I’m sure I’ve done a post with that title before on my old blog, the one I had before I got all embarrassed about my thoughts, or believed I had a private, inner life. I deleted that blog in 2008 when I began dating someone who I knew would judge me for feeling things.
It isn’t as if I often feel things. I wouldn’t call it “feeling” things. I would call it “ruminating,” “drifting,” “vague….”
4:50AM, I was waiting at the 59th Street Bridge on the Queens side.
I just figured out that music is part of this interface. I don’t know why I like incredibly cheesy music. Maybe because I was raised in an airtight chamber with Tchaikovsky and Kmom swearing as my sole aural caress until 12 yrs old. Plus I am a Korean girl (Wonder Girls just cancelled their first U.S. tour, dammit!) and they Korean girls are 80% cartoon.
Pop is, in fact, they way in which they be.
If this is indeed a “personal blog, it is incumbent that I heretofore fearlessly expose the blistering gaudiness that is my bad taste.
…is what what my therapist said, reenactment to gain mastery. How I find it intoxicating to contemplate reenacting what had caused an upsurge in this otherwise tepid interior of mine. Upsurge; torment; torpor; vertigo. It is all rather distracting. It is too familiar, it calls me.
I am abstract here, but how else to express ennui? I could compose sonnets, but I seem to be in drifter girl mode ala first year of freshman year 1998 when I had anorexia, literally fainting my way through school, except now I don’t have anorexia, I just have dizziness, nausea, waffle-ment. I seem to be continually grasping at the spectre of a once beating heart, that offered something thick and ready always because it was other and desiring.
Such empty pithy words for 7:30AM. I must summon up the courage to peel myself off the bed, to feel the cold as I de-robe for my nightly shower, and die my mini-death/beauty-rest. My goal is to be so tired that my mind will shut off; knocked on the head with a shovel, synapses clipped short by an annihilating epiphany. I don’t want ease into anything. There’s anxiety in the awareness of time. Just one more moment awake! Please! I must work out that little bubble of thought! Otherwise it will cause an aneurysm! I must contemplate the vice in this or that…I must, I think…all these wringings and frothings that leave me with nothing good to say for myself, exactly the kind of enervated yet wired lout that my parents would have smacked me not to be.
Cat lies in wait to attack hovering hand. It is an exciting game we play. Soon I will turn thirty.
I am working on my birthday. I’ve lost, this week, at least a portion of my brain and soul combining work, school, strange family nebulae, sleep patterns that conform to no known logic and weird new personas I’ve been growing that that may be connected to age, disembodiment, hormones, i.e. this glittering sort of laughter that emits from me as despicably uncensored as an old chrone might complain about the rising cost of stamps; but it superficially mimics a girlish tone, which creates ease amongst listeners, I blend in, whatnot, though upon second listen I frown upon hearing a more maniacal element that could be a result of a definite deflated debauchedness. Is the latter a word?
Or…Why can’t we stop freaking out about sex in this passive aggressive ad-hoc American way so we can freak out about it elegantly like the Orientals used to, write subtle, pretty poems delineating all sorts of raindrops and angles and institute geishas to craft the indefinable into a sublime woman-made art for the elemental males to integrate respectfully?
Or…I hope my biological clock will never tick because it definitely hasn’t yet! Although worryingly, I find babies’ less hideous recently. But I still don’t look at them. Sometimes I think to myself, gee, I haven’t seen babies in months, but then I look around me, and they’re all around us, I just haven’t noticed ‘cus I don’t SEE them! Y’know?!
Or…just ‘cus I can booty dance doesn’t mean I have sex! And definitely not with you! Don’t touch me!
Or…I am a crazy cat lady!
I grew up (surreptitiously) reading Archie comics (when my mum would abandon me at the local mall’s Waldenbooks) till my butt fell asleep. I would have to pretend to be in the middle of The Utne Reader or Raygun (which I actually did read sometimes) when she came back at an unpredictable hour, doing god knows what, maybe going on a crazy shopping spree at Jo-Ann Fabrics.
