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Estranged Parents.

I finally had my last day of class today. I’m just happy school is done with.

I woke up this morning, much earlier than usual. I didn’t have class until 2PM, but I was out of bed by 9:30AM. My sleep was interrupted by my urge to pee. But once I released my bladder, I couldn’t find it in me to go back to bed. His mother offered me a very delicious and filling breakfast. I accepted it with a smile, and walked towards the dining table. Table set, and prepared. Typical Filipino breakfast consisting, scrambled eggs, two slices of spam, and rice. It was odd though, because the egg is usually sunny side up. But hey, who’s complaining, I’ll eat anything and it was delectable. Spoon on the right, fork on the left atop a neatly folded napkin. See now, what I’ve learned (from observation, of course)is that most Filipinos eat with a fork and a spoon. The spoon acts as a knife. A sidekick if I may, to help gather food and such. I’m not used to it. I have no idea how to hold both utensils “properly” and simultaneously to have it work the way it should. So as usual, I just used a fork. I’m not too fancy with the idea of using chopsticks. I’m not exactly an expert. I’ve eating with a fork or a spoon all my life. Rarely a pair of chopsticks, and barely both the spoon and fork. Earlier, she had given me a choice of water or orange juice as my preferred drink, and of course, I chose orange juice. I don’t think I can stress how nice, sweet, and friendly his mother is. Sometimes, I wish my mother was that way. My mother is… different. Anyway, before I began to dig in, I had a choice between regular traditional Heinz Tomato ketchup, or banana ketchup.  I’m afraid to try banana ketchup, since banana anything, other than the fruit itself scares me. So I just stuck with the usual ketchup. As soon as I finished, I washed the dishes. It’s the least I could do.

And I repeat, the meal was amazing. Spam, eggs, and rice. Sounds simple. But to be honest, I don’t get this kind of stuff at home. Not unless I make it myself. My parents barely talk to me so it’s odd when I see other parents so friendly and open to talk. I mean, the night before I spent about 30 minutes to an hour conversing with his mother about a bunch of random stuff. At first I didn’t know how to respond to her story telling. I just nodded, smiled and agreed. But after I while I realized why I was so awkward. I’m not used to having parents talk to me. Especially my parents. I don’t know. Just he idea of a parent, regardless who’s, willing to sit and speak to me. It’s just new to me. I’m too used to dealing with parents who lack communication with their children.

On a side note, Christmas is this Saturday, and Eve on Friday. My family usually celebrates on Eve, but everyone is working this Friday, so we changed it to Saturday. Every year, my family plays Secret Santa. This year, I got one of my cousins. And it’s so hard, because he doesn’t talk. I’ve only spoken to him once, though I grew up with him all my life, lol. I’ll probably just get him something generic.

Mother’s home now. Gonna help her with groceries.

Prepare for awkward silence when I try to talk to her or my father. They intentionally ignore me. But I don’t blame them. I’m the family fuck-up. Everyone knows.

Toodles.

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(Untitled)

When it comes down to this. I do have someone to talk to. I do have someone to confide to. The thing is, I refuse to open myself up to those who care. I don’t want them to see how vulnerable I am. You see now, they see me as the stronger one who’s able to brush off things that would make most people implode. But I don’t really brush it off. I just suck it in and let it linger in my mind as I replay the words and actions in my mind over and over again like a bad movie on Lifetime. The thoughts build up, and the emotions begin to run wild. Everything becomes chaos, and suddenly the riot escapes. And that’s when the reckless, garrulous, thoughts begin to break loose. Every word, every phrase, every sentence, that slips my lips barely holds any truth–if any, for that matter. My words bleed of desperation and desire. The desire to make things right again, and the cries for help.

So I turn to my only get away. Writing is the only way I can release myself without hindering my thoughts. Why? Simply because the mass majority of people reading this don’t know me too well, if at all. There’s less room for judgement, and more room for a virtual connection. I don’t know what it is. I guess is easier to speak vicariously through the internet than it is to an actual person.

But there is only one person that I want to talk to right now and he won’t even speak to me. And half the things I want to say, I can’t say, for fear of abandonment and misunderstandings. I don’t know how to handle it. All I can do is lay here and think about everything that went wrong. Everything I said wrong. Everything I did wrong. Everything I said but honestly didn’t mean. I can apologize a million times, weep in sorrow, and cry in vain, but none will be heard. Every word and every action will be left ignored. Because I’m here in my room alone. If only he knew.

I swear, I’ve got no one.

I’m sitting here alone. In my room. Let me draw the setting. It’s a room colder than ice. It’s empty. It’s plain. It’s lonely. It’s dark. The walls are empty, and the cold New York wind sneaks through the air conditioner vents. The radiator is broken and the sound of my CPU hums in sync with the clacking of my keyboard. It’s quite depressing. My fingers are numb—fist throbbing in pain. My feet no longer exist, the frosty air has overcome me. The only thing pleasant, is the fruitful scent of my room. I’m shivering. I can feel the goosebumps crawling across my skin, over my body.

I sit here and continue with my daily routine. As if nothing is wrong, and everything is fine. People believe me. Trust me they do. But the few people that do know, not much effort is given or shown. I sit and think about what I have in my life. The chills trickle down my spine as I try to understand what I can appreciate.

I have all these material things, but what do they mean without another warm human being’s care and affection? I have family. I have friends.

My family? Oh. My father doesn’t speak to me, my mother only complains. But I can’t bad-mouth them about their lack of affection. I know why it’s not present. And I don’t blame them. I won’t accept it, and I refuse to accept it. Why? Because if I accept it, then I’ll actually have remorse for all the shit I’ve caused. Not the right thing to do, I know. But I’m working on changing it. Procrastinating, and flipping the script so I’m the victim. But in the end, I know I’m wrong for doing so. I hate who I am, and I don’t deserve what I’ve been given.

My grandmother. She’s a sweet, kind woman. How is it, that Asian parents don’t show affection until after they grow old and their children have children. Is this their idea of tough love? Their way of raising us to be strong? Who knows. My grandmother is lovely, but everything is a joke to her. I cry, and she laughs at me for crying. I get angry, she laughs because I’m upset. But when I don’t come home. When I don’t speak to her. She begins to ask if I hate her. If I’m upset at her. And my honest to God answer, is no. Never, can I ever be upset at my grandmother. Yes, she annoys me sometimes, but all is forgiven. I love her dearly, but she doesn’t speak English. And the only language she speaks and understands, I can barely slip out the basics.

My sister, that fucking conniving ass spiteful bitch. I hope she’s tortured and raped in hell. I hate her with all my passion. I swear the day that I murder her, that day will come. I will go to prison if it means removing that bitch from this world. But that would be pointless. Because she’s only a bitch towards me, and that wouldn’t help anyone. Because everyone seems to love her so much more, than they do me. My parents. My family. Our friends. Everyone. Why? Because I’m the family fuck up. I’m the one that fucked up, but never learned. And her, she’s the one that fucked up, and cleaned up her act. She’s the one that gets away with being a fucking prick. And I’m wrong to get upset. She’s rude. She’s inconsiderate. She’s ruthless. I swear, she thinks it’s okay to disrespect me regardless of the situation. We would go one day without seeing one another, and the moment she gets home, I have to deal with her explosive attitude directed towards me. I’ve done nothing to provoke her. Nothing. And I promise, not even the slightest thing. She just feels that I am her inferior, merely because I am younger. By a year. One fucking year. I know it sounds minor. I know it sound pathetic. But the level of shit I have to put with because of her, is beyond metric measurements. I could write a whole book about how much I loath her. And I mean loath. Abhor. Despise. HATE.

