Seven

Yes, the title may be a bit confusing. But it's meant to signify the seven deadly sins, something that has been a lot more prevalent in film than religion-sloth, greed, wrath, gluttony, lust, pride, and envy. The idea is that, although these are all terrible evils, everyone in the world possesses a little of each of these traits-and truth is, that's correct. People are flawed, and as much as I would like to think otherwise, I'm pockmarked by asmuch nasty, if not more, as others.

In terms of these 7 deadly sins, however, it seems like there's one in particular that lives the most strongly within me. It's not something I like to think about too often, but today, a surge of pure, green-eyed jealousy brought me to realize that I definitely portray envy.

And the worst part of the ordeal was the fact that this sudden onset of envious rage was brought on by someone for whom I'm not even romantically involved with-it was just one of my friends from high school, someone with whom I'm not even especially close.

I had originally planned to spend the day with him, seeing as we were conveniently in the same area-it was something I'd been looking forward to, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping it'd go somewhere else.

But then, at the last minute, another friend decided to change her plans and join us for the day. Reluctantly I agreed, pretending as if I was okay with the situation. I secretly wasn't. So we met up, we explored the city, we had our little adventures-it was great, it was all fun and games, all the way through dinner. I thought I had it under control. Although they had hit it off on some singular subject, I was still winning the race, this imaginary racing going on in my sick, inebriated mind. It wasn't even a matter of who liked who or what got where-I wanted to win, I wanted to get the prize, and in that, I forgot my surroundings, my actions. I became so wrapped up on trying not to lose the spotlight that in the end, I pushed it away fom me. And that was when the disgusting bitterness of envy set in, a little monster in my head screaming "I knew him first!" "You don't even belong here!" "Why did you have to go and ruin all my plans?"

Sometimes I get in my own way.

Hey, I'm Okay.

I woke up this morning from the immense amount of equator-worthy heat and I realized that I'll be fine. In the heat of things last night, I left myself in a terrible, vulnerable place, somewhere that, now, seems like a childish escape that I cooped up in, so that I could hide myself from reality.

But I don't need that, and that's what my mind finally figured out this morning. I have more important things to fret about, so many aspects of my life that I should be putting my time into. I did what I did, and really, there's no point in worrying over whether it was the right decision or not. It's happened, it's over, and I'm just going to have to move on. So I will.

I started this post today with Megan Lee's "8dayz." For those who don't know, Megan Lee is a Youtuber-turned-K-pop Idol, currently working in Korea. She's known for her soft pop ballads, and I felt that this one was appropriate. It's in Korean, and although there is an English version, I feel that a larger portion of the Korean version's lyrics apply to how I feel right now.

Because "This is a new day." and I'm okay with that. I'm ready.

Cataclysm

I've been pretty absent from this blog for the last few weeks. I can pretend like it's because I'm trying to pace myself and not become too obsessed about posting, but really it's because I've been lazy. Not even busy, just not inspired enough by my life events to create an entry.

It's been a messy two weeks, honestly. I still haven't heard back from the dream job, and I've basically given up hope at this point. I'm doing better at work, but I also want to leave more than ever. My classes almost don't exist to me; they feel unimportant and surreal, and I'd rather stay in bed (though I can't).

There's a heat wave hitting my part of the state right now, and it makes life a living hell. The humidity is impossible and there's a constant sheen of sweat on my neck-my laptop overheats way too quickly and I feel an inevitable net of lethargy cast upon me, as if any motion will only render me the most terrible of all consequences.

But these things are not why I'm here, finally posting after two weeks. Anyone can see right through my heat rant and realize that it's just an intro, a gateway to the bigger, deeper concepts in which I'm about to submerge.

So why am I updating?

Well, in the past week I've found myself in a personal dilemma. Yep, here we come with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God (or whichever higher being that may or may not be out there). I'm baring it all.

Of course, like any predictable girly anecdote, this one starts with a boy.

So reel back to a week ago-I'm at a social event, I'm drunk, and I'm with my friends. I start a conversation with a Guy, not thinking too much about it. His friend comes over, and I try to set him up with my friend. In this process, Guy also turns out to be pretty interested in me. We dance. We hold hands. We kiss. I somehow end up giving him a fake name, but my real phone number (Is this a sign?).

