Unrelated, but I like when people find Lady Gaga attractive.

I am writing this in the hopes that it will keep me from falling into a deep, dark despair. It is Sunday evening. It has been raining for the past three days. I HAVE NO FOOD IN MY HOUSE. It's just all a little too much to handle.

Possibly the only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists out of sheer boredom is the knowledge that in four days, I'LL NEVER BE BORED AGAIN. Or, at the very least, that I will be mildly entertained for the next week and a half. This is my first winter without a school break. Which means while everyone is running around drinking for three weeks, I am going to bed before midnight so that I can drive through the pouring rain to sit in a cubicle for eight hours and then driving home in the pouring rain to rummage through my empty cabinets, debate braving the rain to go to the grocery store, looking for and not finding an umbrella, and then lying in bed listening to music from '90s boy bands until hunger and boredom lull me to sleep. But this will all end on THURSDAY. Also known as CHRISTMAS EVE.

That is the day that MY FAMILY COMES TO LOS ANGELES. I am excited about this for two reasons: 1. We are going to Vegas to spend Christmas, and 2. I relish the challenge of searching my wardrobe for something "mom-approved," aka necklines above the throat (oddly, short hemlines are okay -- my mother once told me I look better in short skirts because they make my legs look longer. Thanks, mom?)

But above all, Thursday marks my last day at work until the new year. That's right, a glorious WEEK AND A HALF off. And during those ten days, amazing things will happen.

Here's a breakdown of the fun:

Friday, 12/24 to Monday, 12/27: we go to Vegas for some bright lights, some gambling, and, if my sister has her way and we sneak away from the family -- some shameless drinking.

Monday, 12/27: we return from Vegas and make our way to our annual Secret Santa with high school friends. Sometimes when I think that I've been friends with some of these people for seven years, I get a headache and have to lie down. Perhaps this year my gift for my Secret Santa will be the gift of youth. I don't know if that falls within the $50 limit though. Maybe I'll just get him/her a keg of beer. Close enough.

Tuesday, 12/28 to Thursday, 12/30: we bum around Los Angeles and San Diego, showing the parents and family friends (we have an awesome family from Taiwan visiting us) the sights. I haven't decided where to take them during the LA leg of the trip though. I have a feeling my usual haunts of the taco truck and the Dollar Tree are not quite what my parents have in mind.

Friday 12/31 to Saturday, 1/1: WE GO TO BIG BEAR FOR NEW YEAR'S! I'm quite excited about this despite the fact that by overwhelming majority, we are going skiing instead of ziplining. Given the choice, I will almost always prefer zipping at the speed of the light over mountains and trees to falling in my face in the snow. But alas. I only hope I do not get frostbite on my nose. Because then it would fall off, and I wouldn't be able to smell, which means I wouldn't be able to taste. Although, I don't have food in my apartment anyway. Cue an 'Nsync ballad.

Social Media is Scary, but Not as Scary as Me Being an Awesome Spy

I am hesitant to say anything regarding my job because it is my sole means of support now that I am no longer a student with allowance. And did you know, in the real world you have to pay rent? And this thing called utilities? And that, when the living room light gets left on all night, the latter increases? Yes, it is all quite overwhelming and confusing but I have been putting on a brave front and writing checks, which I find is easier to do if you are blissfully unaware of the contents of your bank account. I assume I have enough to cover this month's rent, let's just leave it at that. Like that old saying goes, "Assuming makes a .. happy person ...out of me." Or something like that.

Anyway, let me remain purposefully vague because I am keeping in mind one incident in which my sister's roommate went for an interview, came back discouraged, vented about said interview in her blog, and received a call not thirty minutes after it was posted -- from her interviewer. Asking her to take down the post. Because he had seen it through Google Alerts. Yes, the world is a scary place.

So for all our sakes -- including that of my landlord, with whom I'm not well acquainted but who I am fairly certain does not have a secret fondness for bounced checks -- let's just say that I am a spy by profession. And occasional blogger by night (but mostly couch potato).

One day, my daily routine of getting to the spy office by 8 AM was disrupted because -- TADA! -- I had something else on my plate that morning. Not literally, spies don't have time for breakfast. What I had to do was attend what everyone else there referred to as a "social media workshop" but which I referred to (mostly in my head) as a "super secret spy mission". The conference/mission was amusing for two reasons: I was experiencing a weekday morning outside of a cubicle for the first time in over two months (if spies got depressed this would be a good point to do so), and THE WHOLE POINT OF THE CONFERENCE WAS TO LEARN ABOUT FACEBOOK.

But first I had to get there. The directions were vague, giving only the address to what turned out to be a huge cathedral in downtown Los Angeles. Parking in the underground garage (for which the fee was $18, and quite beyond a spy's salary, so I was relieved to find later that it was validated for the conference), I made my way up the stairs and into the first building I saw. Which was the cathedral, of course. I don't know what I thought, that the workshop would be held inside the cathedral? I suppose we could have sat in the pews, and the presenter could have spoken at the ... alter? Podium? I'm not familiar with religious terminology. But this sacrilegious scene was not to be. When I made my way into the cathedral, I saw only a few bowed heads, devout worshippers in prayer for who clearly did not have profile pictures or friend requests on the mind. I tiptoed back toward the door, afraid that the echoing sound of my work heels against the stone floor would disrupt some sort of religious epiphany. It wasn't until I saw a man frowning at me that I realized mincing along with my body curled into the shape of a question mark wasn't the most inconspicuous thing I could have done in that particular situation. Luckily by then I was near the door, so I made my escape.

