Saturday, December 13


I envy those who find their faith so easily---and even those who can disregard it all together.

I wish I could do either of those things, but since I can’t, I am stuck in limbo.

My heart is filled with anger. At my family, at myself, at my Lord.

I am angry at my parents for creating this distance between us. I am angry at myself for being unhappy. I am angry at God for not making me better.

He chooses to bring people into light----I fear that I shall be in darkness, because He wills it.
Then where is my will? Am I suppose to fake it until I have some sort epiphany: standing in prayer, my shoulders touching those of a believer, being bitter and resentful.

I’m on my knees, head bowed in shame, hands grasping out to Him, begging His forgiveness, begging to see reason and light and goodness.

Why am I not worthy enough that He should make me believe?

I have tried. I have tried to convince myself. I have tried to follow as much as I can. I tried have to be good, but it is never enough.

This God, this deity, this one who is suppose to love His creations---how can I believe He loves us? How can I believe He wants us to be happy? If He wanted us to be happy, why put people through so much pain when they don’t deserve it? Why do absolutely nothing?

A test. A test. Another fucking test to fail.

We are menial. We are trivial. We are a game for His amusement.

My dad always asks: ‘What will you say, when you stand before your Lord? How will you answer to Him?’

How will He answer those He hurt? Will He---humbled from the pain in the eyes of innocent children, by the grief of widows, the sadness of victims---ask for their forgiveness?

Or simply say: ‘I am sorry, but I grant you paradise. Let’s call it even.’

No. In His game, He has hurt too many. I will not forgive Him. Never.

He knows all. I have no chance. He knows what I will do, what I won’t do. What is in my heart.

I’m tired of His judgment. I’m tired of your judgment. I am tired. I am tired. I am tired.

I have tried. I have failed. I will continue to fail. Fail Him. Fail her. Fail you. Fail me.

Saturday, November 15

Wedding Crasher Wanna-Be...

There’s a wedding celebration going on in our neighborhood. I haven’t decided if they’re actually Desi, or just white people with Eastern flair. They’ve been honking on the streets for the past ten minutes now, as a procession of cars covered in traditional flower wreaths parade down, heading towards the cul-de-sac.

I murmur a little blessing for them--- God knows, all newly weds need some form of divine intervention.
even have half a mind to slip into one of my over-the-top selwars and head down to the party. It could be like Wedding Crashers, minus the alcohol induced stupidity and sex.

Wow…that was such an awkward word to type. I’m actually blushing and if admitting that is super lame, well then….I suppose I’m super lame. There’s no avoiding it; you were going to find out eventually.

This gets me thinking about how awful the prospects of marrying someone is right now. It’s downright terrifying, and I’m you will agree, dear.

I mean, I know it’ll have to happen eventually, because there’s a crap load of religious and social obligations that come along with being a part of the human family.

But to be quite honest, I think learning to live with someone else is so uncomfortable. Once the euphoria wears off, once your husband disappoints you with some insensitive remark, once you find out your wife uses flannel nightgowns, once one of you has a total psycho moment that only your family was privy to, once you see the person they are, rather than the person they want you to believe they are, well…that’s when everything goes wrong. You’re no longer oblivious to their moodiness or neediness or bossiness. Each annoyance is heightened and the love is lost.

If it was ever there to begin with.

I can’t marry someone if there isn’t love to begin with---and I don’t mean that it has to be the romantic kind (I fully understand how it‘s Islamically unacceptable to fall in love before marriage--- lest we all become wanton adulterers--- but would it be too much to ask for a friend-turned-romantic-interest?). It just has to exist.

I think of that couple, they’re beaming faces, and I have to wonder, how long are they going to last? How long before one of them snaps? How long before the line is crossed?

I hope it’s never.

I know I sound cynic. This also, can’t be avoided.

They’re happy now---at least I hope they are. There isn’t a more inauspicious way to start a new life than in misery.

Well, all the best, I suppose.


P.S. I’ve written a preface to a book. It’s awful, but it’s something.
P.P.S. I’m trying to stay focused on writing said book, but the drummers and party-goers were just too distracting.
P.P.P.S. PLEASE don’t get yourselves married off any time soon, that would be a tragedy.
P.P.P.P.S. I was only kidding…sort of.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Sigh. I don’t really know what I’m talking about. I know plenty of happily married people. But I’m sure that any man that decides to marry me, will have a very hard time of things. I’m a super bitch, as my brother will more than happily inform you. Sigh. Perhaps that’s the real Athia, the one at her meanest (but he’s so bloody infuriating, I can’t help being mean to him. My god, if you’ve met the boy you want to strangle him with in the first five minutes! He’s lucky to have survived for this long!).

