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.

If You've Ever Wanted to Trap a Man's Love Like it Was a Wounded Bird You Should Read This.

I came home this Thanksgiving to three copies of Women's Health magazine on our washing machine in the garage. I'd forgotten that whenever I order make-up from e.l.f. my purple eyeliner and fuchsia nail polish come with a complimentary subscription to this magazine. Usually I don't mind reading about how to "BURN MORE FAT!" or "Eat, Drink & Still Shrink!" while eating cookies in a comfortable chair, but today I came across an article that reminded me of why I don't actually pay for these things.

The first red flag? The article is entitled "Lock Down His Love." I mean, they're not even trying to put up a dignified front anymore (there's also a sub-heading called "How To Make Him Your Boyfriend" -- it was highlighted). But let's look at the content, shall we?

Some interesting quotes from the article:

"According to research, women have a greater chance of landing a boyfriend when they don't have sex on the first date."

Okay I have to admit I'm conflicted on this one. I can't imagine being comfortable enough with a guy I've met only a time or two to sleep with him, but if it's like you've been friends/joking about sexing each other up for months and you finally get him alone I'm not going to judge what happens. Not that.. I would know. Anything about this situation. Let's move on.

"Don't skip yoga or happy hour just because he wants to see you... Not always being available keeps the mystery alive."

If this is true I have totally failed because I am the least mysterious woman alive. I mean, first of all there's this blog, which the last two guys I've dated read regularly enough to make snide comments about it to me (they're not fans of eye-stabbing -- hits too close to home?), and other than that if I want to see a guy and he calls (or texts, I guess I'm easy) my response usually varies between "when will you get here?" to "omg I am more excited about your visit than I have ever been about Santa Claus." So I might have to work on that. Although I don't really see it happening, I am way too lazy to put any effort into attempts at coyness. Also I'm pretty sure my fingers text faster than my brain can think. This would explain a lot.

So in the interest of journalism, I decided to form a guy panel to survey the accuracy of these statements. My panel consisted of Mango and Jamerz, not just because they were my only close guy friends online (apparently some people spend the Thanksgiving holiday with family and not their computers? Who knew?) but because they are sophisticated men whose opinions are always honest and eloquent. As you will soon see. As an afterthought I added Iz to the panel as a voice for the girls, not because her answers are usually insightful but because I figured that could count as my contribution to family time.

So here are my very scientific results, complete with their own subheadings:

Being a Ho: Does it Pay Off?

Me: Would you be less likely to date a girl if she slept with you on the first date?

Mango: Maybe.

Mango: Is she good?

Me: At sex?!

Mango: Never mind. Next question.

Me: Come on, I need your honest answer. This is a scientific survey.

Mango: I'd say no. I wouldn't be less likely to date her.

Me: You wouldn't think she's a ho?

Mango: Well I wouldn't sleep with her unless she was super amazing and perfect with me so I guess if that were the case I would date her.

Isn't he sweet and even more naively romantic than me? He's single, ladies. And makes a delicious salami-and-corn pasta. He really likes watching Spongebob though, so I hope you'd rather spend a Saturday evening in a pineapple under the sea than at a club or something.

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: Tough question... so I barely know the girl?

Me: Let's assume she's hot though.

Jamerz: Of course. <-- I enjoyed this response of his.

Jamerz: I'd definitely have concerns.

Me: About her ho-ibility?

Jamerz: Yeah.

Me: So if a girl sleeps with you on the first date, you'd be less likely to make her your girlfriend, is that fair to say?

Jamerz: I think that's fair.

Ho-ibility.

Me: Would you sleep with a guy on the first date?

Iz: If it's not my first time.

Iz: And if I'm just looking for fun.

I've taught her well.

Mystery: Necessary, or a Waste of Time and Disguises in the Form of Fake Mustaches?

Me: Do you prefer it when women are mysterious?

Mango: I guess in a way. If they're all boring and stuff it's not as fun, right. But not too mysterious.

Me: Like they don't always meet you when you call.

Mango: If I planned something really spontaneous I'd be sad if she said she was busy. If it always happened I'd be like oh she's too busy or something. But it might stir up interest in the beginning.

How did we ever start dating then? I lived across the hall. I don't think you can get much more accessible than that.