Soon after I found the actual conference being held in a modern conference room with no pews or praying people whatsoever. It was a lucky thing it was located next to the cafe, ensuring that sooner or later I would come across it, whether in search of the conference itself or just a nice frappuccino.

So I was finally at my social media conference. For those of you who are like I was a few months ago, social media is roughly the concept of marketing through social platforms on the internet. Or something like that. I didn't take notes on that part because they had FREE DANISHES. Spies have priorities, you know.

Anyway, it turned out I didn't really have to pay attention to much of it at all, because most of the conference was spent explaining things like Facebook fan pages and how to effectively use Twitter. Considering my ..spy company.. blocks the use of any website it deems unproductive (goodbye Bejeweled, cracked.com, personal blogs, or anything that may bring a tiny glimmer of light and hope into the dark abyss that is cubicle life), I settled in to enjoy the rest of the conference with a nice blueberry scone.

That is, until we got to the Powerpoint presentation. An extremely nice and dapper older gentleman was presenting from a local nonprofit, explaining how they'd used Facebook to spread the word about their fundraisers. He showed us screenshots of their page, which I guess was taken from his computer when he was logged into the account, because he suddenly cleared his throat. The audience followed his eyes to where he was looking at the advertisements on the sidebar. That's when I noticed for the first time that the ads were extremely... specific. GAY MOTORCYCLE CLUB, the first one said. The second one: GAY AUTOMOBILE CONVENTION. Okay, I didn't even know they had those. We went onto the next page. GAY BOWLING CLUB. "You know," the presenter said, very graciously, "I don't know how they find out this stuff."

All in all it was quite a successful morning.

November 18th, 2010

Brian bought me a camera. For those of you who don't know, Brian is one of my best friends in the entire world (and not just because he bought me a Canon Rebel XS). I've known him since he started college, which makes this friendship almost four years old. That's older than any of the clothes or furniture or electronics I have. I believe I mentioned something about commitment issues.

We did "date" on and off for a little bit (refer to all posts labeled with "Mango"), but alas, it was not meant to be. We realized this at about the same time we discussed our life goals: Brian wanted a PhD in engineering and a family in the suburbs who would go to church every Sunday, and I wanted to finally be recognized as a world beer pong champion.

The parting was pretty amicable.

Anyway, we'd been talking about photography for some time, ever since I had to trail a photographer around for half a day at work while he did some publicity shots for us. It was, without a doubt, the most thrilling half a day of work I've had since I started that job. To fully comprehend how sad that is, let me describe what I did for that half day -- I held up his reflector, opened doors when his hands were full, and tried to convince subjects they were photogenic. I didn't even get to touch the camera. And it was still light miles better than whatever I was doing at my desk job.

The thing about Brian is that he gets passionate about things in a split second. A few months back, he worked with a fellow intern who owned a bike shop. Brian then developed an intense and unwavering passion for folding bikes. Not even regular bicycles, but bicycles that you can fold up and carry around with you. It was a very specific passion, and by association throughout the following months I got to hear about every bike forum, bike shop and bike nonprofit (yes, they exist) Brian came across during his research. And he did a lot of research.

So when we started talking about photography -- me meanderingly and distractedly as I think about everything -- he dove right in. We went to camera shops, looked up camera deals, and debated between Canon and Nikon. It was just like the bikes, except this time I wasn't bored and didn't have to exercise. It was still very abstract for me though. I mostly said things like "wouldn't it be cool if I had a camera?" and, "if I had a camera I could take a picture of that weird guy over there." Brian, on the other hand, started talking to me about aperture and shutter speed and a bunch of other things that sounded suspiciously like science.

As much as my fascination with photography was genuine, I secretly thought that it would go the way of my other interests -- karate (I never got past white belt, because my parents didn't have the money to buy me the uniform for the next level -- come to think of it that one wasn't really my fault), painting (my art teacher mentioned at every lesson that I need more patience, until finally I quit -- that'll show him), drinking (you have to go all the way to the fridge, pour the shot, get a chaser, repeat several times, then go get a burrito when you get the alkie-munchies -- it was all too much to deal with). This was especially true because photography is a difficult hobby to be involved with when you don't actually have a camera. Trying to get the perfect shot just isn't as thrilling when you're framing the subject by forming a square with your hands. And it's harder to convince your friends to model for you.

But yesterday Brian remedied all that. I've read every article on beginner photography Google could find for me. I've researched camera bags and accessories until I had to physically put my credit card out of reach. I've looked at examples of good photographs, examples of great photographs, and examples of photographs I suspected had too much help from Photoshop. I learned about the the triangle of exposure -- I'm using aperture and ISO and shutter speed, for God's sakes. And I think I might even know what they mean.

And I'm starting to feel like I have .. an interest in something. And I mean an interest in something besides what I'm having for lunch (fries sound good). So for that, I definitely need to say: thank you, Brian. Also, you are off the hook for the next five Christmases.