These people. These people complain to me. They complain that I don’t spend time with them. They complain that I don’t update them. They complain that I’ve forgotten about them. They complain that I’ve shown no effort. But the thing is, I’ve put way to much effort. I always make sure they’re all happy and dandy. I don’t care if it makes me unhappy. I don’t care if I have to jump through flaming hoops. I will go through hell and back to make them happy. Why because they’re my closest friends. The term, “best friend” is over-used. It’s lost it’s meaning. And if I ever do use it. And genuinely mean it, then that person damn well would go through hell twice, live there and back for me. And hell, you know, that I’m sure of it. But I don’t use that term. I do, but only because it’s easier to say. But I’m sitting here, colder than a naked man in the arctic ocean. With so much to say. So much to release. So much I want to cry about. And how pathetic I feel. How emotionally unstable I always am. How I’m tired of hiding it all. How hiding everything has gotten so much harder throughout the years. How all I wanted was to be happy. And with the life I live, I can barely be content.

But I have no one. No one to go to. No one to talk to. No one who will understand. And no one who will truly care. Yeah, they’ll comfort me, but only because they feel obliged. They’ll say a few cliché lines and hope I fall for their façade. They’ll see that I’m upset, and ask what’s wrong. Only because they’re curious. Not because they care. And after listening to me mope for a minute or less, their only resort is to agree and start talking about themselves. I know I sound selfish, but I want one moment. Just one moment where someone is willing to hear me out, and not tell me everything I’ve heard before. I know it’s pathetic to whine about shit like this, but sometimes, I just want to do the wrong thing and let it pass. Learn from it in the end. I’m tired of trying to be two steps ahead of myself. I’m tired of trying to protect myself. I just want someone to listen. And not just listen, but I want feedback. What’s the point of talking to someone if all they do is say, “mhm,” and agree. I’d much rather write “mhm” and “that’s true” across my wall and speak to it.

Fuck it. I can’t do this. Why am I so weak.

I guarantee you no one is going to read this post. At least not all of it.

‘Cause no one cares. Truly cares.

A Few Hours Too Late.

I was busy all day yesterday, and couldn’t find my way to a computer until now. I’d like to pay my respects to the victims and heroes of September 11th 2001. A year ago, I wrote a short memory of my experience that day.

And since I will only be on this laptop for a couple minutes more, I’ll leave you with this:

Daily Routines.

Today was just one of those days where you wake up and you feel like shit.

There’s no hot water in the shower, you barely have any tooth paste left, and the new tubes of toothpaste are locked up somewhere in some dungeon that you have no access to. So you brush your teeth with the small excrement of toothpastes that’s left and move on with your life. You try to find clothes to wear for the beaming hot weather outside, only to realize that you’ve gained weight and are too fat for even the plain t-shirts you once fit loosely only a few months ago. And when you finally settle with a shirt that looked super cute on your stick skinny sister, you realize that your tits in that shirt makes you look morbidly obese. So you take off that shirt and grab a giant hobo-looking shirt that just makes you look like you borrowed Rosie O’ Donnel’s shirt, throw it on and run out the house.

You look at your phone and you realize you should’ve left 30 minutes ago, and pray that the bus and train will love you, and arrive the second you get to the bus stop or train station. But instead, the bus takes forever to come, and every train but the train you need arrives.

So as an alternative, you take the train that’s already in the station, hoping it’ll get you to your destination faster even though it doesn’t stop by your school.

Bad idea.

Tracks are under construction, and you end up in different parts of New York City that you never even knew existed.

After making four-million transfers, and finally get on the train you needed in the first place, you nearly miss your stop, drop your phone, have four people try to pick it up and hand it to you before the doors close, and accidentally step on a big black guy’s foot as you run out. You turn back and see him glaring at you in frustration and you quickly turn back towards the stairs. You scram up the stairs replaying the last 48 seconds and realize the only reason why you nearly missed your stop was because you were too busy being distracted by the the little 6 year old girl playing a game on her dad’s iPhone. As you run through the turnstile, you wonder what game she was playing so you can go home and install it onto your iTouch.

You run up the escalators and and as soon as you reach the sidewalk, there’s a fat guy in red blocking your path, walking ever so slowly. You suddenly grow a momentary hatred towards people who wear red, being that just the day before, a fat lady in a red dress was causing the same kind of traffic on the sidewalks of Dumbo.

Remember? You texted your friend, telling him there was a big red fire truck in front of you?

Yeah, that’s what you get for making fun of fat people in red.

More fat people in red.

You reach Namm Hall, and flash your ID to the security guards out front. Luckily, the elevators arrived just as you turned the corner. Seven floors to go. Little do you know, the elevator arriving on time is and will be the only climax of your day. You get to class an hour late and you’re left to sit next to the weird guy in class who can’t stop staring at you. Who knows. There’s fourty minutes left, and you’re wondering why you’re learning fifth grade math in college. Even though your advisor clearly stated that you were qualified for the advanced course.

The professor finally dismisses your class and you shamefully walk to the front of the lecture room to nullify your absence mark. Walk out of class and have the most grotesque and rude student walk by you and call you “sexy.” In disgust, you walk into the next elevator and pray that it doesn’t stop on every floor. And just your luck, it stops on every floor. Once it hit ground floor, you intended on jetting out and finally escaping the torture of having to be in school, but the parade of students rampaging into the elevator made it so hard for everyone to get out.

After fighting the riot, you rush out the front door and walk towards the train station. As you walk, you read a couple unread text messages on your ancient Blackberry, and you reject all who invited you to lunch. Hoping to get home and catch up on sleep, you walk down the stairs into the train station and swipe your metrocard. Unaware that the turnstile did not read your first swipe, you stupidly ram your hip into the metal bars and bounce back in dismay. One more swipe, and you’re in.

You race down the stairs as you hear a train approach the platform. You walk up to a door waiting for it to open, and feel lucky to see that there was an empty seat. Unfortunately, the moment, you sit down, a fat lady with her three kids walk in and stand three inches away from your seat, smelling like sweat and grease. Great.

So you fall asleep on the train, waking up every few minutes to check what stop you’re on. You reach your stop and walk up the stairs in hope that your bus won’t leave you. You walk out of the train station into the bus terminal and see a massive line of people moving into your needed bus, and pray that you get a seat, because you calves are killing you for working all evening without break the day before. That’s when you’re reminded that you’re severely out of shape, and your plans to go jogging were cancelled, due to the boiling hot weather.

As you dip your metrocard to get on the bus, you spot one last seat all the way in the back. Suddenly, you have no peripheral vision. Your focus is on that empty seat, and nothing else. You walk back there, sit down, and close your eyes. You listen to Mi$$ Yellow’s mix of songs that she DJ’d for Hellz Bellz. It’s on blast, and you hear Amanda Blank singer her ultimate slut anthem, Might Like You Better. This strange song is abruptly interrupted by the screeching and crying of a baby infant sitting on it’s mother’s lap next to you. Ultra stone-face.

You attempt to drown out the crying, only to run your eyes across something disturbing. A man sitting a few feet away from you with a boner under his sweats staring at Thickness, over there, with her jugs flopping out. You try to close your eyes and erase the imagery of the scene you just saw, but it cannot be unseen. But it still doesn’t compare to the video of some guy eating pussy on the subway.

Getting off the bus, you stare at the street lights. You already know the drill. Once you get off the bus, you won’t have time to cross Northern Boulevard, so you make a right and walk down the block towards KFC. And by the time you get to KFC, the red hand will be flashing, and the street light will be yellow. That’s when you make your left to cross the Boulevard and walk through the parking lot of an auto-repair shop, which was once a Mobil gas station.

You get home, greet your dog, heat up last night’s chicken left overs and chow down as you watch the NCIS marathon on USA. Hours pass and your parents finally get home, and then your sister. That’s when it dawns upon you. What are you doing with your life? Clearly, nothing productive. You can’t even get to school on time. Geez, you could’ve been outside, doing something productive. With a friend, your dog, cousin, bike, anything. But instead, you stayed home all day, rotting like milk in the sun.

Eat a salad for dinner, skim through your TV Guide for Law & Order: Special Victims Unit reruns, and constantly check your phone and iTouch for messages from someone that actually matters.

