Saturday, May 28, 2011

Addicted to Love?

I've been addicted, *chuckle,* to the The Fix, a website solely dedicated to addiction and recovery.

Rich with celebrity interviews and plenty of facts and research to share, The Fix is smart, sleek, and engaging use of time.

Love addiction, is it real or a myth? Catherine Townsend describes her own experience with the addiction, but she still left me wondering whether or not the addiction is valid.

According to her article, love addiction has not made it into the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, but she gives enough examples and anecdotes that prove otherwise.

Every woman, and I mean EVERY woman that I know, has had a psychotic break down that resulted in a breakup. I also know a few men, although they will not admit to even half of the psycho shit that me and my girls have done. However, is this behavior an indicator to a lifelong mental illness such as depression or bipolar disorder? I'm not sure if I'm sold, but I'm entertained.

My favorite quotes from this article are:

“The true test of mental health is how you cope with these setbacks. Do you turn to family and friends, or do you start spinning out of control and stalking your ex? When something happens to blow up the fantasy, true love addicts go into physical withdrawal, and then into psychiatric meltdown.”

“You have to work with the addictive process, the fantasy, the denial that protects the fantasy, the withdrawal from the fantasy, the returning to the relationship and return to the fantasy, or spinning off and doing it with someone else,” says Katehakis. “

"Fighting off sobs, I asked them if this was like the Sex and the Cityepisode where Carrie’s friends cut her off. They replied that they felt more like the passengers in Airplane!, who chose to hang and stab themselves rather than be subjected to yet another sob story about someone's ex-lover."

The best way to get yourself out of heartbreak. Is to completely take yourself out of the situation. All of it. Women are pushed from fantasy to fantasy, and it fucks with our sanity. Get your sanity back, and save that energy for your self growth. You are going to need it for reality.

No Facebook Day 55

Hi, I kill animals!

Mark Zuckerberg is only eating animals he kills himself

The commentary on this article is hilarious, but here's an actual quoate from his interview with Fortune magazine.

"Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerberg has reportedly taken to eating only meat from animals he has killed in order to appreciate that a creature died so that he could live. The 27-year-old billionaire took on the dietary regimen as the latest in a series of “personal challenges” that he pursues in what little time he spends not working on Facebook, a Fortune magazine story explained on Thursday. “I’m eating a lot healthier foods,” Zuckerberg is quoted as telling Fortune while discussing his switch to slaughtering livestock for his meals. “And I’ve learned a lot about sustainable farming and raising of animals,” he continued. “It’s easy to take the food we eat for granted when we can eat good things every day.” A Silicon Valley chef who lives not far from Zuckerberg in the Northern California city of Palo Alto has introduced him to local farmers and coached him on killing his first chicken, pig, and goat, according to Fortune. His first kill was a lobster, which he executed by boiling. Larger animals that he kills are sent to a butcher, who sends the cut meat back to Zuckerberg and his girlfriend Priscilla to be cooked as they wish, the article indicated. Zuckerberg has shared his dietary endeavor on his Facebook page, where he posted a photo of a chicken he killed and dishes he made using the parts. “This year I’ve basically become a vegetarian since the only meat I’m eating is from animals I’ve killed myself,” Fortune quoted Zuckerberg as saying in an email. “I think many people forget that a living being has to die for you to eat meat, so my goal revolves around not letting myself forget that and being thankful for what I have.” Zuckerberg said he takes on a personal challenge each year, with prior goals including learning Chinese and wearing a tie. “So far, this has been a good experience,” Zuckerberg said of his new diet. “I’m eating a lot healthier foods and I’ve learned a lot about sustainable farming and raising of animals.” He still visits restaurants, but opts for venues with vegetarian offerings, according to Fortune."

If I learned anything from The Social Network, Zuckerberg does not have an Ivy league degree in tactfulness. I really hope that this article in Fortune is a misquote, but if I'm going to make my bets, I think Zuckerberg really did talk about this like it was good thing for his image.