Yesterday, when I opened the package -- after I finished shrieking with joy and Brian uncovered his ears -- he looked at me very seriously and said, "This is going to change your life. You should write about it." So I am.

Birthday Blog

Okay -- I wrote this many many months ago, in anticipation for the one year anniversary of my blog (this was before I abandoned it for half a year.. but any excuse to celebrate!) which explains the fervent devotion in my tone even though this is only my third post in the last six months. It also explains the nicknames, which I don't use anymore (I just got tired of making them up), and the friend I'm talking to, with whom I'm no longer in touch, much less partaking in drunken arguments with. But everyone deserves a birthday, no matter how belated, so --

Happy birthday, blog! I love you. One year ago today we started on this long, windy (as in twisty, not gusty) journey into my self-indulgent pratterings and here we are, 365 days later, going strong.

Oh? What's that, you say? You want to know how much I love you?

Fine, here is a birthday anecdote.

Once upon a time, mere weeks after your creation, I was drunk and having an argument with Tando (also drunk). As often is the case with drunken happenings, I can't quite recall the details. I do know that it was late and we were outside and there was yelling (possibly on my part) and throwing of beer cans that weren't quite empty (also on my part, maybe) and a lot of using swear words because they make me laugh (it's starting to sound like I was the only one having an argument here). In any case, after a lot of me stomping dramatically around in an intimidating fashion and defying Tando to bring up even one example that would support his cause, he cited you. And that totally shut me up. Because I had no idea he knew about your existence, let alone read you.
"W-what?" I stuttered. "You read my blog?"
"Yes?" he replied, looking confused, probably because he suddenly wasn't having to dodge flying aluminum or urging me to be quiet before the police come.
"How do you know about my blog?" I pursued.
"It's on your facebook," he said, confusion not alleviated in the least.
"Well, I didn't think people would actually notice it--"
"Then why would you put it on there in the first place--"

This was not what the argument was about.
"Anyway," he said, trying to steer us back on track, "on your blog you specifically say that --"
I put a hand on his arm and looked at him so seriously he interrupted himself. "What?"
"Did you like it?"
"Yes," he said, exasperated, "but--"

And that's about as much as I remember because I tuned him out after that and started thinking about you, and how great you are because you have always been there for me, through thick and thin and drunken, irrational posts and sober, irrational posts, and just everything. And I love you. Happy birthday, blog.

A Pretty Compelling Reason I Shouldn't Have Kids

I have decided to give up on any semblance of chronological...ity? in anything I do. I've come to realize that it's really just too big a commitment for a girl who is reluctant to buy an entire serving of mushrooms because she knows very well that she is unlikely to cook and eat them all before the inevitable rotting sets in. This commitment-phobia extends to even the smallest of tasks.

A month or so ago I was browsing in a store near my apartment that specialized in selling whimsical things at seven times the price anyone in their right mind would consider paying. I came across a little notebook with some clever name which I no longer remember, but the concept of it was simple: a diary in which you write one sentence a day. Each page is marked with month and date, with enough room for about five sentences. The idea was to write five years worth of one-liners in that one notebook, so that on the same day every year you only need to look a space above to see what you were doing exactly 12 months ago.

The idea intrigued me. It was like conducting one of those long term experiments on yourself, or like that guy who took a picture of himself every day for six years and set it to somber music. So of course (because I was unwilling to pay $15 for something I could put together myself in three seconds, although I do owe the inventor some points for using his idea and so he is free to come and take one of my ideas any time -- like that one I have about, when I eventually own a gigantic mansion, setting library book collection bins in every room so as to avoid the troubling problem of losing a wayward book under a couch every time I'm too lazy to go to the bookshelf, a problem that consistently plagued my childhood) I went straight home (well, not straight home, I had some noodles in a nice little restaurant nearby first but that's not really conducive to the narrative) and got out my prettiest notebook and wrote very firmly, on the first page, September 12th. The notebook was a full size one, so I had enough space for eight years worth of one-liners. Imagine -- eight years from now I would be 30 years old, and the possibilities of the routes my life will have taken by then were endless. I COULD BE QUEEN OF THE WORLD. And such a journey should not be left undocumented.

Oh sure, things went well for a week or two. Every day I faithfully wrote down a brief summary of my day. Invariably the results were along the lines of, "Today I burned dinner so I ate three cookies and went to bed," or, "If that girl at work doesn't stop being so annoying I will probably smack her and get fired but it will be worth it." As is the problem with many long-term experiments, my journal seemed to require patience and diligence, with no promise of instant gratification in sight.

It was abandoned within a month.

I occasionally still think about it, of course. In fact, I'm thinking about it now, having just written more on the topic than I've written in the journal to date. But the thought of all those backlogged dates, those empty pages, is too daunting. Going back to it now would be like texting a friend you haven't spoken to in months -- it seems a little more trouble than it's worth, you can't ensure the outcome, and life has been going on just fine so why bother?

I suppose it is possible that eight years from now I will look at my notebook with half the pages used but less than fifty sentences written, and regret it the way I might regret not picking up the phone and moving my thumbs to get in touch someone I may end up missing after all.

But then again, I doubt such things will even cross the mind of the QUEEN OF THE WORLD.

It Was Really Just Good Clean Fun

Circle of Life. But Without Any Animals.