And now here you are. Sitting in your room. At 2AM. With class tomorrow morning at 10AM, the need to wake up at 8AM, and you’re sitting here wasting your life. Writing about your pointless day in second person.

Get a life already.

Or some sleep at least.

So, I’ve been M.I.A. for a while.

Because I’ve been leaving my cave. My dungeon. My room.
I’ve been hanging out more. Bonding with my sister.
Living the nightlife. No, not the clubbing scene.
I’m talking grass and rocks by the river.
Cool breeze in the summer nights.

I haven’t written any post worth reading as of late.
Since I haven’t been home much…
And when I do get home, my brain is too exhausted to think.
I apologize. Writer’s block. I’ve got my mind elsewhere.
Some place much more enjoyable.

Much better than where I’ve been prior to lately.
How new is this feeling? Pretty brand spankin’ new.
How much I love it? Enough to not wanna lose it.
What place and feeling do I speak of?
Oh that’s just a secret I can’t tell. (;

I guess it’s just that feeling of freedom.
No more stress, no more pressure.
I’m more relaxed. Mind, body, and soul at ease.
And no yoga was required. It’s a natural high.
The beauty of life. I’m finally seeing the light.
Not exactly there yet, but I can taste it.
And the sweet taste is engulfing my body.

My mind and body seems to be in sync.
The blood flowing through my veins seem to be quite golly.
Just me as a person overall. I’m quite delighted.
This feeling is like no other. Quite phantasmagoric.
Almost like a lucid dream.

I’m not always in action.
Not always partaking in something most would call adventurous.
But simply basking in the beautiful summer air.
Sitting by the river. Hear the waves splash against the docks.
The blades of grass between my fingers,
And the wind blowing a wisp of hair across my lips.

In the distance I hear the sound of the heavy base of the reggae songs.
The sound of laughter, fulfillment, and joy.
Brings the slightest smile across my face.

But what really gets to me, is being able to enjoy it with someone.

Enough of my nonsense. And back to my reader’s concerns.

Will I be back soon? Probably not.
Will I be back at all? Definitely.

But for now, I’ll enjoy myself for once.
I won’t apologize for my selfish decision, because I know I deserve this.

“Looks Don’t Matter.”

In all honesty,  looks do matter. But only to a certain extent. Why? Because looks only go so far. Without intellect and charisma, what can one possibly do with just looks? You can’t talk to a gorgeous person who has no personality or opinion. Everyone has an opinion, but most people with an opinion don’t have facts and details to support it. One’s ability to express oneself is a big portion of one’s intellect. If they’re unable to express themselves well, how will anyone understand their opinions and thoughts? Also, they should be able to give a practical, reasonable, & patent argument to support their opinions. An opinion with no argument is like a a phone without battery. In addition, they should be some-what open-minded. They should be able to respect someone else’s opinion even if they don’t support it.

Why do people [unintentionally] lie and say looks don’t matter? Easy, they don’t want to sound shallow. But truth be told, everyone is shallow. It’s just set at different levels for different people. Often times a person’s appearance is what makes their first impression. But I, personally, don’t trust first impressions. First impressions are based on impaired judgement and false/skewed perceptions.

The problem is, the handful that understand and preach this, don’t practice what they preach. I’ll be honest and say I don’t always follow up to my own advice. And I can easily make an excuse as to why that is. But that still wouldn’t justify my actions. But that’s a blog for a whole ‘nother day.

Physical Appearance vs. Personality

To be honest, you can’t really generalize all people when it comes to this topic. There are people who see past the physical qualities, and there are people who see only the physical qualities. It’s hard to really gather up statistics to decide which one gets overruled, because both kinds will always exist. But sadly, the majority base first impressions on physical appearance. Most people will approach a male or female because they find the person attractive. Weather it be their face, figure, or outfit. Most people don’t see past the looks and into the mind. Why? Because it’s hard to tell a great personality from just looking at a person alone. However if that person is with a group of friend, it’s more likely that their personality is much more widely projected than it would be if they were alone. So a mass majority of people do care about the beauty within, because looks only go so far. What’s the use of a pretty face if they can’t withhold a decent conversation? However, physical appearance often plays a large role. Most times, people miss an opportunity of meeting a great person just because they don’t find someone attractive, so they don’t see the need to approach them. Then again, maybe there’s a wonderful person somewhere in there with a shallow mentality. You never know, life’s a gamble. It’s not the cards you get, it’s how you play them. You gotta flip it. Make something out of nothing.

Age Ain’t Nuthin’ But a Number.

I know how it feels to have someone undermine my intelligence simply based on my age. It fucking sucks.

Most people don’t realize that age does not define intelligence or maturity. Ignorance does. But everyone is ignorant to a certain extent. We have yet to learn a lot of things in life. No one knows everything about anything, but everyone knows some things about a lot of things. Intelligence is gained purely from experience, not age. And maturity is gained from learning from prior experience. So with one doesn’t always come the other. If you experienced a lot, but have yet to learn from it, you don’t grow. You may age, but your mentality is still.

A lot of people can agree with this, but most people forget it. They act upon instinct. You can’t judge someone simply due to their age. yeah, possibilities are, they shouldn’t be complaining about something so simple. But think about it. Who are you to judge? Everyone has their own story. And if you disagree with their train of thought, speak to them about it. If they refuse to accept your advice, so be it. The decisions they make is what builds their strength. We need to let the younger generation experience and learn. It’s a really hard topic to break down. Because there are so many factors to lay out in my attempt to reveal both side of the situation.

But in all honesty, if you don’t support their opinion, at least respect it.

STFU or SIT THE FUCK DOWN.

It really does irk me when a mass majority of females believe that it’s a requirement for males to approach first. That’s just putting double standards and sexism on a new level. To begin or withhold a relationship requires the effort of both parties. Not just one. Many people don’t understand that. Either they do, or they, for some odd reason, believe that they are an exception.

However, I personally, don’t often make the first move. I’ll admit that. But not for the same reason as most other females. I don’t usually make the first move, often because I feel like I’m being a burden. I feel like I’m bothering people. It’s not even a fear of rejection. Yeah, rejection hurts, but it’s only momentary. I’d rather be rejected and know that something wouldn’t have been, rather than wondering if something could’ve been. Being rejected means no ifs, ands, or buts. No coulda, woulda, shoulda’s. But as I first stated, it’s often because i feel like I’m bothering or annoying someone.

So Today’s Father’s Day.

I’m seeing so many posts of people who love their fathers, hate their fathers, or simply don’t know their fathers. I have no comment for those who hate their fathers, because I don’t know their side of the story. Just wanted to set that straight.

So my father. He’s a wonderful man. Intelligent, humble, successful, an overall great person. I barely even began writing and I’m already tearing up.

My father and I, never really had a great relationship. We didn’t talk much, nor did we spend much time together. We haven’t spoken for a little over 9 months or so. Aside from the occasional, “where are you going?” and “where are you?” Because to be honest… I was rarely home.

Let take this back to the start. My father was born in Saigon, Vietnam with his million other siblings. (It’s too hard to count since my grandfather had two wives, who are both my grandmothers, and may they rest in peace) His family wasn’t exactly poor, they were middle class. They had their own homes and my grandfather owned a business… until the communist government took everything away and threw them in a field expecting them to change their lifestyles at ease. Everything my family had worked for to get the house and business, thrown out the window. They swam and rode in overcrowded fishboats across the seas to Malaysia. And waited for Red Cross to come to rescue.

My father was young but he was not reckless. He did everything he could to keep his family alive with food on the table. The jobs he worked and the life he lived, along with going to school. It proves that people these days have no excuse for not attending college. He graduated from Polytech University as a chemical engineering major, but landed himself in the business field. Why? He was good at it.

My dad went through so much more, but he refused to tell me. But my grandmother reminds me all the time. Telling me I should try to go easy on him. Telling me to put an end to my rude bitchfits. Telling me to appreciate what my father’s done to put us in the beautiful house that we live in. The amount of work he does to give me all the things I have. To pay for all those dance, piano, violin, singing, Chinese, math, and SAT classes when I was younger.