There two things that made me roll my eyes, one was the tone of, WOE is ME! I'm a billlionare and I'm BOOOOOORED! I can't buy my meat with the common folk, I need to torture an animal so I can appreciate its last seconds of a miserable life, just so I can stomach this meal that my hot Chinese girlfriend is going to prepare!

Just a reminder, this is the guy that has the information of MILLIONS of people. We gave it to him willingly. This asshole has my email, phone number, and my drunk pictures.

The other thing, how does this advocate vegetarianism? He kills animals so that he can appreciate their life when he eats them, but he can't stomach it so he now eats vegetarian. You have a Chinese girlfriend. Man the f*ck up! Chinese people have been killing their own food for centuries, and now you can't stomach it... you prick.

Here's the article from Fortune itself.
Day 55 woot woot!

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Hey I know these girls.

This was a pleasant surprise. Kelly Kalagayan did a photo shoot with us for our Death of a Playa show.

He's really cool guy and a great photographer. Here is his site *high five* Kelly!
























Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Wow Sex Trafficking is So Fashionable

I came across this video lookbook today, from a website that I follow regularly. I was disturbed by the women posing provacatively next to the trucks at the truck stop. It just reminded me of sex trafficking. I know that the theme was road trip, but this video reminded me of the Rodarte Snafu they made with MAC Cometics. This video has the same "tasteless" feel.

Monday, May 23, 2011

My Favorite Asian-American Bloggers

  1. Fashion Blogger: Bleed For Fashion
  2. Mother/Writer/Evolving Blogger: I, Mami
  3. When food met the Yellow Power movement blogger: Fresh off the Boat
  4. The resourceful and cute as shit blogger: The Adventures of Yoshi
  5. The ultimate half asian Ho and snarky blogger: Michael K from Dlisted
These are folks that I always look forward to seeing in my googlereader. They represent my need for food, fashion, fun, art, and shit talking. I'm glad that Asian Americans are becoming popular for expressing their perspectives, since we've been a world that often overlooks it. I haven't wrapped my head around why blogging is so popular, and what makes one blog more appealing than another. Whatever the answer is, I'm glad that these four individuals do it.

No Facebook Day 50

I'm relieved to be without that evil fucking website. Whenever I hear conversations of adding this person or that person, but that person will get mad, or my feelings are hurt because he/she added this person, I'm just more than pleased to not relate or participate. In one single sweep I annihilated all of the people that don't mean shit to me.

Facebook doesn't let you move on from people you are not supposed to see anymore. The old workers, classmates, and frenemies are are not supposed to be in your life. Me and the rest of our society, are losing the ability to let go, and value our privacy. Instead of enriching the connections that are meaningful, Facebook trapped me in the vortex of pictures, creepy chats, and really, really, stupid updates of people who I just wanted to let go.

I suppose I'm living a really unconventional lifestyle right now, that is more secluded than my peers, but for real, there should be only five people at most that should know every single thing about you. Your mother shouldn't know where the fuck you go at 3am, as you are checking into a god forsaken shit hole getting drunk.

I know that 50 days without Facebook has made me into a grouch, but I'm a happy grouch. I've been busy and productive. I'm emotionally growing, my writing is getting better, and I'm overall, I'm just a happy camper.

Friday, May 20, 2011

In Honor of Asian Women, Cuz It's Our Month Bitch!

Paper Tigers

What do you know, it's Asian American history month! Interrupted by the fear of Rapture that is to come this Saturday, I realized that May is coming to a close, and I haven't posted anything Asian-American. How un-Asian-American of me. Jesus, that was a lot of hyphens.

My girl Chelle forwarded me this feature from New York magazine written by Wesley Yang, called "Paper Tigers". He poses the question, "What happens to all of the Asian-American over achievers when the test taking ends?"

Paper tigers is in reference to Amy Chua's Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, who unfortunately has suffered at the hands of her own rapture. She basically scared everyone shitless, and has been publicly flogged for her scary Chinese mothering.