Whenever I come home (like I am now for spring break), I usually feel two things:

1. guilt, for all the bad things I do at school that my darling mother has no inkling of, and

2. relief, for not being in high school anymore.

For the first part, it's not that bad. Like I'll be the first to admit that I make some questionable choices but for the most part I'm doing pretty well. Like my sins run more along the lines of ordering delivery five nights out of the week rather than selling myself for cocaine or something. I'm fairly certain that if you put a mountain of cocaine in front of me and then a styrofoam box of Enzo's wings, I'd be all over the latter. Unless I could convert the cocaine into cash with which I can buy wings. But I guess that would make me a drug dealer. And then I'd probably feel pretty guilty.

But my mother has got to be one of the best moms in the world. I mean we squabble now and then and she has this crazy idea that I have too many shoes, but for the most part she is the greatest (example: she was telling me she thinks I may have too many pairs of shoes today as she was buying me two new pairs). And this is an issue because she's always like "think about how much love and care your parents have invested in you, so don't throw yourself away on a boy who won't treat you as well as we do" and I'm like oh shoot. Like, I have enough trouble meeting a guy who doesn't drop a conversation the second he turns on his xbox, but to be actually treated with respect and affection? Let's not get crazy here.

Although I do want to add as a side note that when Mango puts his mind to it, he can be a pretty good best friend. Like, the other day I had an interview in downtown LA, which is a 1.5 hour bus ride from Westwood. It was also during Tuesday of finals week, and I was done on Monday but Mango had two more Thursday and Friday. Our conversation about the interview went something like this:

Me: I have an interview at City Hall on Tuesday.

Mango: That's in downtown? Like near the Staples Center?

Me: Yeah I think so.

Pause here as we both reflect back on the last time we took the bus to Staples Center (to go to the circus) and the show ended at 10 PM and we had to wait for an hour for the next (and last) bus and after strolling past closed stores for half an hour we made our way down two or three very dark city blocks to the bus stop, which turned out to be on a dimly lit corner next to an empty lot. I'm not kidding. Also we were the only two people on the bus until halfway through when a homeless person joined us. I was pretty glad to see Westwood that night.

Mango: I'll go with you.

Me: But you have finals! There's no way you'll be able to study on the bus.

Mango: There's no way I'll be able to study if I'm worried that you'll get raped in your interview clothes.

Me: I'm going in the daytime.

But yeah he ended up coming with me and it was actually pretty fun to hang out on the bus and walk a little around City Hall and to be perfectly honest I probably would've gotten lost if Mango hadn't been there.

So who needs nice boys when you have friends like this?

Anyway, it's not like I hated high school. I mean I didn't really thrive in it like some people do, but it wasn't like I knew any better. The summer before I left for college I was SO SCARED. I was like OMG MY LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. And I didn't realize that was a good thing. Like, high school me didn't realize that life could be better than having a curfew, six classes a day, a pothead boyfriend and a wardrobe comprising mostly of clothing from Hollister.

But now that I think about it, after (almost) four years of college I sleep before midnight every day, spend as much as or more(!) time on homework than I did in high school, still have an interest in pothead boys, and ... well, no more Hollister clothing. So I guess that's something. What progress I've made.

It's a Work in Progress, Okay?

I hate charming boys. Shoot. I take that back. I'm doing this new thing where I'm very peaceable and calm and benevolent and loving of the entire world which is difficult for me because it involves not stomping feet or stabbing anyone (no link to that, I googled "stab" in my blog and my browser almost overloaded and crashed). This little resolution came about in two ways:

1. A little while ago I had a really bad couple of days. It wasn't quite rock bottom but it was close. Like if rock bottom were a balding middle aged woman who is realizing that the man she married twenty years ago likes reenacting historical scenes with stuffed animals more than he likes her, then I was that woman's illiterate country cousin. But as with all things in life (yeah? that sounded pretty zen, right?), the crappiness challenge eventually passed and I realized that I am just a spoiled brat who pouts or buys shoes every time she gets her feelings hurt. And I vowed that if I had to be a spoiled brat, I would be one who doesn't throw tantrums too often because feet broken from excessive stomping will not wear new shoes well I am a mature and sensible woman who is at peace with herself and with the world.

2. I spent some quality time with a friend of mine who is the most tranquil, sunniest person I know. I've never heard her say anything bad about anyone, and even though she's younger than me she makes me want to be like her. Recently something really great has happened to her, and I'm pretty sure there is no one more deserving. She's head over heels in love and it's insane; I've never seen anything like it. A lot of my friends (reference all three of my roommates) are in relationships, but I've never seen anyone glow the way Ash did when she told me about her boyfriend. I mean, a little cynical part of me (the part that remembers about a thousand broken promises by a variety of douchebag boyfriends) thinks that it might be puppy love, and I'm a little scared that she's so optimistic she's gonna get hurt, but another part of me (the part that listens to Taylor Swift) thinks this is the most AMAZING THING IN THE WORLD. And it's so nice to see her once in a while and remember that the world isn't full of jerks.

So I take it back. I hate am uneasy around charming boys. I hate don't like how they can do the most appalling things but all they have to do is crack a joke or flash a smile and everyone adores them again. I guess this is why I may have, in the past, gravitated toward guys who are really (and I mean really) rough around the edges, because they seem to have no pretense.