Is it possible that I’ve absorbed the Archie comic value systems, their ethos, their worldview? Do I frame things in terms of Betty’s insecurity, Veronica’s entitled ditziness, Archie’s idiotic binary ogling, Jughead’s creed of hunger? Am I just a simple bitch?
Mail, scolding teachers, distant mothers, TV shows, servant-ing, mate-ing it up.
opened mail—more precisely, the tax envelope I received 3 months ago. guess what? just confirmation that my refund was deposited. Score! And we’re talking 2008 taxes, folks. Baby steps, baby steps. I told my roomie the other day: sorry I never bring up the mail, I just can’t bear to look at it. I have literal fear of mail. Imagine my surprise when she told me she also has a friend with the same problem! I immediately went into a fantasy land of people in denial with confused mailmen in tow.
was asked to stay after Science Fiction class because I am falling asleep conspicuously every Tuesday and Thursday @ 1PM. I always wake up after 20 minutes of head-bobbing, eyes half-open, my body adjusts to the utter pain of being alive while crying to sleep. My mind coagulates into something resembling a brain; the gears start and before you know it some decrepit steam is blowing out of my ears, sentences roll out in undignified streams.
My heart almost stopped when she—flashback to kindergarten, grade school, middle school—Can I speak to you after class, Suzie? or Can you stay after class, Suzie? I’d like to talk to you. They always want to have a “talk” with me about something. How to tell her that I had desperately wanted to stay awake and am so interested in the lecture and the professor is hilarious, witty, brilliant, engaging, did i mention jaw-droppingly beautiful in that androgynous way that seems to render me even more stutteringly idiotic than normal—Her deer-brown eyes bore into my face seemingly following miniscule crepey crevices of my under eye circles and clumps of mascara stuck dripping from my eyes: makeup from last night. I think I satisfactorily appeared a hot mess. My stuttering idiocy performed well at the moment. Only snippets came out, I believe. I think she gleaned that i was in torment, an earnest kid from the wrong sid-a-tha-trax unable to make reality conform to her desires/delusions. Maybe. She asked me if I thought I should stay in the class; if I could take a later class; maybe this wasn’t right for me; if there was anything she could do. We decided: We can work on this; We can talk later. I frantically assured her that I will not do this again; I really want to take her class; I will be ok. I don’t know if I’ll be ok. Sleep is a tricky thing.
went to see my mom for the first time in four years. 15 minutes after I entered the door, I left, slamming the door behind me. I was unable to hide tears (not many, just a little mist) from doorman (who had looked at me curiously as I waited in the lobby for my mom earlier, I the purported “daughter” he has never seen before). Mum’s essential message: You’re on your own. You cannot ask me for help—who are you to ask? She wouldn’t look up as she clacked around kitchen utensils with the tense, angry rhythms that reverberated through my childhood. The act of cleaning was the music of anger in our house. I protested, I don’t want to ask, but Oppah (Korean for dad) left and I have no other recourse-
Mum: That’s Oppah’s mistake it has nothing to do with me. You and Oppah sort it out.
Yes but you know he forgot or ran out of money or-he’s in India now-in any case he told me to ask you—I don’t want to, believe me I don’t, and I haven’t asked you before to help me, have I? And I wouldn’t have asked you if I’d had adequate notice—but he left me high and dry—
(I saw my mum was running out of steam.)
I mean, he promised he’d put me through school if I got good grades, that was the deal, i’m not just asking FOR FUN.
Mum: I don’t know what you organized with him—I never talk to him—whatever you and Oppah’s “deal” you made—I don’t know—but I know we simply cannot pay for your lifestyle.
I don’t have a lifestyle, what lifestyle (How does she know?!)?! I’m not asking you to pay for my lifestyle, It’s called I’m in school, rent, the bare minimum. He hasn’t paid a cent of school either, but he at least promised he’d help with rent so I wouldn’t have to work full-time and go to school full-time so I can get perfect grades—it’s already difficult to to do that and work part-time…I fall asleep during class…
We both know she’s not listening, hence my frankness.