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: If I'm looking at her as a potential girlfriend, I'd like some degree of openness. I think I'd like someone I can communicate frankly with.

Thank god guys like this exist because I have a suspicion that sometimes I'm as frank as a hot dog. Oh my god I'm so sorry. That was the lamest joke ever. I don't think it can even be classified as a joke. Let's just pretend like it never happened.

Me: Do you ever pretend to be mysterious with a guy?

Iz: Depends on how much I like him and how solid my original plans are.

By "how solid my original plans are" she means "how many cupcakes will be at the party I was planning on going to versus how many cupcakes he is likely to be bringing on the date." Hint to potential suitors: less than a Baker's Dozen? You're out of luck.

Maybe He's Just Not That Into You or Maybe You Shouldn't Have Used that Mustache After All: Top Three Reasons He Hasn't Asked You Out Yet (Carolyn's Guy Panel Edition)

Mango: 1. If she's actually a boy.

At this point I had to intervene and explain to him that this is referring to a girl he is already dating so if he wouldn't date her as a him then it's not applicable. Unless he'd date him and just not ask him to be his girlfriend.

Mango: Oh.

Me: Start over.

Mango: 1. If they were fake. Like with over-make up. Like it covers their arms.

Sometimes I don't even try to understand him.

Mango: 2. If they were anorexic.

Random. But in retrospect it makes sense, as I clearly don't have this problem. I have like the opposite problem. What's the word for when you're the opposite of anorexic? Oh shit. It's obesity. Let's ignore this part too.

Mango: 3. If they're a boy.

Me: Okay, I just explained this to you.

Mango: Oh, right.

Mango: 3. If we didn't have anything in common.

Me: That's a pretty good--

Mango: Or if they go to USC.

Then he started explaining to me (in detail) what happened in the UCLA-USC game today.

Jamerz: 1. We don't share similar values (i.e. family, career.).

Jamerz: 2. We don't have similar tastes in what we think is fun/funny.

Jamerz: 3. We don't have similar opinions about what a balanced relationship consists of, like what we expect from each other.

Can you tell who is the easier interview subject here? Anyway their answers are kind of encouraging and contradicts that whole theory that girls are more mature than guys because if you had asked me the same question my answers may or may not have been along the lines of:

Carolyn: 1. He uses messenger bags.

Carolyn: 2. He doesn't think Call of Duty is fun.

Carolyn: 3. He often subtly hints that I need to stop drinking.

Maybe it's just me.

Last Bonus Question as a Reward for You Reading All the Way Down Here

Me: What would you do if you were about to propose to the girl you're dating but then you found out she was a guy?

Mango: Wow. I probably wouldn't propose.

Me: Would you break up with them?

Mango: I'd go to counseling and figure it out with them. Why didn't they tell me?
Me: They were afraid you would leave them.

Mango: Yeah, counseling.

Me: Alone or with them?

Mango: With them.

Aw that's kind of sweet and definitely surprising because Mango isn't exactly liberal so this just proves that the power of love can overcome anything, even Republican values. This must be some kind of journalistic breakthrough. Pulitzer?

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: Whaaaaa

Jamerz: I would be devastated.

Jamerz: That's not something I would be okay with.

Me: HAHAHA

Me: Oh my god I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. I didn't read the devastated part.

Jamerz: [silence]

Me: So you'd just never see them again?

Jamerz: Probably. That is just too important to withhold.

Fair enough. I am of the opinion that love transcends gender but to be fair I've never fallen in love with a girl masquerading as a boy who's been lying to me the entire time I've known her and who knows how I'd react if I did. Pretty sure eye-stabbing would be involved, it's another thing that transcends gender.

Me: What would you do if the guy you wanted to marry proposed but turned out to be a girl?

Iz: I'd be like "..."

Iz: Then I would rethink things a bit. Although he did lie to me.

Me: But he was perfect in every other way.

Iz: Hm, then I'd have to think about it. Now let me write my essay. We'll discuss your sexuality later.

Oh god I've taught her to be witty. Kind of. But I do like how her initial reaction would be speechlessness -- she must really be surprised then.

Wow longest (and most imformative? yes) blog entry ever. I'm pretty sure I spent more time and effort on it than I did on the three essays I have due within the next week. You're welcome.