But. Uh. No. So wrong. Unfortunately life is not a romance novel. Which means that that guy who's a little brusque and rude and not so nice to you? He's not hiding any inner pain that you can magically cure him of. He's actually kind of just a jerk who probably likes making girls cry. And you know how in love stories two people will find each other infuriating and engage in a shouting match that ends up in a steaming bedroom scene (ref: The Notebook, or any other love movie ever made)? Yeah, that doesn't happen in real life either. Apparently being told about all your character deficiencies isn't a big turn on. Who knew criticizing someone's personality didn't count as foreplay?

I had to read this book for one of my classes called The Female Quixote and I feel like every boy in the world should read this. It's set in late 19th century England and it's all about this young woman who's beautiful and intelligent and rich and basically perfect except that she was brought up in a castle far from society and all she had for entertainment were romance novels. Yes that's right. So she expected all her "lovers" to suffer in quiet anguish for her (confessing one's love was very much not allowed in her romance novels) and only after years of this kind of emotional torture could he maybe kiss her hand and that would be enough for him to be inspired to go off and perform all these mighty deeds in the name of his love and when he comes back, the lovely lady will blush and avert her eyes and confess that she "does not hate him" and he will rejoice and proclaim himself the happiest man alive. I swear I'm not exaggerating at all.

So I don't get why anyone would call me high maintenance just because I like shoes and don't hate compliments. It's like uh. Am I asking you to buy me shoes? No. I buy my own damn brightly colored sneakers or questionably skanky boots. And if I get a little upset because your insults outweigh the compliments you give me by maybe 1000 to 1 then no, I'm not being unreasonable or childish, you are being a bully and a stupid douchebag a fellow human being who is completely entitled to your own opinions, but wouldn't the world be a much nicer place if we didn't poison other people's souls all just tried to have a more positive attitude?

This zen shit stuff is hard awesome.

The Art of Compromise. And Hair.

My idea of a good compromise: When Mango makes dinner and then I say I'll do the dishes but get too caught up in whatever sports game we're watching so he takes them to the sink and when I get up to help he says "sit down, you know you don't have to lift a finger here." (He literally says this, I think it might be part ironic but whatevers)

My idea of a not-so-good compromise: What happened to my hair over winter break.

Let me start at the beginning. If you've known me for a period of over two weeks you'll probably know that my hair is the bane of my existence. I'll complain about it for a few months, then I'll cut it, then I'll complain about it for a week, then I'll be reasonably satisfied with it for two months, then the process will start all over again.

This is because my hair is the most contrary thing ever. Like if if my hair were a child it'd be the kind of child who would knock all the items off a supermarket shelf and shriek while you frantically try to hide all the broken bottles before security arrives. Or if it were a preteen it'd be the kind who'd dye its hair the opposite of its natural color and get an eyelid piercing and use red paint to cover its walls in bad poetry. If it were an ex-girlfriend it'd be the kind who would steal all your forks.

So you get the point. Basically my hair sucks. And what I did to it over winter break did not help.

We were in Taiwan, a place known to me as home of good, plentiful food, generous uncles and cheap cosmetic procedures. My mom, you might remember, is fairly concerned over my appearance (refer to any post on dieting). I mean, she's not like a pushy crazy mother, like the kind you see on Toddlers and Tiaras. But I think in general she's just kind of girly, which would put her girliness level at wayy above mine, so we have some disagreements.

Like in Taiwan. She really, really, reeeally wanted me to get my hair straightened. Like the way she put it, it was like her main goal in life for the foreseeable future.

I did not want my hair straightened. First of all, remember how my hair sucks? It does not listen to damaging salon straightenings. I had done that to my hair once and three days later it was waving like a beauty contest winner at the town's annual parade. My mom dragged me back to the salon and demanded to know what happened. The lady who did my hair examined my head, prodded a little, and announced, "It's not our fault. That's just the way her hair is."

So I did not see why this time would be any better. My mom, however, had her own opinion. "Technology has improved," she insisted. "It's going to be successful this time."

It was not.

I admit that this was partly my fault. Instead of getting straightened hair that would plaster to my head and make me look like a basset hound, I wanted something kind of not like that at all. I wanted the kind of weird little crimpy hair things that I can't adequately describe but is basically the opposite of a straightening. The overly-diplomatic stylist thought it would be a good idea for my mother and I to not have a smack-down fight in the middle of his salon, so he made the suggestion that he would just straighten the TOP part of my hair, and then if I so desired I could crimp the bottom part to my heart's content.

I feel like visual aids are in order.

Option #1:

Option #2:

And of course, what actually happened:

So now what's happened is that my hair is half really flat and half really sticky-out-in-different-directions and basically wholly awful.

I am Mentally Incapable. It's Confirmed.

Oh man, I don't even know where to begin. Well actually I began by totally deleting the link to this blog off my facebook because that is just the kind of entry this is going to be.

So it all started with me wanting to go home for Chinese New Years. I'm pretty sure this was the catalyst because two things happen whenever I go home:

1. I get drunk the night before.

2. I have a lot of difficulty at the airport the next day.

I guess I don't learn lessons.