Sunday, November 2

I'm Too Old for Trick-or-Treating...

We use to have so much fun during Halloween.

I remember the three of us---me, Vera, and Bobby---running like crazy kids down the streets, pumpkin light refractors in tow while our parents kept a watchful eye of us from afar. We’d go out in our homemade costumes that never quite looked right. I remember always wanting to be whatever Vera was and how she would get so upset that her bratty little cousin was always trying to steal her thunder. She’d go stomping to her mum, ready to throw a fit, and her mum would only say, “Oh, she’s the little one. You can both be *insert Disney princess*”

That’s probably why V and Bobby walked a ways ahead of me. Or they could have just been excited about candy---the fatties---and had forgotten that my short little legs couldn't get me as far quick enough.

And, as if on business, we systematically tore the streets hitting each house on the block. Then we’d beg and pled with our parents to take us to the other neighborhoods so we could get more candy even though we had to empty out our bags at least twice already. Someone would grudgingly take us by car and we were once again invincible.

Then when the night was over, we’d sit around in a circle, several feet apart from each other, and dump all the candy in front of us. We’d count out how many pieces each one of us had and the one with most was declared Halloween champion.

Of course, there was the candy stealing---mainly complimentary of Bobby---to try and win the title and battles would break out. We’d shout and then I’d start to cry until the adults told us it was time for bed and that I was the winner. Life is good when you’re a kid.

I feel bad for Asima and Tarn. They’ll never have Halloween the way we did.


Saturday, October 18

Wonderful, They Called Me Wonderful…

So I said, Wonderful, if you insist.

Here I am, forcing myself to write because Alex said I should. Not that I’m a particular fan of following Alex’s advice---it’s usually deluded by his sense of grandeur--- but he did mention he could possible, if not unlikely, hand over

some of my crap to Billy Collins for review.

I’ve heard stories of how critical Collins has been of his students’ writing, and the thought of his genius third judging my work is terrifying and exciting at the same time.

I am officially old enough to use crystal steam ware; or at least that’s the excuse my mum used in order to splurge on a nice set of glasses. I don’t blame her though, they’re pretty amazing.

AND I’ve broken only one out of the dozen set so far. She is certainly proud.

What? I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just washing the dishes.

Sigh. Why does it always feel as though my ipod mind-rapes me?

I found the old story…again.

Not that it mysteriously opened up on my computer screen while I vacantly stared at my documents lists. I had been in search of some inspiration---any tiny bit of spark--- and I figured, where better to start then the fiction that consumed my entire summer and senior year of high school? Why not look back at the train wreck that is teen angst and self-loathing condensed into five awful chapters of drabble?

Holy flippin’ flubber nuggets, I really miss my Beta reader right now. How he managed to get five chapters out of me, is a complete and utter mystery.

And to make matters worse, I’m listening to ‘Run’ by Snow Patrol and it’s making me feel nostalgic and miserable.

To think I might not see those eyes

Makes it so hard not to cry

And as we say our long goodbyes

I nearly do

A man is called a traitor,

Or liberator

A rich man is a thief

Or philanthropist

Is one a Crusader

Or ruthless invader?

It’s all in which label

Is able to persist

Irony is my best friend and worst enemy. It makes me life so much more interesting and tolerable, to be quite honest.

It also makes me look like a total idiot most of the time.

What’s the trouble with poetry?

It’s that people only consider a poet successful when he has music along with his meter.

Well, fuck that. I’m a minimalist. Strip the song of all beats and melody and leave me with the words. I’ll find my way out of the magic you spun with a matchbox in hand.

Why is it that no matter what elementary school you go to, the hallways will always smell of crayons and wet paint?

The most poetic thing I’ve written lately is a post-it note to my imaginary kitten, reminding him to use the litter box or at least go in my brother’s room.

So I’ve been trying to stick to my resolves as of late. In case I haven’t mentioned them, they are to give up politics, self-absorption, boys, penguins, and cupcakes (though, I haven’t really had a cupcake in ages).