I appreciated the range of Asian-Americans that Yang interviewed for this 11 page feature. He represented the complexities fairly, and had something for everyone to relate to. I wish I could have written something this eloquent for my senior thesis, when I graduated from Asian American studies. I too frazzled and flighty to put the thoughts together.

I was a little irritated that Filipinos were not included in this conversation, but the Chinese half of me was enthused that the participants were so candid and honest. My favorite part was the "Romance Bootcamp," where Asian men were learning Alpha male techniques so that they can meet women.

I'm always concerned about my Asian men. Dating them, and watching them try to date, has been both painful and enlightening. Sex, socialization, power, and dominance are elements that shapes American power. The thirst to be accepted is understandable, but worrisome. If we create Alpha Asians to be up to par with their White counterparts, they are going to be as equally as annoying. Don't we have a term for these types of people? Yes, we call them douches.

As for the women, I met my fair share of Amy Chua's, and they make me shiver. They either emotionally unravel at the slightest touch, or they are the most unforgiving bitches that lack a fucking sense of humor. I can't decide which type I like more!

However, the attack on Chua was unfair. The Wall Street Journal posted the juiciest part of her memoir, which sent so many Asian women to an immediate trip to their therapists. The memoir was meant to explore the pros and cons of this type of parenting, but White people got themselves into a frenzy, because the assumed she was posing Chinese parenting as superior parenting. It made it sound like Chinese people put their kids through a concentration camp in order for them to succeed. Actually, that's an excellent idea, and it would be a profitable business model.

For the record, I do not have a tiger mother. My mother is a Filipino lion. She is responsible for my stunning personality. I've inherited her glare, so much so, that when I look at pictures of myself, I shudder in fear. It brings me back to childhood, and I'm in trouble, because I made my mother mad.

She would be so proud!

I love how Yang slightly surfaces the Asians that simply don't give a shit. It's not that blatant, but I sure did notice it and I giggled. I guess this is the category that I fall in. I've never treated education as life or death, but I my Western attitude of "doing my best" did serve me well. I can abandon the things that are not that important, and my life does not end if I am not good at certain things. However, I will become Asian when I give a shit about something. When I find a skill that I can do well, I hang on to that it like a life raft, and I obsess about it till no end. I will practice till it's perfect. Not just well, but perfect.

Anyhoo, Happy Asian-American month. Please feel free to give me your opinions about the article. I'm more than willing to discuss.

Here are some highlights that caught my attention:

" (She quotes a music teacher at Stuyvesant describing the dominance of Asians: 'They were mediocre kids, but they got in because they were coached.')"

"Colleges have a way of correcting for this imbalance: The Princeton sociologist Thomas Espenshade has calculated that an Asian applicant must, in practice, score 140 points higher on the SAT than a comparable white applicant to have the same chance of admission."

“At Stuy, it’s completely different: If you looked at the pinnacle, the girls and the guys are not only good-looking and socially affable, they also get the best grades and star in the school plays and win election to student government. It all converges at the top. It’s like training for high society. It was jarring for us Chinese kids. You got the sense that you had to study hard, but it wasn’t enough.”

"Mao was becoming clued in to the fact that there was another hierarchy behind the official one that explained why others were getting what he never had—“a high-school sweetheart” figured prominently on this list—and that this mysterious hierarchy was going to determine what happened to him in life. “You realize there are things you really don’t understand about courtship or just acting in a certain way. Things that somehow come naturally to people who go to school in the suburbs and have parents who are culturally assimilated."

"What if life has failed to make you a socially dominant alpha male who runs the American boardroom and prevails in the American bedroom? What if no one ever taught you how to greet white people and make them comfortable? What if, despite these deficiencies, you no longer possess an immigrant’s dutiful forbearance for a secondary position in the American narrative and want to be a player in the scrimmage of American appetite right now, in the present? How do you undo eighteen years of a Chinese upbringing?"