What I'm Grateful for This Year.

1. Predictable Thanksgiving blog posts.

2. Tuesday nights.

3. Sparkly eye make up that makes me look like a fairy on crack.

4. A "feminist" sister who manages to turn all her school papers into dissertations on Perez Hilton.

5. Parents who still think of us as princesses.

6. Boys who don't get angry.

7. Fuzzy pink boots and metallic wristlets.

8. Having the ability to help the sweetest, cutest children in the world (or at the very least in Watts).

9. Only having to go through two quarters of the 33% fee increase before graduation (this one is also on my parents' list).

10. Pineapple guava juice and pineapple mango body butter.

11. Strange (and sometimes stupid) music.

12. Your face.

Happy holidays, fools. Be safe, drink a lot, and stay off the road.

The Queen of the South

Swamped in papers and confusion and just general discontentment with life-- you know the kind that rolls around during finals season? Or the week before Thanksgiving when you realize you might not actually have time to eat any turkey because you'll be so busy writing four essays and trying not to stick a gun in your mouth? Yeah, that kind of feeling. So in lieu of me making lame jokes about pop music or boys or how I set off the fire alarm when I try to make breakfast (true story, it happened this morning -- I do believe that my brain may possibly be missing some sort of homemaker gene?), here's something somebody else wrote that is neither lame nor funny but kind of what life is all about:

"I wonder if you'll make a mistake someday and tell me you love me."
She turned to look at him when she heard his words. He was not upset with her, or in a bad mood. It was not even a reproach. "I love you, cabron."
"Of course you do." He was always making this joke. In his easygoing way, watching her, inciting her to talk, provoking her.
"You'd think it cost you money," he would say. "You're so cool... You've got my ego, or whatever you call it, beat to a pulp." And then Teresa would hold him, kiss his eyes, say I love you, I love you, I love you, over and over. Pinche Gallego piece of shit. And he would laugh as though it didn't matter to him, as though it were nothing but a simple pretext for conversation, a joke, and she were the one that should be reproaching him. Stop, stop. Stop! And in a minute they would stop laughing and stand facing each other, and Teresa would feel powerless at all the things that she couldn't do, while the male eyes would look at her fixedly, resignedly, as if crying a little inside, silently, like some kid running after the older boys that were leaving him behind. A dry, unspoken grief that made her feel so tender, and then she would be almost sure that maybe she did really, actually love this man. And each time this happened, Teresa would repress the impulse to raise her hand and caress Santiago's face in some way hard to know, explain, feel, as if she owed him something and could never repay him.

There are two kinds of men, she thought suddenly: Those who fight and those who don't. Those who take life the way it comes and say, Oh well, what the fuck, and when the spotlights come on put up their hands and say, Take me. And those who don't. Those who sometimes, in the middle of a pitch-dark ocean, make a woman look at them like she was looking at him now.

Stop Asking What I'm Going to Do After Graduation, Please.

When I was in England last summer, I spent the first few weeks so homesick it was practically a physical illness. The strange thing was, I loved England. I still think about it all the time, even though it's been over a year since I came back. When I was with my friends out shopping and converting to pounds or eating pastries or strolling through the English greenery I was having an amazing time. I can still picture the funny little flowers that grew outside my dorm, and I can practically count the (four flights of) stairs from my room to the shower in the basement.

But still, I would get so homesick missing my family and friends and the California warmth that I would go three days without sleeping, because I was staying up all night to talk to them.

And the hardest part was that no one really seemed to get it. Everyone else in the program was having an amazing time getting wasted and hooking up with the English TAs or at least clubbing every other night. My family and friends went on with their daily routines and marveled at how lucky I was to be experiencing something so amazing. They sent me postcards and letters and I wrote back telling them about how wonderful my professor's accent was, or how I went to see the cafe where J.K. Rowling began Harry Potter. Even Mango was busy taking classes back at UCLA. He told me how strange it felt for him to be on campus without having me around, but always had to break off our conversation to go to class or dinner or bed. The only person who really seemed to if not empathize then at least sympathize with me was Stuffin. He'd stay up with me when I couldn't fall asleep and tease me about all the good food I couldn't get across the pond. And to just have one person understand made a lot of difference.

