it meant to me.
I'm currently camping out at the hospital once again, so my computer time is quite limited. I check TheSuperficial, Facebook and Gmail as soon as I get on. And when I can, I write another lame entry on Blogger. But for now, I don't have the time to get back to you individually. I promise to do so when I get the chance.
As I stated on Facebook, I am taking the semester off from Tufts. It looks like my dad will be in the hospital for a long time, so I decided to stay at home and help out. I will write more later.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
ap·pre·cia·tive
Feeling or showing appreciation.
Everyone's been bitching about the new features on Facebook. Joining "Anti-Facebook" groups that show up on the "News Feed" -- reminds me of Mitch Hedberg's "I'm against picketing, but I don't know how to show it" line. Yeah, it's kinda ridiculous, but at this point, I'm just happy that it's there cause if it were not, I would never have come across this:
"Make Irina's and Greg's Wedding Happen"
Looks like Kaavya Viswanathan is not the only celebrity of our BCA Class of 2004. Irina and her boyfriend are semi-finalists on KIIS-FM's wedding giveaway contest. The video they submitted can be seen here.
I've been alternating from that and the Paris Hilton DUI arrest video. Aren't you happy Facebook exists? And TMZ?
Oh. And I cut my hair very very short. Bye-bye, split ends.
Everyone's been bitching about the new features on Facebook. Joining "Anti-Facebook" groups that show up on the "News Feed" -- reminds me of Mitch Hedberg's "I'm against picketing, but I don't know how to show it" line. Yeah, it's kinda ridiculous, but at this point, I'm just happy that it's there cause if it were not, I would never have come across this:
"Make Irina's and Greg's Wedding Happen"
Looks like Kaavya Viswanathan is not the only celebrity of our BCA Class of 2004. Irina and her boyfriend are semi-finalists on KIIS-FM's wedding giveaway contest. The video they submitted can be seen here.
I've been alternating from that and the Paris Hilton DUI arrest video. Aren't you happy Facebook exists? And TMZ?
Oh. And I cut my hair very very short. Bye-bye, split ends.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
in·tro·spec·tion
Observation or examination of one's own mental and emotional state, mental processes, etc.; the act of looking within oneself.
I've always been startled by how little I know about myself.
It starts with the little things. Like, I'd hear people say things like, "The heat makes my skin freak," or, "Peanuts give me the worst stomachaches." And I'd think to myself, 'Yeah, I've been in the heat and I've had my share of peanuts.' End of conversation (with myself).
And it's funny cause I believed that I thought about myself too much. Self-absorbed, I am. I have the mentality of the diva, but none of the physical attributes that are supposed to come with. But how come I can't even tell what causes my skin to freak out and my stomach to do belly flops? Because, in reality, I know diddly-squat about me.
This would not be so important if it were limited to my physical reactions. But the problem extends and is much more comprehensive than I'd wish.
Who do I want to be? What do I want? Who do I want? What am I doing? What am I going to do?
This is cute when you're in 3rd grade and your parents and teachers love hearing you explore your possibilities. But when you're almost 20 and a philosophy student, these questions are not so cute anymore. People want you to make up your fucking mind already.
I've screwed myself over. Because I didn't know myself well enough. I'm like Mariah Carey and Glitter. I've made the worst mistake of my life, but at the time I thought I was going to get me a gold statue.
I've always been startled by how little I know about myself.
It starts with the little things. Like, I'd hear people say things like, "The heat makes my skin freak," or, "Peanuts give me the worst stomachaches." And I'd think to myself, 'Yeah, I've been in the heat and I've had my share of peanuts.' End of conversation (with myself).
And it's funny cause I believed that I thought about myself too much. Self-absorbed, I am. I have the mentality of the diva, but none of the physical attributes that are supposed to come with. But how come I can't even tell what causes my skin to freak out and my stomach to do belly flops? Because, in reality, I know diddly-squat about me.
This would not be so important if it were limited to my physical reactions. But the problem extends and is much more comprehensive than I'd wish.
Who do I want to be? What do I want? Who do I want? What am I doing? What am I going to do?
This is cute when you're in 3rd grade and your parents and teachers love hearing you explore your possibilities. But when you're almost 20 and a philosophy student, these questions are not so cute anymore. People want you to make up your fucking mind already.
I've screwed myself over. Because I didn't know myself well enough. I'm like Mariah Carey and Glitter. I've made the worst mistake of my life, but at the time I thought I was going to get me a gold statue.
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