I’ve been going to the gym, trying to get fit---and by fit, I mean “stop being a fat ass and put down that cookie.”

It’s not that bad, having to walk the half mile from parking garage A to the Rec. center and then climbing the monolith of stairs to actually get into the building.

The only problem is that fate finds my little attempts amusing.

There is this kid from my class who skateboards past me with a freakin’ ice cream cone every single day.

Damn you. Why do you eat so much ice cream?!?

It makes my grape fruit look pretty pathetic. ><

Well, I think that’s enough rambling for today.


P.S. I put up a UCF flag on my wall today. I feel like I sold my soul to fill the void of the empty cream-colored space.

Saturday, October 11

Just Going...

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been avoiding the news. I figured, the less I hear about the economic crisis, the less likely I am to run around in the nude screaming ‘the end is near!’

We don’t have investments in the stock market anymore---my dad decided to pull out when he saw the drop coming. But we do have a home and cars, and I sure as hell hope it stays that way.

I don’t fancy the idea of living out of my car.

I have not been a rabid liberal, I square.

In all honest, I haven’t been all too keen on political debates for some time----unless of course, it is to set some wayward conservative straight about the fuck-tard that is Sarah Palin( the woman---I use the word lightly---made rape victims of her town pay for their own rape kits. I wouldn’t need to know anything else about her to know that she’s pure evil in stiletto heels).

I’m slightly disappointed that Billy Collins’ idea of inspiration is two words followed by an astounding TWO exclamation points; though I’m pretty excited that I have his autograph, I’m not going to lie. ^^

I don’t seem to enjoy the things I use to, like writing and talking politics and baking and knitting and being with my friends.

It’s as though I’ve taken my final steps into being resident recluse; yet I’ve left behind the parts of me that enable happiness.

Have I sacrificed my happiness for sanity?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Apparently, my sister feels as though she lives behind my shadow. I would never guess that anyone---let alone a member of my family---would consider me accomplished enough to devastate their young and fragile existence.

Personally, I think she’s just pissed that people tend to like me more than her. It’s not a surprise, considering she’s more abrasive and rude and bossy than I am. Plus she only has one eyebrow and that tends to scare kids.

Alright, that last bit isn’t true; not that she doesn’t have a uni-brow, just that it doesn’t frighten children.

Well, that’s all for now folks.


P.S. Sarah Palin ruined Alaska for me.

Monday, September 29


I'm still thinking about SLC.


Sunday, September 14

Blindly Blinded...

I've realized that I'll never feel what I ought to feel for God. Prayers and fasting are all useless to me---mechanical motions I force myself to go through.

Where is the heart in it? Where is the blind faith?

I wish I could get the satisfaction that I see all those around me have. I wish that God would purify my soul, my thoughts---me. I wish he would chose to guide me to piety.

Then I wouldn't feel so guilty and hedonistic.

Or bloated. But I think that has more to do with Taco Bell then Mr. Divine, Himself.

Saturday, September 13

Hide and Go Seek Around...

It's so hard to find words these days. They've hidden themselves from me, perhaps as a shield from the endless fog in my mind.
Perhaps a shield from the reality.

Writing is my instrument for truth. Without it, I can neither make distinction between fiction and reality, nor right and wrong.

This is a right ol' mess.


P.S. I never got to see my dearest Billy Collins. Maybe there is hope for the Jason Mraz concert----if fate wills it.

Monday, September 8

Muga Me Endlessly...

I'm tired of writing letters to no one.

hahaha. Sarah Palin. ahahaha

'America, get there early because hope don't park your mother fucking car'
-Jon Stewart referring to Obama's DNC acceptance speech.


P.S. I'm bad.

Friday, August 29

Rebirth of a Bedroom Floor...

Yes, miracles are possible.

I'm officially a college student. How exciting...or not. It's all pretty much the same nonsense----it's just all a lot more expensive.

It’s hard, trying to forget all the nonsense from last year. I’m trying though----if that counts for anything.

I have every intention of working diligently, getting involved, and somehow finding my way to a top medical school; but I want to put my heart in it. If I could just manage to put an ounce as much passion into this as I have for writing, then nothing can stop me. I’ve just got to find it… somehow.