The reason I'm thinking of all this is because I don't get homesick at school anymore. I definitely think about home (especially of all the food there, I'm starving) but I don't yearn to go back. In fact, often when I do visit northern California I wish wholeheartedly (and guiltily) that I were back in L.A. The shift is strange but I suppose inevitable; after four years most of my life has been built up here. And I'm lucky in that it's not a lonely life.

Take tonight, for example. I get home around midnight and my apartment is empty. And I realized that I don't mind. I have Mango to walk me home when it's dark and check my empty room for monsters before he leaves; in the mornings I have Jenn to chat with while we eat brunch. At some point tomorrow the Y will stumble in all raspy voiced from having just woken up, and then over the weekend I get to hang out with my Watts kids at a museum before catching up with my roommates at night.

And then I wonder how I'm considering leaving all this behind.

I don't have a post-graduation plan. I do, however, have a backup graduation plan (in case I don't magically get offered the job of my dreams right after receiving my diploma)(hm, I guess that's my post-graduation plan). I figure that to avoid moving back home (for my own sanity -- I'll explain next time) I could always flee the state. I love my parents, it's no reflection on them. It's all me, and I have this strange desire for change and excitement when England has already proved that I should really only be taking such things in small doses. A part of me wants to just move to a brand new city and start all over and maybe end up having the kind of life I was meant to have, but the (small, but) rational part of me is saying: whoa, hold on there, cowgirl.

Say I move to Seattle or Connecticut or Washington D.C. Okay, what then? I won't know a single person there. I won't have a job. I won't know what neighborhood to live in, where to find decent Chinese food, or which bus line to take. I'll end up huddled up in front of my computer all day, bemoaning the time difference between me and California and wondering what all my friends are up to back home. And I might, god forbid, be lonely.

I'm a pretty independent person (Jesus, how did that happen? I have no idea either), but at times like this it would be really handy to have a boyfriend. I'm still young enough to think that there would be nothing more romantic than moving to a strange city with the love of my life and setting up a little loft somewhere filled with post-its and secondhand furniture and colorful bedsheets. We'd slowly but surely accumulate a circle of quirky but loveable friends. We'd have a bar we go to every Thursday night and a cafe we go to on Sunday mornings.

The thing about this fantasy is that it thrives on youth. What happens in ten years, or twenty years? Will we still be living off caffeine and poetry, or making plans to backpack through Australia? I have no idea what I want that far into the future, but I don't think it's that. I suppose the thing would be to find a boy who could make the transition with you from pseudo-starving artist to respectable suburbanite.

And that's no easy feat. But until then I still have ten months left on the lease to a Westwood apartment and (hopefully) enough savings to keep me afloat and out of Union City for a few months after graduation. And who knows? Maybe even enough to make that move.

You Know When TV Writers Don't Want to Write a Whole New Episode so Instead They Have a Lot of Flashbacks? This is Like That, Except With Links.

This isn't a real blog post so don't expect richly detailed prose about the intricacies of undergraduate life in Los Angeles. Well, who am I kidding. Don't expect an overshare of information about personal grooming or vague and possibly drunken rambling about obsolete television shows.

Anyway this is just a quick drive-by to say I'm probably going to be leaving this world soon and farewell, blog. You were good to me for the half year I had you and I hope that when I'm gone someone awesome hacks into you and pretends to write as me, as if I had never died, and it freaks out the people who read you (all eight of them), because they went to my funeral and I was in the casket damnit and so who is this proclaiming their love of bargain hunting on you?

But on the off chance I survive midterm season (this year featuring papers, massive reading, two presentations and two exams all crammed into two fun-filled consecutive days) and the fact that I haven't gone grocery shopping in over a week and am not above eating whatever is in the back of the fridge, don't be offended if you don't get an invitation to a funeral. Because I probably made it. Or whatever.