Without my father, this family would fall apart. My mother would be jobless, because she works with my father’s business. My home would be roofless, because he’s the one that handles the financial shit. And this family would be incomplete.

I don’t even know what I’m saying. I barely know anything about my father. Being that we don’t talk much… And it pains me to know that I can’t talk to my father without feeling limited to what I can say. I feel as if every word that slips the tongue would be a taboo. Jesus, this post is so much shit. This is probably my worst piece of writing. That fact that I’m unable to fully express my relationship with my father is seriously making me realize what kind of shit daughter I’ve been.

He’s been there with me through everything. He was there to teach me how to ride a bike, roller blade, and he was there to apply rubbing alcohol and bandages on my cuts and scratches. Because Lord knows damn well I was a trouble maker. Climbing shit I shouldn’t climb. A dangerous imagination involving bikes and steep hills and bumps. He put up with my shit. And he still does. I still remember the day I graduated from my nursery school. My mother had to bring my sister to school, and I whined about having my hair in pigtails for my big day. So my dad did his best to tie my hair. It took a while, but it was lovely. With the accented bow clips and everything. He was there for every show and performance. And the few that he missed, it was because he was working his ass off trying to put food on the table. Trying to save up enough money to move out of a house holding four families. To buy his own house so his family and kids can grow up living the dream. Something I never seemed to appreciate. And the times I did appreciate it, I cried. I suck at writing.

And now that I’m older, we don’t really hang out much. I don’t see him everyday. I can see him everyday, but I don’t. Why? Because I’m rarely home. And if I am, I lock myself in my room. The room that my father was able to supply for me. Along with the lavish furnishings. It’s not the most extravagant room, quite plain actually. But I have a nice bed to sleep in. A couple chairs to sit on. An AC. and small walk in closet. A dresser and make-up table (not that I wear make-up). But it really makes me wonder. My father has provided all of this including the lock on my door, and what do I do? I isolate myself.

It’s like giving someone the gun and telling them to shoot me.

Y’know what dad? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the physical fights. I’m sorry I’m never home. I’m sorry I say thank you, but never show my appreciation. I’m sorry I told you you didn’t love me. I’m sorry I said you didn’t care. I’m sorry we never speak. I’m sorry for everything. I can apologize all I want, but apologies don’t have depth and meaning. Not without actions they don’t. As little as we speak to one another, I’ve always know that you understood me more than mum did. You always told me to give her the benefit of the doubt when she’d unintentionally insult my intelligence, my morals, and me overall. I love you, but I don’t think you know it. I never told you I loved you. I’m too afraid to tell anyone I love them. I’m sorry the only time I told you I loved you was when the police was at our door step. Or when you picked me up from the precinct. I’m sorry for begin the fuck-up in the family.

And I’m sorry to say, but I really think I’m gonna be the daughter that moves out of the house first. I love you too much to let you see me fail. Not saying that I won’t try to succeed, but because I know I can’t be better than my sister. Because I know I’ve been a disappointment to you. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s worse. Having you watch me work, try, and fail. Or not watching me at all.

I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I don’t know what to do with myself. I know I’ve hated how you always thought there was something mentally wrong with me. But now I accept that, because i think you’re right. I’m mentally unstable. I was just in denial. Speech impaired and hands convulsing. Lack of sleep, too many thoughts. Sometimes it hurts to know that even my art won’t take me away. But it’s okay dad. ‘Cause I know you’ll always love me if I were crazy. Shit I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just gonna stop before I drown in my own tears.

This is the worst piece of shit writing I’ve ever written. Everything’s a mess. And nothing makes sense.

I’m sorry we don’t have pictures together.

Vicious Cycle.

This fucking world is full of shit. I don’t think you understand me. You don’t see it in my perspective It’s a vicious cycle. Every fucking thing we do is useless. I, as an artist… create to live, and live to create. There’s no common ground. It’s a constant battlefield. Fuck those who were born over privileged. This is why I never sleep. My body is exhausted, but my mind is racing. Sanity is nonexistent. It’s a myth, and I don’t believe in it. All these intangible words… I wonder if they really exist. If happiness even exists. I think it’s just a theory and a lie to keep the norms running. An illusion to deceive the delusional.

Lemme make this short. I’m a misanthropist. I find general disgust, distaste, disgrace, and simple negativity towards the human society, human nature and life in itself.

We are all walking masses of contradictions. There is no human that can possibly not be hypocritical of anything said or done. It’s human nature. But that’s just an excuse. We as developed beings have the capability of changing this, but we chose to make an excuse and use it so often that it becomes a “scientically proven fact.” And that’s total bullshit. We use that fucking excuse ‘cause excuses are easy to make. No one wants to admit to themselves they they are in any way a horrible piece of fuck. Which we all are in one way or another.

Fuck this world in the ass and bleed to death.

See now. Here’s the biggest fucking trip. I’m sure I’m not the only one with this type mentality. But the handful who have the similar mindset, we find so much hate towards the world and reality in itself. YET WE DO NOTHING TO CHANGE. Not because theres simply nothing to do, BUT BECAUSE WHAT THERE IS TO DO requires WORK AND EFFORT. And possible rebellious shit.

And therefore, the fact that I hate how simple minded fucks spend their time complaining, hoping, and wishing, without doing or striving, I, myself, am the fucking same. And it just starts all over again.

This got fucking damn vicious cycle.

I make the excuse, “it’s hard to do,” “it takes time to change.” BULL FUCKING SHIT. Thats just another fucking excuse that’s grown common to buy fucking time. Quitting anything cold-turkey isn’t easy, but its doable. Its just… most people dont have the determination and motivation it takes. And determination and motivation is easily accessible. We just make it harder to retrieve. Humans aren’t complicated, we just make ourselves that way.

BITCH, I don’t believe in social hierarchy. Get over yourself.

This isn’t too recent, but I was recently asked why people hate me. ‘Cause everyone has haters. And the main thing was that a lot of girls would have this nasty hate towards me because they claimed that I thought I was superior to my peers. HONESTLY, I don’t believe in social hierarchy. I am who I am, and I refuse to place myself on a social pyramid. Nonetheless at the top of one. And seriously, unless I had the arrogant stuck-up vibe they claim I have, then they’re still in that young state of mind. The ignorant mentality. I don’t see why people would view a community of people, peers nonetheless, as a popularity competition. That’s just too fucking immature for my taste. Note how I state that it’s a young mentality, and not a a “high school” thing. Because you know damn well this shit happens in the real world. Often times, their judgement is based on false perceptions. It’s this trend thats been seen amongst all of us; but sadly, mostly within the female society. I find it highly distasteful when a person can take a quick glance at someone without knowing the slightest piece of information about them and immediately find some sort of hatred towards them. I won’t lie, I’ve done this before, WE ALL HAVE.  But we need to start changing that. Because it’s interfering with our knowledge intake. If we are too quick to judge and immediately prevent a stranger from even possibly being in our lives, how will we know what we could have learned? First impressions are often based on impaired judgments and fabricated perceptions. The person you think they are may not be the person they truly are. If you get a bad vibe, it’s understandable. But still take the time to get to know them. Just keep tabs on them if you’re really that sure about your bad vibe. Everyone into consideration. You can’t hate someone if you don’t know them. Unless they give you a patent reason, I don’t see why anyone should hate someone right off the bat.

Protagonist vs. Antagonist.

So often now-a-days, I find myself in a situation where I am asked whether I am into the good boys or the bad boys. Honestly, I don’t categorize them by good or bad, because a typical good boy can do bad things and the typical bad boy can do good things. I’ve been with the so-called good ones & the so-called bad ones, but what they had in common, was the reason I was with them. They knew how to treat a lady right. No, I don’t mean spoiling me or treating me like a princess. I’m talking about full respect for me as a human. Not as a female, but as a human. They knew not to underestimate my ability and intelligence due to my gender. And I loved that. But then there were occasions where they would treat me like a Queen and I’d find it weird and make it awkward, but I appreciated it. I’m not high maintenance. Treat me with respect and that’ll be the first thing to intrigue me about you. Respect is the first step to any relationship. But that’s just my opinion.

Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself.

I’ve had this blog for a while, and I have yet to properly introduce myself. So you wanna know what kind of person I am? I’ll tell you what kind of person I am. The kind of person that gets lost in her own head. The one that most people either wouldn’t understand, underestimate, both or worse. The kind that most people see as just another girl, just another flirt. But little do they know, I’m just friendly, and I promise you there’s plenty going on in this mind of mine. It’s not the ordinary mind, but it’s nothing extraordinary. It’s a bit chaotic, but it’s enjoyable—sometimes. The kind of person that does what she wants without fear of how others will react because I refuse to regret not doing so. The kind that’s tough and ambitious, and if that makes me a bitch, then so be it. The kind that believes no female should ever take four steps back just to be with a man. Because in life, there’s no room to go backwards, only forward. The kind that doesn’t believe in double-standards, or sexist discrimination. The kind that makes moves with no regrets because I know damn well no woman with self-respect would’ve done less. Because I’m the kind that does things to further myself, rather than impressing others. The kind that doesn’t need to be accepted by society, but needs to be heard. Because what goes on in this mind of mine, may not be the best, may not be the most intelligent, but it’s worth hearing. ‘Cause i promise you it’s not the same bullshit as the next bitch.

The Best Art Teacher In The World: Enlightenment.

Me: Do you spend a lot of time in your own head?
C. Nuñez: Of course I do, all the time, it’s quite pleasant.
Me: Is it? Don’t you feel like you’re losing your sanity after spending too much time in there?
C. Nuñez: What sanity?
Me: Hahaha, you got it, you got it. But for me, the more time I spend, the more chaos ensues… in my mind, of course. Like, I’m always in a constant debate with myself. I’ll start off my argument strong, but as I begin to explain myself, I think about the opposing argument, causing me to end my sentences with “I don’t know.” It’s kind of a vicious cycle.
C. Nuñez: I was the same when I was your age. But by now, everything is at peace.
Me: Really? But how?
C. Nuñez: As you grow older, with more knowledge, you mind begins to self-organize all your thoughts. It takes time.
Me: How long did it take you?
C. Nuñez: I was probably in my thirties by then.
Me: *D: I have to experience how many more years of this torture?!
C. Nuñez: Hahaha, don’t worry, kiddo. You can cope, I know you can, Connie.
*Mind you my teacher has a Spaniard accent xD

To The Woman I’d Die For: Mum

Y’know, my mum and I weren’t always on good terms. We never really got along as well as we should. She speaks and understands Chinese, but little English. I speak and understand English, but little Chinese. Often times, there was a lot of miscommunication… of lack there of. We’ve been through so much, but she’s been through more. She’s gone through the burden of carrying me in her womb, the pain of childbirth, and the joy of a second daughter.

Life in Taiwan wasn’t exactly dandy for her. She had five older brothers, and one older sister. Her family was poor, and she could do nothing, but strive to give her children what she couldn’t have in the future. She came to America from Taiwan as a young penniless teenager with her brothers. She’s gone through it all to become the successful woman she is today. She never had the chance to attend college, but she made her living off a job at a restaurant. She lived in the slums, but worked her way up. She married my father and moved into the beautiful house we live in now.

I was pretty spoiled as a child… I got nearly everything I wanted or asked for. My parents had always favored me since I didn’t give them as much trouble as my sister did. I never understood it or noticed it back then, but now… now I see it clear as daylight. My mother… I love her. I want to say so much, but I’m afraid to sound cliché. Because my mother is not the typical, shes better. A Hallmark Mother’s Day card is shit, compared to her. I want to say that she’s a hero, but she’s so much more than that.

She’s taken to much shit from me, I feel this 3-ton load of remorse burdening my shoulders. I regret all the mean things I’ve said to her, all the times I’ve disobeyed her after she begged and plead for me to stay or come home every night. The days I never let her in my room, and she’d just stand outside telling me she misses my face because I haven’t spoken to her or my dad for the past four months.

I remember the days I’d tell my mom she never cared about me, and she was only caring for me to abide by the law. But inside, not even deep down inside, right at the surface, I knew for a fact that wasn’t true. My mother jumped over 6 foot hurdles and ran through fire just to make this family happy. My mom would ask me why I’m never happy, why I can’t smile like every other kid. And I just tell her, theres nothing to smile about. I can see it breaks her heart that all she’s done to give me what I’ve got can’t even make me crack a smile.

Y’see, I used to be the good kid, and my sister was the fuck-up. But the tables have turned. I seem to be flippin’ tables left and right, but I can’t control myself. I know what I do will upset my parents but I still did it for momentary happiness. I was selfish. I’ve actually been through this once before. And I changed for the good because i wanted to see my parents happy. But even more so, to better myself. But a year later, I somehow fall back into this deadly trap.

Back then I’d just come home late and what not. But the past months, I’d be gone for weeks at a time, only coming home for a shower & a change of clothes. I’ve changed recently. I’ve improved. I’ve been home more. But I’ve been missing out on school. I still don’t talk to my parents. I want to apologize, I do. But I don’t know if they’ll realize how sincere I am.

Mum, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry for all the times I called you a “bitch.” All the times I said “fuck you.” All the times I’ve told you to “go to hell.” All the times I told you, “I hate you.” All the times we’ve gotten into physical fights. All the times I disobeyed you. All the times I never said “I love you.” All the times I made empty promises. All the times I gave you false hope. All the times I became that child I swore I’d never become. But most of all, I’m sorry for telling you, you didn’t care. I’m sorry the only time we ever said, “I love you,” to each other was when the police came to our door step when the neighbors reported child-abuse. I’m sorry I couldn’t show you more. I’m sorry I did you wrong. I’m sorry that you’ll never even read this. But I want you to know I’m changing.

Today is Mother’s Day, I’ve been writing this since Friday afternoon. It’s so hard to write down what a wonderful woman my mother is with just the words given to us in the English-American Language. But I don’t need a national holiday to show my mother I love her. Everyday is Mother’s Day. But I haven’t been showing her any love or care. I’ve been a horrible daughter. But there’s always time for change.

I Can’t Get Over it.

I still can’t get over how hard it is to get over the past. I know it happened. They know it happened. She knows it happened. He knows it happened. We all know it happened. Yet we still try to push away the negative factors of the past in hopes that this would solve all our problems. But denial is never the solution. Denial is just four steps back from square one. Acceptance and change is what needs to be on our to-do list. Yet we turn to drugs, alcohol, and depression. Little do we know, that will only make our lives worse. We can’t run away from our problems. The only solution is to face it. Face reality and we will be invincible.

The Past Does Not Exist.

I always, encourage people to believe that the past does not exist because lingering on the past will only hold you back from moving forward. But I’ve realized how hard it is to forget the past when everything you experience now would not have been what it is without the past. The past does exist, but I won’t let it get in my way. I’ll accept the past, and accept the present. I regret nothing, because that’s what life is about. You live and you learn. Nothing and no one is perfect. It’s only a matter of accepting reality. Only then will you be able to accept yourself as a whole. And only then will others accept you.

Geek Talk.

Ctrl + A > ← Backspace > Ctrl + A > ≡ Justified > “Fresh Start”|

~ Me

*Ctrl + A : Select All

Let’s start with “Ctrl +A > ← Backspace”: Take all of the past, and erase it from your memory. The past does not exist. Lingering onto the past will only stop you from moving forward.

Next up, “Ctrl + A > ≡ Justified”: Now that you’re starting with a blank canvas, take your life, and get it back on track. Stop everything that’s holding you back; drugs, alcohol, partying, bad influences, etc. And focus on what really matters; school, work, family, your future, etc.