I feel awful for saying this, but not being able to go to SLC still burns inside. I know it’ll be one of my greatest regrets in life and that I’ll always feel a sting of cruel injustice. Whatever happened to ‘if you want something bad enough, the entire universe conspires for it to happen’?

Way to fuck up, oh Great Cosmos. You’ve conspired for the wrong people, you rotten fiends!

It doesn’t help matters that my days are wasted at UCF--- god knows I won’t ever fit in. It isn’t my place.

But then again, it’s been eighteen years and I’ve yet to find my ‘place’. I’d say it’s about time I settled for something, anything at all.

It just hurts---- knowing that I’ll never know.

Enough, though. I think it’s time to say enough.

Wednesday, July 16



Thursday, May 29

Nostalgia Part .01

I think the world doesn’t make sense anymore.
Not that it did before or anything remarkable.

I’m at my aunt’s house again, sleeping on the same hard tile, watching Finding Nemo for the fourth time today.

Oh, nostalgia, how you slay me. I suppose I should do a wrap up of high school----burry it and hope it doesn’t come back like some deranged zombie hell-bent on feeding off my worst memories.

It wasn’t all that bad though. Well, actually, it sucked. Supremely. Is it sad that my fondest school memories are of SGS? I should have taken Vera seriously when she said Sampson would be the best years of my life--- but then again, I was still a rebellious kid who thought that Linkin Park was the end all be all of music and that dying silver streaks in my hair was cool.

I’ve done a lot of stupid things. Most of them were the product of rash thinking and want of attention.

But this year was something else. This year, I plunged into the unknown not because I was bored, or wanted mommy and daddy to notice me. I did it for myself. I figured it was my last chance, and that grades were just retarded confinements set up for a system ruled by fascists (alright, nothing quite that radical) . And sure, the more riske among us will call my spontaneity weak…but I’ll have you know dear, it was epic.

I was never prepared to make my own decisions. I wasn’t even prepared to stand up for myself. Something that, to a normal human being, would seem common or insignificant----like an audition or a college application or even a conversation with a stranger---was completely out of my realm. I did a lot of things that many girls with my background and breeding would never dare. Yes, I’m still under parental supervision. Yes, I still yearn for their approval. But I’m learning that in order to be happy, I have to do the things that make me happy---even if it’s not conventional.

Who needs conventional happiness anyway, ey?

I think I’m beginning to like the person that I am. I’m in that place right now. You know, that place where things are just sitting in the perfect spot and you just hope to god that the tide doesn’t change and wreck everything? Yeah, that’s the one.

This isn’t even a tiny chunk of what I want to say, but my aunt is telling me that sleep calls, and if I’ve learned anything at all in my lifetime, it’s not to upset a cranky Asian woman.


Saturday, May 24

Broken Records & Empty Words...

Everyone thinks they’re a superb singer in the shower.
It’s a proven
But let me just tell you now, friend: you aren’t. Neither am I.

We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things…
What a flaming disappointment. I think my heart exploded with so much dissatisfaction. I was expecting something beautiful and effortless. I had expected him to plaster his soul about my wall through the speakers.

There was a certain lack of wit. Hell, there was a lack of inspiration. It was all so commercial and phony.

Where was the spark of genius? Did he suddenly decide to tuck his heart inside his sleeve and move on from there?


I feel like this album was made just to appease a starving record company. I want to believe that he hasn’t completely sold out, that he’ll make that acoustic album and everything will be alright again.

For now, my guitar gently weeps for you, Jason Mraz--- you who have forgotten music in your pursuit of pot and groupies. I hope you’re proud.

Friday, May 23

Tickle Me, Silly...

Sleep makes it all feel so much better.

I wonder if that's a sign.

What would you do if I sang out of tune,
Would you stand up and walk out on me?

Wednesday, May 21

Cynicism, Beware

WARNING: This post has not been censored by the logical part of my brain. It is asterisked for language, content, emo-ness, and implied homicidal tendencies. If any of this offends you, please stop reading NOW.

I typically don’t like watching chick flicks. They’re screen plays written by women lacking in a healthy and functioning romantic life, who find certain pleasure in misleadingly upping our standards for men (don’t ever say I never fought for you, men).

I always feel so degraded and unsatisfied afterwards. It’s kind of like I’m the cherry lip gloss you find at the dollar store check out counter; the one that all the little kids stick their tiny fingers into, but no one ever buys.