So on Thursday to cap off a two week period of midterms/fundraisers/dipping stuff I'm not allowed to eat in chocolate for five hours in one sitting/essays I got really drunk. I'm not going to go into details about the depths of my inebriation, but suffice to say it is a good thing I made that rule about wearing pants (or at the very least leggings) to parties way back in freshman year because I'm pretty sure at some point in the night I was not in total control of my limbs.

But this isn't really about the impressive amounts of cheap vodka I consumed or how I lost in semis in the beer pong tournament despite my amazing explosion shot to win the previous game or how around 2 AM I decided to play DJ and Maaron yelled at me for trying to put on old P. Diddy songs.

This is about the dangers of the morning after. So listen carefully, kids. You'll want to avoid the mistakes I made.

First of all - I'm not going to mince words - I looked like shit Friday morning. I had gotten home at four AM and by the time I showered (I have to shower before I get into bed no matter how opposite of sober I am - yes I am the epitome of hygiene) and dragged my dizzy self into bed it was god knows what time. And since I had a flight to catch at 1:30 I had changed my work hours that day to 8-11 and if you know me at all you'll know what a rough morning I had by the fact that I WORE GLASSES. Yes. Out in public.

The whole day was actually really comical in that kind of hazy, hungover, oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening way.

Let's list them:

1. The glasses thing. Trust me, it was serious. On top of that I was late because have you ever tried to wake up at seven after two hours of sleep while hungover? Then you understand why I didn't have time to put on make up or consider what to wear because I ended up in a pair of shiny red pants (I actually like these pants, and I totally wronged them with the rest of my outfit), this completely non-matching cream top and my Prolit sweatshirt. And purple moccasins. I basically looked like the personification of a hangover. Before I left I looked in the full length mirror by my front door and could only shake my head.

2. I had to bring my luggage to work since I was leaving straight from the office. I also had to bring the crushgrams that my co-workers bought for me. And I am so sick of hearing about them from the fundraiser that I don't want to explain but basically it was a six pack of glass soda bottles. Which I precariously balanced on my rolling suitcase while walking the four blocks to work. In my glasses. It felt like some sort of strange and strenuous dream.

3. Luckily my work is awesome so everyone sympathized and gave me different bits of advice on how to not die but THEN. Oh my god. This is kind of complicated but basically what happened was that Tando came into the office for the first time since he stopped working there, and I don't want to get into details but I was SO MAD that the one day I come into work looking like shit he happens to have an errand up at the office. When he came in through the door I lifted my head from its resting place on the table and was like "Jesus, please tell me you are joking," but nope. And I'm not saying that I look gorgeous when I step into the office everyday but I definitely don't usually look like a TellyTubby got drunk and threw up and the puke put on glasses and became me. And it's not like I'm trying to impress anyone but seriously. Talk about adding insult to injury.

4. Did you know airports had terminals? Well me and my hangover didn't. I'd never taken any airline other than Southwest from LAX, and Southwest is at terminal 1 right next to the security. So since I was already checked in for my United flight I was like "oh I'll just get off at Southwest because I'll be closer to security." Uh WRONG. United is at terminal 7. I was so confused. I literally had to text Arrow because I was like WTF WHERE AM I? And because he is the best friend a hungover girl can ask for (and has a strangely comprehensive understanding of the LAX floorplan) he directed me to the right place. It's not interesting enough to go in depth into but let me just tell you a shuttle was involved. That was how far I was from my flight.

5. The shuttle went to the ARRIVALS section of terminal 7. And there was this one other middle aged guy on the shuttle who got on and off at the same stops as I did (which helped because I was like oh hey I'm not the only one who makes these mistakes, and this guy doesn't even look hungover so he soberly made this mistake) so I started following him and he KEPT LOOKING BACK worriedly at me. I mean I was looking a mess and probably had on a pretty grim expression because I was wondering if I would miss my flight and also mentally vowing to never drink again but still after the fifth time he looked back I was starting to feel like an old-person stalker. Which didn't really help.

6. I made it to my gate in the nick of time. My flight was delayed. For two hours. My laptop and phone both ran out of batteries so I couldn't tell my dad when I was taking off. I had to pee but I couldn't because they loaded us onto the plane and THEN announced the delay. (I don't like airplane bathrooms.) I sat behind a crying baby.

Oh and on my way to the Flyaway shuttle I was telling Mango how I will never ever drink again and he gave me a baleful look and was like "you always say that. but you always do again" and I was like "oh this must be what it's like to be an alcoholic parent."

And that was my Friday. Happy Chinese New Year's everyone.

The Sequel.

So if you're wondering how a bad day can get worse, wonder no more.

Apparently I've forgotten that Mango is not the kind of person one goes to to be comforted because I went over to his place last night. This is the first conversation we had:

Me: It's been a crappy day.

Mango: Aww, is it because they canceled your class?

Me: No, it's becau--

Mango: Yes it is.

Me: What? No it's not.

Mango: Yes, I know it is.

Me: No, I could not care less about that class.

Mango: Yes you could.

This is the second conversation we had:

Mango: Remember that time I blocked you on AIM?

Me: Uhm, no...

Mango: Yeah it was an accident but I totally forgot about you until a few months later when I was like "hey Carolyn hasn't been online in a while" and I checked and you were blocked and I unblocked you and you were there.

Me: Great.

This is the third conversation we had:

Mango: Where's Laycon?