She cut me off: Everyone works full-time and goes to school full-time. You no different.
But I’m slow…
She was already deaf. She seemed to verbalize her inner monologue as she fluffed up the pillows, which were surrounded by little jars of cookies, vitamins, flowers…health and vitality, a life lived that I hadn’t known. She gritted her teeth: Mommy has to put money away for when I’m old. No one help me when I’m old. What you do for me? (broken English). Nothing!
Frantic: it was you who left, it was you who stopped talking to us, remember?! I’ve been trying, you don’t know what I’ll be, you don’t give me a chance, how can you know, you don’t respond to any effort I make to reach out to you, that’s why I’m going to school, so I can be better, so when I’m older I can help…I babbled, knowing she wasn’t listening, she’d already retreated to another place. The safe place.
She scoffed: You guys never do anything. You will never be able to help.
That’s Oppah. But what if I can? I mean, I’m going to school so I can get a job—don’t you think I can? So I can help you, don’t you think I can? I want to…Why am I in school, I’m going to school not to fuck around but so I can be successful…to help the family…I WANT to do that—don’t you think I can do it? I think I can…(I tried to say passionately)…
Mum: I help you this once because of Oppah’s mistake: but never again.
I won’t. Believe me I would never dare.
I left a chunk of the money on the table; I took just enough so I wouldn’t bounce a check. It was an extraordinarily dull feeling I had as I contemplated having to work every night of the next week and my future being all tenuous….plus it’s cold and I have a hacking cough and a defective knee. All this old people shit. Must.Party.To.Prevent.Aging.
watched the Office again. It seems friendly enough.
Got a job as a cocktail waitress flashback to 4 years ago at Karoake on 2nd and 2nd. It is generally demeaning.
Had some really strong Mate—I had attempted to drink it years ago as the “perfect” alternative to coffee but it never really took off. This time it was passed around from mouth to mouth like a lovely drug. One of us came up with this, “We’re mate-ing it up. Wanna join?” It was a zeitgeist moment, probably.
This is what a 29 year old looks like. I will be 30 in 11 days.
I thought I’d be mature and post a photo of myself that doesn’t primarily feature my cat.
My worry lines tend to congregate on my chin; I also have an underbite. I had to explain what this was to several lucky girls this past weekend, who had had braces growing up: lovely Chiclet teeth.
Yet, some people think underbites are cool. It remains to be seen whether their opinions are legitimate.
I have been keeping my mouth open for several years now so I don’t wrinkle my chin, a look that is “not attractive,” I was told by an exboyfriend in 2006 during an unpleasant viewing of The Ring. To say the least, I really regret watching that movie.
So me being me is allowing myself to close my mouth as I lay around the house.
My vision is off the charts blind, like 20/400, according to my optician. So they have to order my contacts from some other place. The assistant is this funky chick who suggested I try, in the interim, the colored contacts they have on file that somewhat matched my prescription but weren’t Toric lenses, i.e. astigmatic lenses. She said, “I had to have em in every cullah.” Her life seemed fun and carefree.
I thought I’d try them, as they are about $150 less per eye. Plus, I needed a new personality. The color was suitably jarring—a sort of gritty mustard yellow, incidentally called “Honey.”
But I liked the honey factor: two sludgy sugar dots that shape the normally jumpy, tweaking brown-blackness. As I become that sort of New York unconscious that allows one to abandon dignity for raw survivalism, I find myself no longer willing or able to hide the consuming states that increasingly occupy what previously had been a present pair of eyes. I reckon subway passengers no longer can read my mind. I remembered my 9th grade best friend told me I should never commit a crime because everyone would be able to see on my face immediately that I had done it.
As I wore them, I began to dream that what people looked into was not my soul, but a color field that would transport them to other places besides myself. It would be a risky lie that nobody would believe, but people will accept anything if it is done with balls, and if it is colorful.
I decided eventually to opt for a less alarming Hazel to replace the Honey. Hazel is a real eye color and therefore I am now more real, gliding towards a better sort of lie.