Last but not least, “‘Fresh Start’|”: Continue life with a fresh start. Focus on your intended goal, and strive for it. Plan it out if you have to. Just do it. Move forward, and don’t look back.

***As posted via: tumblr

hype.tumblr

Yepp, you read that right. Tumblr. I fell into the hype… I got so bored I made a tumblr.

Check this shit out:

Follow Me!

Yay, for boredom…

Flustered.

Often times, people come up to me and ask me, “how are you?” My answer each time? “Alright, could be better…” Followed by more questions as to why I’m only “alright” and not “fine” or “great” as most others would respond. And it only makes me realize how I’m never happy with where I am in life, I am merely content. Sure, I’ve been happy before… plenty of times, actually. But that was all momentary happiness. And all this furthers me into thinking, why can’t I just be happy like [almost] everyone else?

Only then do I realize that the reason why I’m not happy isn’t because i can’t be happy, but because I prevent myself from being happy. My mentality is pessimistic and ignorant at times and that’s what pulls be back from achieving my preferred goal. I make up excuses in hopes of justifying my wrong doings and because it’s easy to make excuses instead of facing the truth. So pretty much… I’m in denial.

Most of the time, my actions are spontaneous and reckless. I do things without thinking, and I say things without hesitation. And only when it’s too late, do I realize what I’ve done or said. Mind and body filled with regret, but even so, I don’t change. Most people say, “it takes time to change; change doesn’t happen over night.” I think that’s just an excuse to hang on to the rebel-life a little longer (only in some cases). Why I believe that? Because that’s exactly what I do.
Let’s start this with an example.

Two years ago, I befriended a group of people who were all located in the Bronx. Often times they would hang out late and so would I. But at that time, my parents weren’t too fond of my late-night-rendezvous. It upset my parents that I wouldn’t be home on the weekends, or wouldn’t be home until the crack of dawn. Parents would try to talk to me, and reason with me, but I’d only get frustrated and ostracize myself from them. Miscommunication, or lack there of, is what pushed apart our relationship. Mind you, my parents were born in Vietnam (Dad) and Taiwan (Mom), so their English isn’t amazing. They would talk to me in Chinese, and I’d respond in English.

I knew I should obey my parents since they knew better and cared about me. But I was selfish. I chose adventures over family. I tried to persuade myself into thinking my parents didn’t care. I knew they did. I just didn’t want to believe it. Only because it made it easier for me to go against their word.

As time passed, nights out late increased, and interactions with my parents decreased, I began to ponder about my parents’ words and feelings. I began to take them into consideration. I tried changing, and it worked. Change can happen over night if you allow it to. And I did. I said, “no” to late night hang-outs. And I did better in school. I stopped drinking and started focusing on what mattered. I was finally facing reality. Instead of drinking and smoking, in attempt to run away from real problems, I actually attended school, and did the work. Passed my classes and raised my grades by a significant amount. I was proud of myself. I did this for me. Not my parents… kind of. But mainly for me. Because I realized it was time to stop complaining and start changing.

I had less to worry about and so did my parents. They didn’t have to guess whether or not I was coming home tonight. It was no longer a gamble. I was glad to see my parents happy. It made me feel good. I promised myself, never again will I put myself or my friends before my family. And I kept that promise… until now.

I hate promises. So easy to break, so hard to keep. Two years later, I’m back on my rebel-grind. Except this time, I’d be gone for weeks at a time. Only coming home for a change of clothes and a hot shower. Drinking and smoking more than ever before, and constantly telling myself I should stop. But once the moment comes, there’s no stopping me. I seek for an adventure; anywhere but home. I’m hurting my parents, I know it. But I can’t seem to stop.

I can, I just don’t want to. Why? Because I’m selfish. But hey, soon enough I’ll stop this madness, right? I stopped it before? I can do it again, right? Who knows. ‘Cause I don’t.

I gotta stop wasting time, and do something with my life. Everyday doesn’t have to be a party. I can’t throw away school, work, and family for a moment of fun that will soon become a memory. I gotta stop drowning in my own depression and start making changes. I won’t ask myself why it’s happening, but how I can fix it. And I’ll leave it at that, because I have to get to figuring out how I’m going to change.

So the next time I’m asked, “how are you?” hopefully I’ll respond with something delightful. Only then will I know my life is back on track. ‘Cause right now, Lord knows it’s going haywire.

Let’s hope I change, and let’s hope I change for the better…

I forgot where I found this.

And stay that way… haha.

The Paradox of Our Time

Because I stumbled upon this as a I read Olivia Lopez’s blog, and George Carlin could not have said this any better.

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but
shorter tempers, wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more,
but have less; we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and
smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees
but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more
problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little,
drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too
little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our
possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and
hate too often.

We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life. We’ve added years to
life not life to years. We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but
have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer
space but not inner space.

We’ve done larger things, but not better things. We’ve cleaned up the air,
but polluted the soul. We’ve conquered the atom, but not our prejudice.

We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less.

We’ve learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold
more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less
and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small
character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of
two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes.

These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one
night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer,
to quiet, to kill.

It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the
stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time
when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.

-George Carlin

Copyrighted © danroto

Ugly the Cat

Thanks to Toliy, this story has changed my life:

Cllick me to view me clearly!

Poor kitty was so cute. I officially hate huskies. Not really, just that one but yeah. I’ll elaborate on this next time when it’s not 5:55AM & my brain isn’t fried.

Hearts for Sale.

This post is for my nigga M—she ain’t worth your time, man?!

This is a bit similar to what Joanne had written a few days ago. You see now, girls as bitchy as we are, we have this bad tendency to “lead guys on.”

She’ll play with your hair a bit, wrap your curls around her finger. Flip her hair and look in your eyes. Call you babe and hold your hands. Lay her head on your chest and make circular motions with her fingers on your palm. She’ll whisper in your ears when it’s really nothing to whisper about. Bite her lips and look up with those perfectly spaced long lashes on her eyelids. She’ll giggle and show that little wrinkle over her nose that you find so cute. She’ll give you the impression that she likes you. And after all that, you finally grow the balls to ask whats going on between you two. Because you could’ve sworn she was feelin’ you. You were beyond 100% sure that what you guys had was something special. So you question: is this an “us” or is this a you and me? Is there a future or is this the end of the track? And she’ll respond with some cliche booshit that consists of: “I’m not ready,” “that’s not what I’m looking for,” “you’re like my best friend, brother almost.” Or some shit along those lines. So it hits you. You got your feelings all stirred up to find that there was no chemistry. You were so close to giving her your all. You were there when she needed you. You told your boys you couldn’t play ball because she wanted someone to talk to. You go to blockbusters when its pouring rain just to get her favorite movie and when you get to her house she wants to go to the park. You do all this for her and she let’s you down with a “I don’t know if I like you like that.”

Man, she is not worth your work and effort. Ladies, don’t front. We all know you’ve done it before. Shit, my entire teenage year was based on this game.  And guys, don’t you start saying we’re fucked up for doing that. ‘Cause you know damn well you do the same. You just do it differently. You “mess” with the girl, give her small kisses and when she tells you she likes you, you tell her you’re just friends. BULLSHIT, friends don’t give baby kisses, hold hands, and fuck.

And this is where the wall comes in. I’ve learned from watching everyone around me to careful with who I trust with my heart. To careful about who I choose to make special. Special as in the one who I would go out of my way just to satisfy. These walls were built for the mere reason that I don’t want people to see my so-called “emotionally weak” side. I, personally, believe that this “emotionally weak” part of me is just an theory. A myth. Unseen, unknown, unheard of, and has yet to be proven.

I’m not saying to entirely block her from your life. Just know that you two are most likely not gonna get any further than friends. Keep your options open, don’t stay on just one chick. If she’s gonna play those games, then she’s still in that baby phase. The phase where she gets an adrenaline rush from playin’ you. It only proves that her maturity is not up to par with yours. If you want something serious, I know damn well her direction is not the way you wanna look. I hate to be cliché, but: there’s plenty of fish in the sea, and you’re YOUNG. Make the best of it.