Anyway, my being on blogger at all is totally Meema's fault because I should be slaving over homework that makes me want to cry blood so that I can show my bloody-teardrop-stained-papers to my professors and say "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE" but I can't control what my tears are made of, apparently, so I'm here instead because of a conversation I had with Meema:

[Meema]: a lot of work to do?
me: just kill me
[Meema]: but then who will write my favorite personal blog :/
me: you're just saying that
[Meema]: no I'm not
[Meema]: yours is the favorite of mine of people I actually know
[Meema]: and ones that are about their own lives in general
[Meema]: well it's between you and this graduate-school educated escort who writes about crying during yoga and the rich men she services

I think I've just been complimented, people.

You Were Warned.

So let me just say right now that if you value yourself at all you will not continue reading this. Because it's going to be long and rambling and, above all, angry. Because I am pissed. You can tell when my sentences get all fragmented that something else is going to get fragmented, and it'll probably be a bowl or someone's skull, if that someone were foolhardy enough to mess with me right now.

Yesterday I was taking a break from killing zombies and looking through my blog when Mango's roommate Maaron glanced over.

"What is that?" he asked.
"Uhm, my blog."
"I know that," he said, "but what's the point? Do people even read it?"

Now, if he had been a zombie asking that sort of impertinent question, I would have blown his head off with a trench gun. But since he has a soul (as far as I know) and his flesh isn't decaying off his body, I just gave him a dirty look.

"Uh, yes."
"Please," he continued, blithely unaware of the imminent danger he was in, "how many? Like five people?"
"EXCUSE ME," I replied, "MORE LIKE EIGHT."

But that's not the point (it's not why I'm mad now either). The point is that I don't know why I was all defending the readership of my blog. I mean clearly I think it's cool when people read what I write, but mostly I'm writing because I have this slightly neurotic fear that I'll forget everything if I don't write it down. Like I only have snapshots of memory from elementary school and that freaks me the eff out because come on, I'm 21 and I can't remember the third grade? Yeah. Thus my little self-prescribed mission to preserve my youth on blogspot. I hope this website has good technicians or whatever because if it ever crashes and wipes everything out there goes my entire past, and I don't think they'd want that on their hands. I'm like an android.

Jesus, where was I?

Anyway, what this post really is about is love. More specifically, about how love sucks and/or doesn't exist. Okay, I told you not to read this. If you're going to start crying you should really just leave now. I'm pretty sure it's all downhill from here.

When I was little I had this totally concrete idea about my perfect guy. In middle school I had it down to the color of his eyes (green; grey was also acceptable), his family background (he was an orphan or estranged from his parents), and of course, his personality. He was this total tough guy, kind of a thug actually. He would be sarcastic and a little mean and very in control. I think I read too many gang novels where, you know, that one nice girl could turn a gangster into a doting boyfriend and upstanding citizen. Anyway, now that I'm older I realize that my 'perfect guy' in middle school would, in real life, have with several warehouses full of baggage and probably be borderline abusive.

So that went out the window and I was kind of left to drift. I dated guys I would never have imagined myself with, mostly guys I couldn't see a future with. And I didn't really mind at all. I mean, if I had met that one guy with whom I could (god forbid) see children or wedding bells (hopefully not in that order), I probably would have driven the relationship straight into the ground using only the sheer force of my temper. It's kind of my specialty.

As it is, though, no prince has ridden up waving an obscenely large emerald ring and promising to cook for me for the rest of our lives (never using onions, eggplant or raw tomatoes, of course), bring me wet cloths when I'm sick or tell me my singing is cute and not horrendous.

So thanks to his taking his sweet time, I'm left to fend for myself out in the dating world. And it sucks. First of all, I'm not a real big dater. I kind of hate it, actually. Dates bore me, and plus they're kind of awkward because you know it's a date, and it's so hard to get to know someone when you're alternately wondering if you are making a good impression and when you can go home and put on your sweats. It's much better when you like someone, and you know they like you, and then you do something silly together like make root beer floats and have an Arrested Development marathon. In your sweats.

Okay, so I'm a loser, but I'm a comfortable loser. So that's one reason I'm mad. Because I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm a grown-up now, and I'm eventually going to have to go on grown-up dates, and I hate that.

And you know what else I hate? And I'm not saying this applies to me personally right now or anything but GOD I HATE IT IT MAKES ME SO MAD. Sorry, it just came out. I hate it when you can't be with someone who you want to be with.