Way to build my self esteem.

It’s always the same story. Girl is either unapproachable, incorrigible, or in some way unattractive, hence has thriving insecurities. Boy is successful, typically a womanizer, and has way too much charm for any woman’s sake. Boy meets girl. Boy uses girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Boy screws up. Girl slaps boy. Girl realizes boy and girl had fun together. Girl loses all dignity and goes crawling back to boy.

And so the cycle of masochism begins again for another unassuming----and most likely insecure-yet-beautiful----tragic heroine.

Why yes, I am a cynic.

Why is it that the people who seem to succeed most in life are total bastards? They have no qualms about stepping over others in pursuit of their ambitions, and they frighten off all the good people until there are none left. Why are the manipulators and condescending jerks always ahead ---even though we know exactly how big a douchebag they really are?

Back to masochism, I guess.

I just think of all the people I know who are considered successful by all societal means and they’re really awful. Sometimes we make excuses for them.

‘Oh, she’s only that way because she’s got a strong personality. You need that to play with the big dogs.’
Why can’t they just say she’s a cold bitch who doesn’t care about who she hurts as long as she proves to the world that she was right in the process?


‘He’s just under so much pressure to be the best. He is a legacy, after all.’
Don’t you mean he’s a spoiled little man whore who’s had everything handed to him his entire life, and it’s still not enough for him, because he obviously can’t find satisfaction?


I think that’s what you meant to say.

Ugh. Too much meanness here.

P.S. I have to go to school tomorrow. Meh.

Monday, May 19

There's Nothing You Can Sing That Can't Be Sung...

This will be my last entry from the media center.
I put on my headphones, hoping that music will evoke some sort of feeling in me, some reaction appropriate for the occasion. Maybe it’ll explain why I’m lingering here instead of busting through the doors that have kept me at bay for so long.
I hit shuffle and Do You Realize by the Flaming Lips is playing.
Do you realize that happiness makes you cry?
But the thing is I’m neither happy nor sad. I’m completely apathetic. I’ve been released from this physical manifestation of my failures, yet it hardly means a thing. It’s as if it’ll all begin again in another cycle of torture yourself while you wait in limbo, bitch.
The next song? Blackbird.
Sigh. This certainly is a promising beginning to a life of self-indulgence and bitterness.

Well, so long dear friends. From here I will report of my daily nothings no more. Goodbye media center, good bye Wallace the wall. Goodbye memories. I’d rather forget you any day.


Thursday, May 15

We've Almost Made It, Friend.


Wednesday, May 14

Would You Love Me Even If I Didn’t Have Eyebrows?

Because I've always been quite self-conscience about them. I've been thinking of waxing them off completely---then I wouldn't have to worry.

I'm at school right now, sitting at one of the fancy computers trying to remember things. Life has been going by remarkabl fast and I couldn't be happier (insert 'simply, couldn't be happier' without underlying hints of depression and guilt. Believe me, there is nothing to feel sad about).
It’s strange, this excess of nostalgia--- so poignant, so evident--- as I walk down the corridors. People that I’ve barely know---nameless faces scattered throughout the years---are smiling and waving as if we were long lost friends. I can literally see the stress melt away, burdens being buried in the past. We are moving forward, the worlds tremble on my lips. Bitter sweet and condescending, I have to wonder if these feelings of uncertainty and awkwardness will ever disappear. I wonder if high school was the catalyst of it all, or if it’s something inside me. Well, we’ll find out soon enough.
You’re the bubble gum stuck to the bottom of my Soul,
Save me, and not in the way of religion.
I’m not a slacker, I’m artistic. I’m also unmotivated---which pretty much coincides with the former.
I’m not sure if I’ll miss this place. I don’t think so. I don’t think I ever truly settled. I don’t think I ever will.
I keep having this fantasy where I publish the book I’m currently working on and I have enough money to pay for SLC. Then I’d get out of here and this and away from them and be done with it all. Pathetic, ey? I know.

It's suddenly become very loud in the library. I think that's my que to leave.


P.S. will post better blog with nifty pictures once I get home. I'm not planning on studying for Econs. today...or ever for that matter.

Monday, May 5

Trees, Trees, Trees!

I don’t really have much to say lately.