The term “love” is used much too loosely now-a-days. It’s being thrown around when people don’t even mean it. Shit, you love family, food, shoes, your phone—not some guy who found your wallet and returned it. But that’s a whole ‘nother post, for a whole ‘nother day.

Lest We Forget.

I’m sitting in math class when Ms. Baez announces for all students to gather up in the auditorium. The teachers are confused and perplexed. None of this was planned. No one was telling us what was going on. Us, being kids, expect something fun and surprising. We take our seats: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl… The principal walks up to the podium and says with a stern voice, “please stay seated as your parents or guardians come to pick you up.” That’s it, nothing more. We all cheer with joy at the same time wondering why heaven has dropped such a gift upon us. Any fourth grader would be happy to leave school extra, extra early.

My cousin arrives, fresh out of high school, on the grounds of P.S. 149 Christa McCauliffe Elementary School. It’s like a flashback for him—déjà vu. Except he’s not sitting in the extra short seats. He’s picking up my sister and I. While the teacher confirms his authority, my sister and I stand there perplexed. Looking up at the adults trying to understand but all we hear is Charlie Brown’s parents from Peanuts. Wa wa wa wa waa…

I spend the entire six blocks home questioning and asking my cousin questions as he gives me false answers that are only imaginary. My sister and I speed walk as my cousin trails beside us. Our little legs can only walk so fast. My sister is only a year older than me. As we reach our home, we run to the second floor and remove our shoes. It’s only the oldest Asian tradition. I make another jet up the flight of carpeted stairs to the third floor as my sister follows. Flip on to Tom and Jerry; I’m happier than ever that its still playing. My cousin comes up and tells me to watch the news. So, my sister, being the remote-hog that she is, flips to CNN.

And there it is. The collision on replay like a video game K.O. We all watch in disbelief. I was beyond astonished. I was in denial, constantly questioning if it was fake, as my sister calls me a buttface and tells me the news wouldn’t lie. At first all I saw was a video clip of smoke and debris devouring the streets of Manhattan. But in no less than two seconds, the frame changes: boom, there goes the first tower. It looked like a stop-motion project. Not long later, the second tower collapses. I flip to every news channel I could think of: Fox 5, Abc 7, NBC 4, CBS 2, and UPN 9. Every single channel was the same thing. Just like a broken record. Or song set on repeat. Every channel, every frame: all that was visible was NYC’s biggest non-nature-inflicted tragedy in years.

For the next few days, my teacher hosts class discussions about what had happened. We made so many art projects based on this day. Collages, paintings, colorings, cut-outs, posters, you name it, we did it. And one of our teachers in the school, her brother was a firefighter. One that lost his life trying to save the citizens in the tower. The one who ran up to save more as everyone hustled down the stairs. The one who put thousands of lives before his own. And so the school P.S. 222 Christopher Santora Elementary School, just a few blocks from mine, was created.

In loving memory of 9/11:

 

 

Manhattan Skyline by Nicky Pallas. With the 9/11 memorial light beams in the footprints of the fallen twin towers.

 

RantRantRant.

I feel the need to ramble on about this topic. Yes, once again, I forward you to my most favorite blogger in the world, Abi. & for those of you who are to lazy to click the link, I’ll quote her.

I love men, oh yes I do. But men of the world, I’m sick and tired of u believing that all it takes to be a good boyfriend is to not beat or cheat on ur women. Um. Did it ever occur to u that UR NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT SHIT ANYWAY? Are u fucking serious? Get the fuck outta here! Next thing u know we’re gonna start giving away awards to parents who bathe and feed their children.

And so I found this so inspiring, true, and hilarious. I decide to show this to my boyfriend. I always send her posts to him just so he doesn’t feel that I’m the only one that thinks boyfriends can’t be bestfriends or something along those lines. And do you know what his reply is? “She always hates on dudes, forreal.” ?!?!?!?!?!??! Are you KIDDING ME?! This not a factor of HATING on dudes. But blatantly stating the TRUTH.

I just needed to get that out. Turns out some feisty bitch stole my phone that my lovely boyfriend had bought for me and so I’m beyond angry right now. And what better way to vent than to piece together an outfit that you will never have? I used this thing called Polyvore. Some of you might have heard of it before. But I got my account about two years ago when I made my facebook. & It has been untouched for about… 6months? Until today of course. So I look back and see the ghetto-ness that I had inside me. I swear when I saw COLORED jeans, I puked a little. And I was thinking… WTF was I thinking? Then again I wasn’t thinking. Mind that that was two years ago. & so I’m tryna make up for my bad fashion my putting in some better shit. I don’t even know if this is considered better or just an obsession with Chanel. But enjoy!

Just because…

She’s just about my most favorite cousin in the world. She annoys me, she loves me, she ignores me, she laughs with me. God, the list goes on. She knows me too well, and she’s a F.A.G. I love her dearly & I hope she doesn’t get too cool for me.

Joanne & Me @ Virginia Beach

Click HERE to visit her blog!

*F.A.G. = Fine Asian Girlieee <3

Hypemunsters.

Sorry I haven’t been posting anything with substance… I’ve been a bit “busy” or lazy.

Shit man, so many things going on. Summers ending and classes are back to haunt me. As usual, you wanna look flyest on that first day. Turn heads, break necks, drop jaws. Don’t play and tell me you don’t care. You know damn well you take two hours preparing that outfit. Carefully paired with that G-Shock you bought in the Philippines and that beanie you got on sale at Topman. On the real though, you can’t doubt that you hit the sale rack the moment you step in the store. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, shii. I’ll fucking announce that shit. I love sale racks. Best believe that.

Let this recession be damned. Shit, I’m too poor to afford labels. Fck that, I rock my Target & the thrift shop flannels. All day, err-day. Although I’m not a fan of “hypebeasts”, I give them props from keeping their fit fresh even when the economy is down. I wonder what their bank account consists of. Like, shit, if you can straight up rock a different shirt and jeans everyday of the year. You must be ballin’ on deez suckas. ‘Cause I know damn well my jeans cycle repeats every week and a half. & I know how expensive nudie jeans, A.P.C’s and all those fancy raw denim jeans are.

On a serious note though, I used to be all up in that sneaker hype. I’m sure everyone went through that phase. But I retired. I was too broke to keep up. Buying and selling, hustlin’ & playin’ the newbies on FSF. It was all fun and games until the hype died down. QUICK. Anyways, I brought this up because a hot friend of mine showed me this song. I know I’m probably late, but oddly I like it. I swear it’s the illest hypemunster song to bump to. But its real dope… weird.

Fetish by Far East Movement

Drop your thoughts on this song.

Omg, I find it so weird that I actually enjoy this song.

Vote for SILKY!

VOTE FOR SILKY!

This is actually my boyfriend’s dog & he’s hella cute! Look at him! He’s a Silky Terrier and hella playful! He’s 3-yrs old and still cuter than your baby brother! (Just kidding) But, truth: VOTE FOR SILKY!

Grand Prize winner get $1,000,000! Weekly winner get $500!

Please vote for Silky EVERYDAY!

*I really don’t know how to stress this out anymore than I already have…

REMEMBER: Vote for Silky EVERYDAY!
And I mean EVERYDAY: Don’t make me sing the song…

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday!

EVERYDAY.

Falling in Love is Like Believing in Santa Claus.

Soul Sold by ClydeHouse. "I've sold your soul to the Devil"; Art by Miss.Tic, Rue Lepic, Paris 18e, France by Andrew.

I came to New York to make Rock n Roll, along the way I had to sell my soul.

I was one month old, oblivious of what was set ahead for me.

I’d wander, travel and search, until I ran into the Devil.

The Devil struck a deal and I accepted.

I was young and clueless.

All I wanted was to never be hurt. To never have a broken heart.

And so I sold my soul to the Devil.

Now, I’m a heartless bitch: incapable of love.