Like, if I were Rachel McAdams in The Notebook and my parents dragged me out of town and I didn't hear from Ryan Gosling for seven years I would have razed the town of Savannah or New York or wherever she was (actually, it was New York for college and then Savannah, where she was getting ready to be married. Have I mentioned it's my favorite movie?) Or if I were Nicole Kidman and I had to pretend I didn't love Ewan McGregor anymore because I had tuberculosis or "consumption" or whatever, I would've torn the windmill right off of the Moulin Rouge.

But sometimes it's not an obstacle as easily overcome as protective parents or a fatal illness. Sometimes it's more than that, or less than that, or (in what I'd imagine to be the worst cases) the other person. And there's nothing you can do about that. Because no matter how many major metropolitan cities you threaten to destroy, you can't make that person like you, or at least not enough to take you out for ice cream or watch Titanic with you on rainy nights, I'm pretty sure. To be honest, you'll probably just scare him/her off further with your displays of violence. You should really get your anger problems checked out. But enough about you. Back to me.

So yeah, I'm angry today. It's one of those days where it doesn't really feel like things work out for good people, or that no matter how compassionate, sympathetic, helpful, optimistic and well-dressed you try to be, life is going to kick you in the face with a muddy boot and then leave your doors open on its way out so that a fly gets in and you can't open the windows to let it escape because it's pouring outside (that's how the boot got muddy) but you're not fast enough to kill it, probably because you are still recovering from that attack on your face, which, by the way, is probably going to leave a scar that will have kids calling you "Harry Potter" for the rest of your life. Yeah, one of those days.

Do Not Entrust Me With Your Children.

Hello, hello. I'm like a neglectful parent to my blog; right when I get it I fawn over it and coo about how adorable it is and update it every day and then I begin to ignore it because it's so needy and needs to be burped all the time but then I start feeling guilty about my terrible attitude and renew my promise to write something every day and then I go to Hawaii on vacation and totally forget I even had a baby and then I come back and child services is knocking on the door and now I'm only limited to thirty minute visitations before my full blogger rights are restored to me. Well that last part isn't completely accurate but I had to work out a way to say that there is only approximately fifty minutes of battery life left on my computer and the charger is way the heck in the living room and I love my blog but frankly there are limits to my dedication.

So.. yeah. I'm back from Hawaii! In fact I'm not even in Fremont Union City anymore, I'm in the City of Angels and happy as a clam. Or more like happy as an otter holding a clam that I'm about to crack open and eat. I'm sorry, it's really, really late.

Anyway, Hawaii was as amazing as you'd expect an island paradise to be and I have a lot to say about it, I think, (well actually I have a terrible memory, which is why I am a little obsessed with making itineraries and scrapbooks and virtual photo albums and -- oh yeah, blog posts) but I'm waiting until all the pictures are uploaded (you know who you are -- and if you don't, you are Teenie, Jamerz and Mango) before I begin on what will be the most epic blog post ever attempted completed in a timely and coherent manner.

So if my life were a tv show and you just missed the last few episodes because you are not a very loyal viewer (honestly, did you even notice that I hadn't updated in a week? I bet no one even sent any search parties out to Hawaii, like I expressly asked you to, did you? And I don't care that I had a post since my return, it could very well have been pre-scheduled and for all you know I'm now lying in a pit of lava in the middle of the Pacific) then the recap at the beginning of the newest episode would go something like this:

1. It was very recently the birthdays of three of my good friends: Teenie, Kenny and Stuffin (collectively known as the September babies). Their birthdays are in three days in a row in the middle of September, and usually at the end of our summer break we throw a huge joint birthday party. The only thing was that this year I had exactly one day between my return from Hawaii and my departure from Northern California. What followed was a very busy pre-party morning full of humorous hijinks and laughable setbacks that would be very entertaining if it had not happened to me, but it did, so we are not going to talk about it.

2. My family and I made the road trip down to Southern California, and I think it really says a lot about the three years I've spent here that when we became stuck for about an hour in blistering hot Los Angeles traffic, all I could think of was how happy I was to be back. Also we borrowed this cargo truck from a family friend to haul the furniture for my new apartment, and I am not kidding when I say cargo truck. We had to go through weigh stations. Yes, it was thrilling, and yes, I did feel like I should be wearing a cap. It also brought me way back to when my family was dirt-poor and my dad would have to make weekly (weekly!) drives up and down the coast of California hauling cargo, and sometimes he'd take me or my sister along and we'd sit on a little stool in the back with the boxes while my dad and another worker sat in the only two seats in the cab. And it was awesome, if a little bumpy.