I had a sarcasm OVERLOAD after going to Asima’s talent show. I’m telling you, it was ridiculous. It seemed as if every kid invited their entire family plus their neighborhood. I was expecting some radically sweet performances---what with a full house and all.

But of course, elementary school functions disappoint just as much high school ones. They’ve just got mini-people involved. And not midgets. Kids. By the end of the night, I was ready to shoot the next douchbaggette to defile my stage with a subpar performance of Hannah Montana lip synching.

Boy who smiles does not like me. He acknowledges my existence, at best. I’m too childish, I guess. At least that’s what he said. Not in a condescending way, but in a ‘haha. No one can take you seriously. You’re childish’ way. Which is true. I am quite childish and proud. Viva la youth!

I’m going into the business of drawing henna tattoos. Interested? I’m giving up my post secondary education and am applying for work at IOA. That way, I can wear a gypsy suit ALL the time. You should come visit me one day.

My room is a war zone. I’m just too scared to go in there and clean it---lest the monsters try and get me. There is definitely something living on my couch, hidden under mounds of clothes, books, scattered papers, cough drop wrappers, and used tissues. I can’t even find my knitting needles and it’s driving my hands crazy.

We had our gov’t test at UCF today. Though the campus is lackluster in history and character, it has beautiful trees. By the fountain, there are these gorgeous oak trees littered about the grounds. I went up to each one and introduced myself.

I’m sure we’ll be great friends.

In elementary school, there was this huge oak tree out front and I would play on it every single day before going home. I’d hide acorns or pretend I was a pirate jumping from ship to ship or act like I was an international spy on a secret mission. I’d leave maps for the squirrels to find acorn booty. Or I’d let the tree cradle me as I did my homework.

Those were happy times for me.

Maybe UCF won’t be that bad. I mean, they have beautiful trees that remind me so much of my childhood.

Insert amusing musing.

-Cheers! P.S. Here are some pictures from senior awards night.

Me & the Dad

That's my Mum...we're suppose to be related.
The Friends.

The 'no more effing pictures!' look

Sunday, April 27

Medicinal High, How Are You?

There is three weeks worth of laundry stashed away in my closet. I’ve been contemplating whether or not to trudge down to the washroom and toss the clothes in for a spin. That, however would require venturing out of my room and down the stairs--- and with my current too-sick-to-move disposition, it’s not the most practical idea. I’m scraping the very backs of drawers and digging deep within the depths of my closet in search of something to wear. Perhaps I’ll show up to school in my froggy pajama bottoms and timber creek t-shirt.

I know my mum would be more than happy to wash my dirty clothes, but I will not enter back into the vicious cycle of codependence. She knows, as well as I do, that the relationship of a mother and daughter hangs solely in the balance of who washes whose undergarments. I will not be silly putty in that crazy woman’s hands anymore---- even if that means going to school in the nude!

Fine. I’ll ask her.

Meh. I hate laundry. I’m moving to a nudist colony so I never have to do it again. But first, I’ll have to gauge out my eyes. Then everything will be perfect.

Cynicism is not sexy. At least from my experience, boys don’t consider it an attractive characteristic. Oh well. We’re all going to die anyways.

He he he. See! I can still be funny…ish!

I never truly appreciated being able to breath out of my nostrils until now. I guess what they say is right: you never appreciate what you have until you catch a cold from an ungrateful little bint you spent he whole day caring for (referring to my sister here). I’m almost so taken over in sadness for such a loss that I may just write an ode to my nose.

Oh Nose, I will never chop off
Your pug shape will remain the same
No matter how the trends scoff
As the days go by and the seasons change name.
Friend, foe, when stuffy I’ll blow
The snot out of you
And breath freely again
There is no distance I won’t go
To try and help you through
You are my best friend.

Yeah…that basically took all my energy, so…goodnight.


P.S. Stuff it.

Tuesday, April 22

We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things…

Eep. His new CD comes out in MAY! :D
Yes, I’m excited. I just hope it won’t be a disappointment.

I’m saving myself for Jason Mraz and not in the way you’re thinking, pervert.
As soon as he starts touring again in the States, I’ll go to my very first non-orchestral/band concert. Lame, I know.

I’m two seconds and a crazy straw away from moving to Canada. I’ll much on whale nuggets and add nifty words like ‘aye’ and ‘aboot’ to my vocabulary. America Jr. recycles.