"If you are a woman who isn’t beautiful, it is a social reality that you will have to work twice as hard to hold anyone’s attention. You can either linger on the unfairness of this or you can get with the program. If you are an Asian person who holds himself proudly aloof, nobody will respect that, or find it intriguing, or wonder if that challenging façade hides someone worth getting to know. They will simply write you off as someone not worth the trouble of talking to."


Thursday, May 19, 2011

Gifts for the Broken-Hearted

In my Creative Non Fiction class my teacher posted this story from the New York Times. We always read great stuff in her class, but I felt this one applied to a lot of people that I know. My teacher asked us if we pictured ourselves writing pieces like this. We all nodded in a fury, and we were inspired to write. God, I want to marry this woman.

MODERN LOVE: "Gifts for the Broken-Hearted"
By LEAH HANES
Published: October 15, 2010

The Obama volunteer coordinator assigned to find me a canvassing partner walked me toward a busload of elderly people. She must have noticed my dismay, because suddenly she veered left toward a smaller group of mostly male twentysomethings from Brooklyn. The day began looking up.

I’d hit bottom weeks earlier, just as the Alaska governor came on the national election scene. The positive momentum from my summer Himalaya trek had faded, along with all interest in a job search; I was in no condition to interview for — let alone start — a new job. I finally copped to depression.

It was all too much; I felt I’d lost everything. The shock of my only child’s sudden death 19 months earlier at age 6 had worn off, the distractions I’d used to keep the full horror at bay finally gone. And while the losses that followed — my 17-year marriage, our “dream house,” my job, several friends — were comparatively minor, collectively it was devastating. Our two cats must have agreed, as they both died, too.

I weighed the options: Succumb to despair, or pick myself up and deal. I decided to make Prozac’s acquaintance and get on with it.

And thus found myself — a 41-year-old childless mother and unemployed marketing executive — at the Obama volunteer center in Allentown, Pa., in late September, paired with blue-eyed, 28-year-old Manuel. He had a shaved head, wrestler’s build, a California surfer vibe and a peanut butter sandwich he tried to shove into his back pocket as we set out.

Amused, I said, “Give me that,” and placed it in my handbag.

Canvassing proved both inspiring and tedious. With Manuel, though, I almost felt normal. He asked questions I surprised myself by answering. Refreshingly, he was neither horrified nor struck speechless by my loss.

Later, as his crew was leaving, we made noise about getting together in the city sometime. As is the way, we connected on Facebook.

In the following weeks I obsessively followed the election, my own heart’s need for hope tied to the outcome. I looked for Manuel in Allentown on Election Day, where I’d returned to help get out the vote, but he was in California, and we shared an electronic high-five.

We finally made plans to meet for dinner in early December. Given my age, I wasn’t sure if he saw this as a date. Nevertheless, I was ready. Beyond careful grooming, a discreetly packed contact lens case and condoms, I’d told my housemate I might not be home.

Manuel came zipping down the street on his bike a few minutes late, and we awkwardly hugged. His head was still shaved, but he’d grown a goatee. He was adorable.

Dinner, however, was a bust. I hated the food, and his surfer vibe had me wondering if he was stoned (he wasn’t). Sensing the direction of things, he suddenly turned — “Hey, you heard of Rao’s?”

The legendary, impossible-to-get-into Italian restaurant in East Harlem? “Yes.”

“I hear you can just walk in, sit at the bar, have a drink. Want to go?”

I was intrigued but began losing my nerve when we arrived, put off by the black cars idling outside. It was a club. We weren’t members. Manuel leaned in — “It’s just like knocking on doors in Allentown. Come on — yes we can!”

And we did. Sometime during our second round, I thought how nice it would be to touch him, when suddenly my arm was on top of his. Shocked at myself, I leaned forward to apologize when he kissed me — and didn’t stop until the bouncer hissed, “Hey, knock it off!”