Me: At my place. (The rest of) my apartment invited him over for dinner.

Mango: Why don't they ever invite us?

Granted that was a valid question but a really shitty pep talk. And then after that he got into bed and promptly fell asleep and it was just all so depressing that I wanted to kill myself. But instead I went home and got in bed because I heard that sleep is like temporary death and I figured it would be a safe reprieve when one does not have the proper drugs is not yet ready for the real thing. And that was around 8 o'clock which would explain why I'm up at seven.

And you know how they say things look better in the morning? That is incorrect. And to make things weirder I woke up with these mystery scratches all over myself so either a cat snuck into my bed or I rolled over a razor blade while I was sleeping. I guess that's the problem with temporary death -- when you wake up you still have to face the scratches.

My Day Has Been as Confusing and Bad as this Blog Post.

When I woke up this morning and couldn't move, I should've known it was going to be a shitty day. I sometimes mess up my neck and have to spend a few days trying really hard not to make sudden movements with my head, which severely dampens my reaction time so if you see me this week please don't throw anything at my head because I won't be able to dodge it and let's be honest, you don't really have the money to pay for the reconstructive surgery, do you? That's what I thought.

So I had the spend the entire day turning my whole body if someone was addressing me, which you probably don't think is that weird but wait until you have to do it yourself.

So that's one.

Two?

My fantasy team is killing me. Not literally but it's getting close. Like if I drop one more place I will probably get an ulcer and in an attempt to cure it I'll probably drink a lot and then I'll get liver disease and die, and IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT CHAUNCEY BILLUPS?

My conversation with my friend Tard didn't improve my mood --

Me: my team's killing me

Tard: yes they are

Tard: I knew this was going to happen eventually

Tard: your team was doing too well

Me: I swear I'm this close to killing someone

Me: it could be you, tard

Me: it could be you

Tard: I didn't know you cared so much

Me: oh you'll find out how much I care

Me: with a knife in your kidney

Tard: wow ok

So in addition to the ulcer I may be facing jailtime. Not sure.

So that's two.

Three: the contents of my refrigerator?

Two bags of dumplings and one bag of wontons that the Y was kind enough to buy for me yesterday. Other than that, there's my flask of Svedka, a jug of water and some string cheese that, frankly, I'm a little scared to eat. Does prepackaged cheese go bad? I seriously need to get a car so that when I have a day like this one instead of writing a rage-filled blog post that doesn't even mention Taiwan or Korea (at least until now) I can just go buy some ice cream and maybe a cat because let's face it, I'm going to end up as one of those people who owns a cat and eats cookies and cream for dinner on Tuesday nights. Why is this, you ask? This is because of

Number four: I make the worst decisions a girl in my situation can conceivably make. Like if you got a puppy and put my life choices in front of it in form of those little bone-shaped biscuits I can guarantee you 98% of the time it will make a better choice than I would. And I am armed with facts and experience. Which apparently counts for nothing here.

It's times like this when I look back on my admittedly not-too-long life and muse, "how did I screw things up this badly?"

Now, I may be being a little dramatic. It's not like I have a heroin addiction and am carrying the child of a 50 year old married man whose company has just put my parents' out of business and so my whole family is depending on the income I generate as a stripper which will soon end because of the aforementioned pregnancy. So it's not as bad as that.

But I haven't exactly made some stellar choices either. Like when I look at my peers (is that a douchey word to use? I feel like it is) and some girl is graduating at the top of her class in her very competitive major and already has an internship with the biggest publishing house on the west coast that will turn into a full-time job after she's done with school and she's engaged to her boyfriend who knows how to tie his own ties and always picks her up when he says he will then I'm like hm. Maybe could've done things a little differently. Me, not her. Clearly. I bet she doesn't even like ice cream.

Like I'm always saying I want to meet some new people and do something different with my life but this is exactly the reason I don't like to actually go out and socialize or anything like that. When you meet someone for the first time, there is no warning signal that goes off and says "stay away from this person, you will become close friends and you'll give him the key to your apartment for emergencies but one day you'll wake up to find him sitting at the foot of your bed and smiling while he hums the theme from Titanic."

Something like that. Or maybe something less drastic, like this guy who sits down next to you in class one day is going to write you love songs and take you on picnics to the beach and ridicule tweens with you and eventually end up breaking your heart. Or it might even be good, like that waitress at your favorite restaurant is going to become your best friend and be the maid-of-honor at your wedding and bring you a cinnamon pretzel to keep you from fleeing the altar. BUT YOU DON'T KNOW, DO YOU?

And that just leaves you seven months later thinking back to that ill-fated first text message or first phone call or first drink sent across the bar and you're like, wow. Did I pick the wrong choice on that one or what. Should never have called her/slept with him/gotten that tattoo of her face/kidnapped his dog, etc.

But no matter how much you rethink your choices, I guess that's just life. Like as much as I may have just bitched, I don't regret things. It's like a policy of mine. I suspect most of it stems from a strong dislike of admitting I'm wrong, but no matter how you stack it, everything's considered life experience, right? Unless you keep making the same mistakes over and over again. This is why I don't re-date boys. But my point is that people are terrible and scary and probably often crazy but you're going to have to deal with them anyway. And I guess it's okay to believe the best of them even though once in a while it'll come back to bite you really hard and you'll have days like the one I just had. But now that you are armed with my wise interpretation of it, you'll be able to deal with it better, right? And a last word of advice: always sleep with a stuffed animal that has a can of pepper spray hidden in it so that if you pull the tail the pepper spray will spray out of its mouth. You're welcome.