: ( they just mentioned SLC on the Simpsons. Dammit.

Mum dragged me to Joanne’s yesterday. Have you ever noticed how absolutely uncomfortable the boys you find there look? They’re either overcompensating for being in a craft store by trying to look macho while holding their mother’s purses, or they have a vacant, confused, and almost constipated stare. I saw this one kid who was trying to vibe the ‘tough man attempting to grow a mustachio’ in the time he spent waiting on the check-out line.

I’ve been let down by the get down if you know what I mean…I think. I don’t really know what I’m babbling on bout.

My room cleaning attempts leave much to be desired. I think I actually made it worse.

I’m throwing away my SLC letter. Well, at least I’ll try to.

P.S. I've got a new obsession: knitting. It's amazing. :D

Monday, April 7

blah blah change change,.

Shove cyanide down my throat; I’m back at school.
You know, being accepted into SLC hasn’t done much for me---aside from mucking everything up in a pretty brilliant way. I think I would have been somewhat content-ish with UCF if I had been rejected from my dream school. Or I might just have gone out Sylvia Plath style (I kid. I don’t even know where I’d find a gas oven in Florida).

Thursday, February 28

The Mushrooom...

Starting a satirical magazine.

Help wanted.


Tuesday, February 26

Jingle of Gypsy Skirts

I don't have much to say lately.

I'm just really sad and I wish someone would rescue me. Which is stupid. Only you can rescue yourself. Right?

I think...


Friday, February 15

Into The Void...

I can’t sleep.

I want to drop my pre-calculus class.

Dear God,
Please let it work out for me. Just once. Please let everything be okay.

Thursday, February 7

Some Other Where...

I am the blind woman’s teacup.
I am the blind woman’s teacup.
I am the blind woman’s teacup.
I am the blind woman’s teacup.
I am the blind woman’s teacup.


I can’t see myself the way that others see me. I don’t see the potential, or the talent, or the strength. I look into the mirror and see the wide eyed failure I truly am.

But friend, I believe things will be better some day; that I’ll be in a better place, that I’ll be a better person. I just have to keep on keeping with the times even when I can’t keep keeping anymore.

I am bound by obligation, weighted down by responsibility I never wanted.
I want to be selfish and unkind. But I can’t.

This is an awful place to be.

If the greatest truth is the self, than I think I’ll reject your impositions and rejoice in my own.


Monday, January 28

Old Words Still Ziploc Fresh...

“You never change.” She whispered it like a secret that thrashed through the air until it found a resting place lodged somewhere in my brain. I was trying to process this prolific revelation--- I never change.

“You hate me so much. You never want to come close to me. But I’m your mother. I am your mother.” As if possessed by something else entirely, she began chanting her new mantra, a prayer to God asking to wipe her hands clean of me, her voice dripping with nothing but regret.

Those were, perhaps, the most earth shattering words my mother ever said to me. All this time, I thought she was the one who hated me. She was supposed to be the one who hated, not I. She was cold and distant, guarded and bitter all throughout my childhood and adolescence. I was too scared to approach her, let alone get near enough to strike up a mother-daughter bond---a bond I probably wanted more than she did.

I wanted to remember something good. I filed through my vast stores of memory looking for small bits of proof that she is more than fury. Did she love me when she sang me a lullaby? Did she love me when I took my first step, said my first word, wrote my first story? Did she want me after all the things I put her through?

Part of me wanted to embrace her, pity her; tell her that none of this was real. ‘We are happy’ I would say or, “we could be.”

I examined her face, trying to read past her hard expression, trying to find some sort of explanation. She wasn’t the same bright, enchanting woman she had been seventeen years ago---nothing at all like the pictures tell. Her jovial face was now worn from time

and age and struggle; tiredness written in every line, sacrifices for her family swimming in the pools of her eyes.

I should have been loving then. I should have been gracious, but the petty side won out.

“How does it feel to be pushed away from someone you love?” It was divine liberation. It was freedom. It was glory beyond reason. It was excessively cruel, vindictive, low.

The fight ended as they normally did: a violent shouting match moved forward by resentment and tar soaked hearts.

I regret my words. There was no justice. We were both wrong. Yet, I just couldn’t bring myself to say that two-syllable word that seemed so impossible. I couldn’t push it past my lips and change everything.