Startled, we paid and left.

By midnight, we’d already spent an hour canoodling in the dark corner of a salsa bar, and another hour rolling around half-naked on his building’s roof, Metro-North trains rumbling a few blocks away. I had no idea if I’d ever see him again, and inhaled every minute of the most uninhibited fun I’d had in years.

When we finally reached his apartment, I realized what I’d missed by marrying at 23. His bedroom was one of those only-in-New-York creations carved out of the living room — no windows, walls that didn’t reach the ceiling. Looking for a safe space to lay my pearl necklace and earrings, I knew I was a long way from my former five-bedroom colonial in the suburbs.

The morning was only slightly awkward. We were both exhausted and hung over, and he was kind enough to let me sleep while he went to work. Emerging from the Harlem town house into the bright sunshine later that morning, passing the neighborhood guys on the stoop, I felt every bit the lioness returning victorious from the hunt as I lazily made my way back to New Jersey.

By then I’d decided that taking care of myself and finding a way to live with my child’s death had become my full-time job: therapy, yoga, meditation and Prozac were the tools of the trade. Manuel was a different modality entirely. I must have done something for him too — he asked me out again.

We settled into a routine, getting together about every two weeks. We told each other it wasn’t serious or exclusive, so we didn’t talk or e-mail much in-between. But together, we made up for lost time. I surprised him on our second date with scarves and honey; my 42nd birthday included live jazz, drag queens, a demonstration of his rapping skills in the middle of Houston Street, and some late-night, creative role play. It was my best birthday ever.

In late January, the night before the second anniversary of my son’s death, he lighted candles and invited me to say whatever needed saying. He understood loss; his mother had died when he was 14 months old. No one had ever opened himself up in quite this way to hearing my pain. It was one of his greatest gifts.

My heart broke more cruelly and deeply than I thought possible the day my son died. I worried that maybe I shouldn’t be playing this game with a heart that would never quite heal. But this I now know: People we love come, and they frequently go. What matters is staying open: to possibility, to connection, to hope.

I didn’t think I was risking much. I knew he was casually dating, and theoretically I was, too. But being with him brought me so much joy, and online dating was such a drag, that I put little effort into looking elsewhere.

Two months in I felt a shift — he was less open. A month later, when he told me he’d slept with someone else, I went cold. He said he still wanted to see me but couldn’t be monogamous. I struggled, intellect versus emotion. Did I want to marry him? No. So who cares? But I did. And in the morning I broke it off.

For only the first time. Over the next year we moved in and out of each other’s lives and beds, renegotiating terms to work for a late-20s guy in an “exploratory” phase and fortysomething, monogamously inclined me.

This past Valentine’s Day we went away, both of us acknowledging the danger and mixed signals of a country B & B, whirlpool tub and Champagne in bed. We’d slowed down — our connection had mellowed, deepened. He hadn’t promised not to date others, but he wasn’t. A few days later, I caught myself thinking I wanted my family to meet him.

Damn. I’d fallen in love.

And took the chance. I told him I was open to bridging the age gap, seeing if we could work. It’d be challenging, but I had feelings for him and finally decided I was game.

But he wasn’t. I know my age was a factor, which hurt, but you can’t talk someone into wanting to be with you. When I ended it again, to save my heart, it was his turn to be surprised by the depth of his feelings — he’d also gotten more attached than intended, though not enough to change his mind.

My son’s friends are 10 now. A day rarely passes when I don’t feel the pain of a child who will always be 6, of motherhood in the past, of bedtime stories read by another while I worked late. No more time, no second chances. I’m still working through my losses, even in my dreams. Almost four years later, I know the pain doesn’t get better. I just learn, day by day, year by year, to live with it.

A month after our Valentine’s breakup, 18 months after knocking on Allentown’s doors, Manuel announced he was moving west for school. Knowing he’d soon be out of temptation’s way, I reignited our “thing.” This time, no regrets.