Fuck the Rest.

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

Oh, Dr. Seuss, how I love you so. You speak the truth and nothing less. You say it in such a way that is gentle enough for children yet wise enough for adults. You tell it like it is and not how it should be. You are officially my idol.

People would constantly ask me throughout my childhood, “who’s your idol?” “Who do you look up to?” My immediate answer would be, “my parents.” Or some celebrity I thought was pretty at that moment. It wasn’t until now that I realized who my idol has been all along: Dr. Seuss. I mean, isn’t he great? Who else can bust a rhyme when telling you they don’t like green eggs and ham? Dr. Seuss got game! If he wanted to, he could walk up to a honey and bag.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. But I can’t lie, he’s pretty dope! He’s a good writer with great content. Not only can he write, but he’s hella good at drawing. Does that sound familiar? I like to write and draw… just not as well as Dr. Seuss.

But, trust: Dr. Seuss ain’t playin’ when he tells you to be yourself. Think about it, it’s the truth: the people who actually give a damn about what you say or do are the ones who are the most insignificant in your life. And the ones who see you no different today than they saw you yesterday are the ones you care for. Am I right? Or am I right? Well, technically, Dr. Seuss is right.

I don’t care how hard you are, how big your ego is or how you trippin’ thinking no other is better. You are and will always be thinking about what someone thinks of you. It may not be everyone, but someone. If you see a rather attractive male across the room, don’t go out of your way to attempt to look hot. If he like what he sees, he’ll approach, if not, then he won’t. No man is worth impressing. Best believe that.

I’m not talking about only the men. I’m talking ladies too. I know you probably walk into a party with the flyest outfit that took hours to prepare. Then you find some sleaze with the same top. Don’t get frustrated, just know you rockin’ it better than her. Because your Gladiator T-strap heels definitely look better than her clear-heeled hooker shoes. Because your perfect amount of gold accessories look hell ova lot better than her tacky plastic ornaments. Because your well curled hair looks damn good compared to her failed attempt at an edgy hair cut. Sure she may be grillin’ you, but who cares. She’s not worth your time. Let them do them, and you do you.

“Expect the best, be prepared for the worst, fuck what others think & do your own thing.”

Bros Before Hoes.

I’ve always been considered one of the guys. I can act like a girl, dress like a girl, and talk like a girl, but my guys sometimes forget I’m a girl! I take that as a compliment. I don’t know what it is: I just simply can’t make many girl friends. I have my girlfriends but that’s only two or three. Most of my friends are boys. The ones I can talk to about sneakers and not get bored. The ones I can talk to about cars and learn more. The ones I can help with girl problems. The ones I can connect with. My girls are there for my girl-talk, but I won’t get into that now.

I can’t deal with catty chicks, emotionally unstable people, and emotions in general. I think like a guy, but don’t get me wrong: I’m straight. I’m just so laid-back and less clingy unlike most girls. I mean, I grew up with tough love, man! I grew up in an Asian family; how often do you witness an Asian parent telling their daughter they love them? Almost never! Well, unless of course they were born in America, but my parents weren’t. I can’t really be emotional, because that’s not going to help me move forward, y’know. So I just skip that part. That’s beside the point.

Regardless, male or female, everyone has someone who’s basically their brother (or sister). That one person that’s your live diary. That one person who doesn’t change how they look at you regardless of what happened last night. That one person who will stay sober just to look out after you. That one person who will pretend to be your lover so the ugly ones can back off. The ones who let you crash when you get kicked out. The ones that talk you into returning to your family. The ones that urge you to do well in school. The ones who really care about you. Those are the friends I’m talking about.

Not those hoes who call you up to hit the club and disappear the second they step foot on the dance floor. Not the fake beezys who bail out when you need support. Not the jankys who put on a façade and feign that they care, but the second something more interesting rolls around, they dip faster than lightning. And most definitely not the busters who say, “he’s not worth your time.” Then turn around and hook up with the dude.

I’m talking real people. The ones who tell it like it is. The ones who keep it real. The one that’s worth sacrificing for because you know damn well he’d do the same back. That’s a best friend.

Sure you’ll have a boyfriend or girlfriend, whichever you please. As much as you’d like, your boyfriend will never be your best friend. The technicalities are much too complicated. If the relationship doesn’t go down well, neither will your friendship. Life just doesn’t work that way.

“We’d still be best friends if love were enough.”
- Abi, of Girls Are The New Boys Blog

Friends are there to care for you and support you. For all you know, your tender-lovin’ boyfriend could be cheating without a trace. But be careful who you call “friend.” A friend is not someone who there once, and gone the next. A friend is someone who’s there to help you see reality. Someone who encourages you at the right time and tries to turn your course when you’re heading in a downward spiral.

Let down your boyfriend before you let down a friend. Because your friend will be there regardless when your boyfriend might just up and leave.

*Sorry for the shitty work, my minds all over the place.

Unconditional Love.

I am in love with no one, but Art.

Art is my baby, art is my life.

Art calms me when I am upset.

Art soothes me when I am irritated.

Art motivates me when I hit a dead-end.

Art believes in me when no one else does.

Art supports me when fate deceives me.

Art saves me from the ruthless world when the police can’t do enough.

Art recuperates me when I’m hurt.

Art forfeits for my sake when everyone else is just too self-centered.

Art gives me life when I feel inert.

Art is my hideaway when life flat-out fucks me over.

Art lets my imagination run wild when the public censors me.

I’d be in a rut if it weren’t for Art.

Art brought me to where I am today.

I AM ART.

C’est la Guerre

“Well-behaved bitches seldom make history.“

- Married to the MOB (Leah)

A woman’s fight in a male-dominated society is nothing less than a war.

© by Hellz Bellz. All Rights Reserved.

We are constantly coming across obstacles that cannot be solved. Like the times where our very own womanhood is underestimated, or the times where we females are discriminated due to our gender. This gives us a smaller chance at success. What happened to men and women having equal rights?

Say we follow the rules; we play the role of what is expected from us as women. What happens then? We are then unacknowledged and unappreciated.

We must study the game, watch the game, play the game, and play it well. If your cocky, self-centered bastard of a co-worker receives the position you’ve been working so hard for, and he’s done nothing but kiss-up and goof off. What do you do? Do you sit there and accept it? Sure you can: write an e-mail to your boss or talk to him after work. Do as you please. But will that get you anywhere? More than likely, your voice will be left un-heard and your e-mail will be sent to the trash folder in a heart-beat.

How did that happen? You did the professional thing, didn’t make a scene or put up a fight. You acted like the lady you were supposed to. But your boss doesn’t acknowledge your existence. His lame reason of not promoting you is, “you can’t handle it, it takes a real man to do the job right.” What kind of GARBAGE is that?! Is he insinuating that a female figure is “too emotional?” This dude must be going NUTZO, because last I checked, it was illegal to unreasonably discriminate. I understand if you don’t allow a woman to lift heavy weight, that’s only a gentleman’s duty. But to question her authority? Honey, you just crossed the line.

Don’t get me wrong, acting like a lady is more than fine. But there’s a difference between taking a stand, with class, and blowing up with all that ghetto talk.  Sometimes, and only sometimes, the only way to redeem respect and success is to break the rules… just a little. An act of rebellion will get you far— to a certain extent. Don’t play, and act like you didn’t know Rosa Park‘s name wasn’t going pop up in this post! She is one of the most respected rebels in history. You heard that? HISTORY. We hear about her from our teachers, our parents, our grandparents, and… you get the point.

What we gotta do, is discipline ourselves. Teach ourselves to not be vulnerable, to acknowledge the thrill of a chase. It’s a Bonnie & Clyde adventure, but its just Bonnie this time because Clyde’s retrospective on a woman’s ability was beyond degrading. Fight the war. It’s not a matter of whether you win, or lose; it’s a matter of how you fight it and what you’re fighting for. Just remember one thing:

It’s a man’s world, but women make it go ’round.