Jet Lag, Customer Service, and A Potential Cry for Help.

To quote Iz, upon arriving at SFO international airport: "oh thank GOD for American men!"

And that about sums up my winter vacation.

Haha no I'm just kidding. Actually a ton of shiz happened that will probably span several posts, many of which probably won't end up being actually written. But just to keep myself accountable:

1. Korea. It's cold.

2. My grandparents' story.

3. The wrong restaurant.

4. Babies: sometimes they're kinda ugly.

5. Stanford. Four years later, nothing has changed.

6. Photoshop photoshoot.

7. Uncle Paddington and his countryside abode.

8. Shopping, shopping, and did I mention shopping? Plus mah hair.

9. My drunken uncles.

10. Chinese-style parking lot money-shoving fight.

There, that makes it seem a lot easier. So I got back yesterday around noon. After lunch I collapsed into my memory foam (the first time I've had a bed to myself in two weeks -- it was heavenly, I don't know how I'll ever stand being married) and knocked out for the rest of the year. I know, I'm a party animal.

Anyway, today I was much better thanks in part to the sixteen total hours of sleep I got the day before and in another part to a McDonald's iced coffee (diet commences when I return to school, I swear). So Iz and I went to the mall because I hadn't recklessly spent American money in a while finished my Secret Santa shopping yet. And that is where Iz Got Hit On By a Slightly Creepy Older Gentleman.

This is how it happened.

Iz and I were at one of those carts that they have in the middle of the mall, those mini-store things. We wanted to buy some of this $50 face-wash system thing but the guy was nowhere to be found. While we were waiting, this one guy from the cell phone stand next to it (like three feet away) came over and joked, "It's all free today!" While we were considering just taking the products and leaving $2 and a note ("we weren't sure how much it cost -- hope this covers it") when he added, "Nah, I think the guy stepped away for a second to use the restroom."

So we waited another few minutes. And then a few minutes more. Pretty soon it was coming up on fifteen minutes (Iz whispered, "This guy is taking a fat poop") when another one of the cell phone guys came over. He started making small talk in that way guys do when they're working up to a way to ask for a girl's number and these situations make me nervous so I wandered off under the guise of looking for a trash can in which to throw this little piece of paper I had on me. I know, I'm a terrible wingwoman/big sister.

Anyway, when I came back he was asking her what she does, and when she told him she was a comm major at UCSD he looked kind of surprised. Then he told her he had a journalism degree from University of Oklahoma (? some state like that) and that he spent six years working with the Air Force and that this mall job was just temporary while he was adjusting to his recent move to the Bay. Then he asked her for her number.

Oh my god that was the reason I avoid situations like that. It was so awkward while she just stood there going "mmm hmmm rmmm ehhh eeeh" until finally I totally butted in and was like "uhmm well she has a boyfriend" and then the guy just smiled real big and was like "well who said we have to go on a date? can't I just get your number?" And then it was more awkward and no one spoke until I said loudly, "Hmm, I wonder where the toy store is?" which was supposed to be a hint for Iz to be like, "oh, I know!" and lead us away but I don't think she got it because she just kept smiling politely and the guy kept waiting expectantly and I kind of blocked out the rest but I know we eventually left and the guy did not have a number to show for his efforts.

And then after we left Iz and I had the following conversation:

Me: Eek.

Iz: That was weird.

Me: Yeah, he's way too old for you.

Iz: Really? How old do you think he was?
Me: Well he graduated from college, right? And then he worked for the Air Force for six years? And then he moved back here? So he's probably like 30. And you look and act like you're 12.

Iz: He worked for the Air Force for six years?

Me: Uh, yeah. He mentioned that like twice.

Iz: Oh. I wasn't listening.

Me: Oh my god.

Iz: I feel bad. Maybe I should've given him my number.

So if anyone is looking for a pity date..

Anyway, that's that. Tomorrow I'm flying off to Los Angeles (the third plane I'll have been on in as many days) and luckily Maaron is picking me up from the airport so I won't have to drag my four pieces of luggage the mile between the Flyaway stop and my apartment. This marks the first time in four years that I've been picked up from LAX. I need more friends with cars am certainly very independent.

Independence occasionally has a drawback, however. Like tomorrow I am getting back to Los Angeles before any of my roommates or friends and I am slightly worried that a serial killer has been holed up in our empty apartment all break and I'll be the first one to discover him in three weeks and oh god he's going to cut my ears off. I am so serious about this that I am honestly considering asking Maaron to come up and check for monsters when he drops me off. But after that I'll deadbolt the door and I'll be fine, right? Right? Killers can't climb three stories onto a balcony and then break through the glass of double French doors and then track down the only occupant in the apartment in mere seconds by following her singing to the shower, right? RIGHT?

Okay, just making sure. I'm actually thinking it won't be that bad. The first day I moved into my apartment I was also unexpectedly left alone at night and I totally survived it and this was before the internet or cable was hooked up. Still, if you don't hear from me in a few days...