Maybe because we knew the outcome, knew we’d be re-dressing our wounds one last time, we finally let down our guard. I told him I loved him. He admitted he loved me, too.

And then I let him go.

Once he left I realized the other gift he’d given me — even in my sorrow, I still had the hope he’d helped me find.

Leah Hanes lives in Jersey City and is working on a memoir.

Monday, May 16, 2011

The Insomnia Trials

I was in the bay this weekend for my brother's graduation. Whenever I stay at my mom's house, I have at least one bout of retarded insomnia, and it drives me CRAZY! You would think that falling asleep drunk would assure a sweet somber, but instead I wake up at 3am, and my brain has called upon a list of issues to discuss.

It wants to talk about my love life, my insecurities, anxieties, and will even want to discuss the events of the day. It will give me an instant replay of everything that has gone wrong for all my life, with some random songs on the brain playlist. Last night the brain's song of choice was Lady Gaga's Judas and Eminem's Lose Yourself. So random right?

Sometimes my Insomnia actually imitates a google reader. If I close my eyes and organize my thoughts, I will see the google reader going down all the issues of the moment. Yes, I realize that this all sounds really insane. I have no idea why there is a google reader in my brain, but what the hell, there is a google reader in my brain!

I try not to scream as I see the sunrise. I had yet again wasted four hours of laying in my bed trying to get my brain to shut up, so that I can sleep. I shut my eyes as my parents are getting up to go to work, and I realize where my habit of slamming everything comes from. I come from the loudest family on earth. We slam everything from the cabinets, the dishes, to the air.

Finally, I see black. I wake up an hour later feeling like I had the worst night on earth. This week I'm dedicated to having a better sleep schedule, and I'm ordering a free 7 day trial for Lunesta. I can't do this shit anymore.

Friday, May 13, 2011

The Stupid Writer

Every time I go to my comic writing class, I get this same exact feeling. I'm basically the kid at the adult dinner table, getting lost in the baby boomer jokes. My teacher finds everything that I love unfunny.

There is this scene in the movie My Girl, where the main character Vada signs up for a writing class to get closer to her hot teacher. The class is an adult writing class, and they have to read their poems for everyone. Everyone read their adult angst ridden poems, and an eleven year old Vada reads her very poignant poem about how much she likes ice cream.

My teacher has this funny way of work shopping. Although, he welcomes the class to chime in, you are basically reading your work for his judgement. Facing his critiques of our work is like being at the receiving end of a dodge ball game. I usually hold my breath till it's done, and I'm relieved that it's over.

I'm scratching at the inner lining of brain to figure out, what the hell makes this guy laugh? I thought that I was sarcastic, but apparently there is a deeper and smarter sarcasm, that adults find to be funnier

He hates my use of punctuation, and sloppy sentence structure. I kick myself in the ass, because my exposure to literary greatness for the past five years have been celebrity blogs. I always leave that class not feeling well read or up to par. I somehow put together something funny for the class to laugh at, but I assume that is the result of being a gen x'er. We know how to bullshit, and we can put together bullshit very quickly.

One of my classmates, who is also a teacher through the extension program, asked me who my favorite comic writer is. I can't say Micheal K from Dlisted, because I'll look like a moron. I don't mind looking like a moron for my blog readers, but in this very prestigious class I need to be a smartie like everyone else!

I used to love to read. I would stay up all night to finish a book, but in my adult years I have not picked up those kinds of books. I don't finish them and they are not smart enough. It's brought some attention to things I need to work on. I would love to join writing circles and reference this book and that book, and that amazing author and dismiss another author, bla bla bla, I'm smart, I'm smart, I'm smart!

In this process of taking all these classes, I'm figuring out what kind of writer I am. Right now I'm drawn to creative non fiction, and satire is not my forte.

The other night I asked a classmate, "What the hell is a hyperbowl?"

I pounded my head as soon as I got home. What I meant to say was, "What the hell is a hiperbole?"