3. On Tuesday Tando brought over half the stuff he's let me store at his place over summer. He tells me he only brought half of it because "it got too dark and [he] couldn't see anymore." This statement was mildly confusing but I assume he meant he couldn't see between his front door and his car and didn't want to lug a bunch of stuff in the dark. When the Y asks why he didn't bring all my things I tell her what he said, and her take on it is that maybe he's scared of being outside in the dark because the gangsters will get him (Tando does not live in the best part of Los Angeles).

4. On Thursday Tando was supposed to bring the rest of my stuff but he couldn't because the car he was going to use wasn't available.

5. On Friday Tando and his cousin were supposed to hang out with me and the Y (and, I assume, bring the rest of my things) but they cancel. I begin to suspect that Tando's pet bunny has eaten all my clothes and my trash can and my mini-fridge and he is stalling for time before he can work up the courage to tell me this.

6. Tando calls and explains the reason he had to cancel was because he needed to wait for the electricity guy to come and turn his power back on. I recall that Tando had his power shut off ages ago for forgetting to pay the bill. "They turned it off again?!" I ask increduously.
"No," he said, "they never turned it back on."
"How long have you been living without electricity?!"
"Like a week. I thought you knew this."
"No, you didn't mention it again."
"Well, why did you think I couldn't bring all your stuff last time? I couldn't see where everything was in my apartment after the sun went down!"

I am slightly ashamed to say that at this point I burst out laughing, which Tando did not appreciate. I tried to lighten the mood by saying, "oh... the Y thought you were just scared of gangsters." For some reason this did not help either. But luckily everything worked out because today the guy finally came and turned his power back on and I got all my stuff back and now I have my scarves and shoes and belts and Tando has electricity. And my battery has two minutes left on it.

Good night, see you again soon. Really. Well, maybe.

My Hope is That While I'm on Vacation the Aliens Will Reveal Themselves.

Hello friends. So I'm going to Hawaii tomorrow. Iz and I already went earlier this year with my parents, and it was so fun we decided to do it again, only this time without our parents. Taking their place will be Teenie and Jamerz, and it's pretty much going to be epic. So you might not hear from me for a while.

We're going to Oahu, which is the home-island of my good friend Laycon. Oh, you will hear much more about Laycon in the coming year. He is quirky in ways that make me look like ... someone really normal. But he is awesome and I love him. Anyway, earlier in the summer Mango and I were discussing the trip (he'll be going too, but on a separate flight and slightly different days, and he's staying with Laycon instead of a hotel like the rest of us -- outcast), and we were getting really enthusiastic about it and started googling tourist attractions and sending them to Laycon as ideas for where he could take us.

Side note: Laycon is from Hawaii and has lived there all his life, but ever since I met him he has made a very clear distinction between what he is (a Cantonese person living in Hawaii) and what a native Hawaiian person is (a native Hawaiian person living in Hawaii). Also when we ask him what it's like living in Hawaii, he says "hot." And when we ask what he does when he's at home he says "play a lot of Pokemon."

So anyway we were noticing that there was this really long lag time between when we would send Laycon a suggestion and when he would provide feedback. I mean, Hawaii's far, but not too far for the internet.

Me: Laycon, are we overwhelming you? You're okay with taking us around, right?
Laycon: Yeah, yeah. Totally okay.
Me: Okay, cus you seem hesitant..
Laycon: I'm not, I'm just trying to google all these places.

So this trip should prove to be very interesting and adventurous, and if you don't hear from me in a week please search all the hidden caves and waterfalls on Oahu.

Speaking of potential death, I was researching Hawaii because I am not ready to die want to help Laycon out with the whole tour guide thing, and I stumbled across this interesting tidbit:

There's supposedly this Hawaiian goddess Pele whose wrath you incur if you take a piece of Hawaiian rock or whatever from a certain national park home with you. Like you take the rock home and things just start going all sorts of wrong for you until you send it back to its native soil. So I guess this is just a word of warning for my fellow travelers. Because if you upset me I will totally sneak a rock into your backpack and when all the light bulbs in your homes become nesting places for mosquitos you will be sorry for whatever you did to anger me. So yeah. Maybe I do want the aisle seat on the plane. And the first plate of shrimp at the shrimp shack. And shotgun on our two hour car ride. How thoughtful of you all.