I could have changed our relationship if only I had been brave enough, if I had been strong enough. Instead, I let my frustrations and anger boil and brew over into some poisonous concoction that burned us both.

We love, but do not say so. There is no redemption for the pain our silences cause. I never change.

I wish I could.

Wednesday, January 23

Frosting Over Disaster...

La Violette:
Sir, your father is here.
Don Juan:
Well, how opportune! It’s just what was needed to drive me out of my mind.

I’ve been acting quite odd lately—fits of mad giggling, strange gurgling sounds, and outlandish facial expressions.

Yes, quite out of the ordinary.

Perhaps I've had too many cupcakes.
I act like such an idiot sometimes. And I'd like to explain myself. It's just that I don't have a good reason.

I’m scared, friend. But I feel like a wind-up doll. I always say such things. I’ve said them so often that people disregard my words completely and refuse to take me seriously.

Please don’t question my sincerity. You can say that I’m mad, or stupid, or silly, but you can’t say that I’m insincere. I genuinely love you, and I honestly hate you----all to the same person, dear.
I hate the way my mum says drama. Like it's a swear. It's the same way my dad says Harry Potter.
Silly little girl, who thought that because her mum volunteered to chaperon Districts, that they
were making huge steps towards a healthy and functioning relationship.
Ah, you idealists slay me.

School That Shall Not Be Named makes me really sad. Why do dreams have to be THIS painful? I think I’d settle for ‘almost makes you want to jump off a bridge’ syndrome instead of this ‘…wasting away in madness here! Let’s burry me alive, ey?’ condition.


P.S. I got my official UCF acceptance letter today. Bye, bye dream!

Sunday, January 20

Yes Sir...

They say I've wasted the last four years of my life. They say I've accomplished nothing.

Here I am thinking I've peaked or something.

Apparently, not.

Friday, January 18

Kafka Meets Collins

and I was just thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were
standing side by side on a place mat.

I wondered if they had become
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one

like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
each other at the same time---

me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading

Is there anyone leaning in a doorway somewhere near some blue hydrangeas reading this?

Please tell me there is.

Collins makes me want to be a happy poet---throw out that surrealist scrapbook of crap and write about nostalgia, write about that feeling when I was ten and nine and seven, about the blind woman’s teacup and forgetfulness, write about undressing Emily Dickinson; leave the world of ambiguity behind. Embrace clarity. He makes me want to claw my way back to reality and plaster it about my walls, enjoy every shade of life dear, he seems to say.

I think that I’d be too star struck to sit through one of his class lectures. I’d just stare in awe, trying to absorb it all. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

Kafka. Kafka is all I can think about lately--- flippin’ marshmallows, my negativity senses are tingling.

I’m going to end up like him, aren’t I?

What a beautiful failure---wasting away, lost in existentialism [har har], trying his entire life to please his parents but failing to do so, and then finally dying alone and miserable from a painful disease. Well, at least it was poetic, tragic, gut-wrenching.

I don’t take my mother seriously. Now my father is a different issue entirely. I would never dare walk out on him. I suppose it’s because I respect him, and don’t care about her.

I hate maths. I always feel so dumb after that class.

I’m uncomfortable. I feel like I’ve been thrown back into the awful ol’ days of Strange kid with the head thing, from the pleasantness of Athia, The Freak. I’ve been demoted back to anonymity.

I don’t know why she did it.

Words drown out the sound of my mum’s screeching. Stories take me anywhere but here. That’s why I love them so much. That’s why I savor the sensation…I need it.

What a desperate little girl.

I was in McNamara’s class yesterday, making up a test.
It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“Why do you skip school so much?” she was looking at me and then to my test, her left nostril flaring with congestion.

And I tried to explain to her. I tried to make her understand that I just couldn’t bring myself to go school. I can’t bring myself to face my failures. I can’t be around people for long periods of time without having some sort of break down. It’s too much.

I need time to charge.

I couldn’t explain how darkness seemed to seize me every so often and I how can’t force myself to participate with people anymore. All I want is to run into my closet and hide or sleep my life away.

It’s amazing how you can build a reputation as resident crazy in a matter of seconds.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you shared.” Smile. Nod. Turn away.

Why did that seem oddly reminiscent of how all the adults in my life act around me?


Thursday, January 17

Here Now & There No More...

Cheers to a first entry, and many more happy tidings to come.