Monday, May 9, 2011

The Hunt for the Impossible Jordan

I've been chasing a ghost ever since I was thirteen.

I'm sure when I meet him in heaven this is exactly what he's going to to do to me. He's going to put me in a headlock, and say, "You silly girl why have you been sad?"

I ran into this picture while I was in the Philippines. I didn't realize that my cousin had a penchant for Air Jordans just like me.

Well, I thought that these Air Jordans were the Retro 3 black cements, which are being re released this September. However, when I looked closer at the shoes, they don't seem to have the cement design on the top.

So I extra nerded out, and I researched the history of Air Jordans, and which styles were release at around 1989-1992. I've concluded through my research that my cousin is actually wearing the Air Jordan Collezione 19/4. These were released in 1989, which around the time that this picture was taken.
It breaks my heart, because these are even more unattainable than the black cements. I've actually sat with myself and asked why am I so obsessed with these shoes. I guess it allows me to have another part of him with me. I know they are just shoes, so this is not an indication of some deep psychological/grieving issues. Well, haha maybe.

It's a conquest that's both fun and sentimental. To find these shoes is hard enough, and to actually get them in my Kid size will be even harder. I welcome yet loathe the challenge. Oh did I mention that these are freakin expensive? Ha!

In the meantime I settled of some other Jordans just to tie me over, which are the Wolf Grey Air Jordan Retro 5's. I realize that this whole Air Jordan thing is kinda expensive. My brother raises fish, and I hunt for clothes. Whatever, same difference they are both expensive.

The other night a woman took a picture of my Air Jordan 3 White Cement Spizikes, with my Shoeture laces, and it validated my superficial obsession. I get hella love from bouncers for my choices in kicks. They get jealous that their feet are not as small, LOL. The price cut from adult sizes to kids sizes are not that much.

Oh man I wish I was in love with a cheaper shoe.



Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Being in Class with a Hedonist

Whenever I'm in class, I'm elated to be there. I'm eager to read, write, and give feedback to anyone that asks for it. I'm not sure if my classmates are annoyed by my energy, but they have no idea how ecstactic I am to be there with them. I love being transformed into their worlds, and into their vivid stories. I can't stop talking, and praising their work, while being absolutely and deliberate with my feedback. Every word that comes out of my teacher's mouth, becomes absorbed into my brain like a sponge. I like being a sponge.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

The Three Questions I Ask Myself Everyday

1. Will I survive?

2. Will I exceed?

3. Will I be happy?

All three are very selfish questions. But hey, it's just me.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Deleting = #WINNING

Today I deleted every single chat I've ever had in gmail. It was cathartic and necessary.

P.S. I love this song, but the video is stupid. Close your eyes when you listen to this.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

No Facebook Day 28

There are days I'm so emo I belong in a band, stupid hair and all.

Then there are other days I'm driving around in LA, and I'm getting the best sunshine I've ever had. In the time that I've lived here, I've had a wealth of really great life experiences, and profound realizations.

I'm proud of myself for not being afraid to change.

In San Francisco, I was a shell of myself, and didn't know how to make my next move. I knew I wanted to see myself differently, and it took some crazy things to happen in order for me to be solid again.

I was also gifted with great opportunities. I'm in school and I'm happy. I'm writing and I'm working all the time to get to my next goal.

People have asked me if I am going to date while I'm in LA. With me you never really know what's going to happen. I'd like to think of myself as a walking surprise in a box.

Truth be told, I'm just not in the mind state to share my life with someone right now. Or to even initiate it. I feel like I need at least a couple of months, maybe six, to just get my priorities back in order again. Who am I without a man? Well, I'm pretty awesome sometimes, and incredibly more driven.

The priorities are in order, more than ever before. My parents always ask me to move back home, but I'm just not done being a vagabond yet. I have a couple of more months before I figure out where I'm going to go next.

Life is good. It's due to change, but right now it's good.