So since this is going to be an extra long post (to make up for what might potentially be a week of silence, the longest I've been away from my blog since we first began this beautiful relationship, tear), we might as well switch topics so I can ask: who's reading this? Because I know once in a while a friend will tweet or comment or IM me and allude to something I wrote here, but my blogtracker thing has kinda high numbers, like more than the people I know are reading this. So unless they are clicking onto it from like a dozen different computers? Also the tracker is totally telling me that people from New Zealand and the United Kingdom are coming onto here, and also "other," which I guess means aliens read this?, and that would be cool if it were true but I'm also suspicious that my blogtracker is playing a practical joke on me. Like it's thinking "oh this poor girl, no one reads her nonsense, let me just pad her statistics a little" and now I'm like oh cool, people read my words except it's just pity points, really.

Also once Iz told me she liked to read my blog to find out what I'm up to, and I'm like "you live with me" and she's like "yeah, but you don't tell me everything" and I'm like "but I want people to read my blog because it's charming and quirky, much like its blogger, not because they are nosy and want to know what kind of drama is going down in my life" and Iz shrugged and was all, "well too bad, that's not why they're reading it" and I was like "goddamnit." So you can see why I got all excited when I thought people from other countries were reading this. Because they probably don't know me, and so I must be kind of interesting or else why bother, right? Not that I'm not glad my friends read this. Especially when I get in one of my futile moods and I'm like "I'm never writing again" and then someone tells me I made them laugh and I'm like "awesome, I take that not writing thing back."

Anyway, that is my beginning-of-school-year wish, to know if people I don't actually know in real life are reading this. I think it would be awesome and totally not creepy, because even if you were a creeper you don't know where I live so you can't kidnap my sister, and if you really read this blog you wouldn't want to anyway. So we all win. I'm not sure where I'm really going with this.

Oh, right. Hawaii. Peace out, suckas. Pele and I will be thinking of you.

Imposter Alert. Sort of.

I recently gave a friend the link to this blog. Like literally copied and pasted the link into her chat window. Somehow this happened:

Friend: Weird.
Friend: I clicked on the thing you typed
Friend: and it brought me to a blog named
Friend: seven
Friend: instead
Me: What?
Friend: and it's only post is
Friend: TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 2001
I roll wit catz wit iced-out headbandz wit loose bracketz.That'z how I got KNOW-LEDGE.
droppin Jewelz

I was vaguely alarmed at this mysterious blog intercepting my traffic. I went to see it for myself and what I saw only slightly cleared things up. The blog was entitled "SEVEN CIPHER: Freestyle Rhymez and Poetry."

So not only does this seven cipher guy get direct access through my link, but he gets to roll with cats with iced-out headbands with loose brackets. Life is so unfair.

A Hot Mango is an Angry Mango.

Mango's mad at me. Maybe not mad. He's rarely mad at me. But he is annoyed, peeved, ticked. It may be because it is a hundred degrees in our sweltering little apartment (ridiculous considering that is has cooled down to a comfortable 70 outside), or it could be that I spent the last half an hour mulling over a series of quickly discarded pen names for a spanking new blog. He finds that I'm not paying enough attention to him, not ignoring the heat to move close to his shoulder or popping in the DVD of Moulin Rouge that I'd promised/threatened we'd watch.

Mango has retreated to the other, less comfortable couch, and satisfies himself by occasionally tossing baleful looks by way. Poor Mango. How do I explain to him that, contrary to what it must seem like to him, I'm not wasting our second to last Thursday night together? If I tell him I'm starting a blog, he'll ask me what I plan to write about, and how would I reply?

The not-quite-existent love life of a 21 year old, the excitement of my 8 to 5 days in an office job, the squabbles of an ordinary family, the everyday intricacies of boy friends and girlfriends?

Mango is sighing and murmuring about being unloved.

I'll be back.