The next morning I wake up, complaining about the sunlight. I forget, even, that I gave him my number. My friend and I get bagels. I get a text.

It's him.

My initial reaction is panic. Who is he? Why is he texting me? Should I just say he got the wrong number? Instead, I confirm my identity. I reply with a "Hey." I throw in a :), and I don't know why (Is this a sign?).

We start talking, and in the back of my mind, I'm telling myself to stop. I'm telling myself to tell him that I'm not interested, that it was just a one-time thing, that I'm not looking for anything. But he seems nice. He seems fun. He seems like a good kisser. And somehow, an hour later, we have a date on Sunday (This is a sign, right?).

Throughout the week I worry. I flip and flop, back and forth, wondering if this was the right decision. Several times I get to the point of texting him and saying it's off, coming up with a basket of excuses for why I can't go out with him.

I never send any of those texts. Instead, we talk. Cute little nothings, but it's sweet, if not perfectly genuine on my end. Sunday gets closer. This doesn't feel like reality.

Sunday comes, and I spend, literally, 4 hours getting ready (Is this a sign? What even is a sign anymore?). He said he'd pick me up at 8:00pm. He's here at 7:59. I see him, for the first time, sober. He's cute. He's actually really cute. I'm starting to think he's out of my league even. He drives, and we make small talk. He's moved a lot. I've moved a lot. He's funny. It's nice.

We get there. we walk. He's sweet. He's thoughtful. He's polite. He holds my hand. He shares a funny anecdote. We find a place to sit and he kisses me. I kiss back. It feels great. We move around, taking our time at a playground, and on a hill. We scope out a random building, and he jokes that if anyone asks, we're looking for a church to get married in. He asks me to teach him Chinese. He's not very good at it, but he tries.

We settle down by the beach. He pulls out a towel, so we don't get sandy. Things heat up, and I know what he wants. But I'm not ready. I'm not prepared, and I tell him, and he accepts it. He's disappointed, but instead of lashing out, he's kind, he's selfless, and he has my feelings as priority. We end up lying on the sand, looking up at the stars.

He takes me home, and he's a perfect gentleman. He insists on walking me to my door. With my persistent words, he returns to his car, but he doesn't drive away until I'm safely inside.

And then reality hits. And I realize that we can't continue. Truth is, under everything that I've said and claimed, I'm scared. There are so many factors that come into play-I don't know if we have enough in common, I don't know if I can fully trust him, I'm not sure of myself, I'm not ready, it's moving too fast and I don't feel like I'm in control, I'm afraid of what my parents will think, I'm afraid of how it might affect my life, and I'm just so so afraid.

And because of that fear, when he texts me today with a fun, flirty "Heyy :)" I don't respond. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to break up with him, though is it even that when I haven't even dipped my toe in this relationship?

So I wait. I ask a friend for advice. She's super helpful, even if she doesn't realize. I finally do it. And while I'd made up a bucket full of excuses before, I throw them aside again. I tell him I'd meant for it to just be a one-time thing, that it's going too fast and I don't think we can do this anymore. And then I put my phone away. I'm scared of what he might say. I'm afraid of how he might react.

An hour or two later, I realize he's responded. I can't bring myself to read the text, so I hand it off to a friend, asking her to read it out loud. I brace myself for the worst.

Even so, I'm not prepared for what I hear.

"It's chill. I completely understand."

I'm relieved. I am relieved right? Isn't that how I should feel? Like I'm free?

And yet, furtive tears begin to leak from the corners of my eyes. I shake it off, wiping them away as I assure my friends that they're tears of relief. I push it to the back of my mind. I tell myself that this is good.

But here I am now. I'm alone, in the dark, and for some reason, I'm still crying.

Did I make a mistake? Did I pass up on something that could have been it? Did I turn down a guy who, in all terms necessary, could be defined as "perfect?"

So now I'm sitting here, by myself, and all I can think about is what I've just done. I don't think it should hurt as much as it does right now. Did I make a mistake?

I don't know. I really don't know. But it's for the best, right?
I really hope I'm right.

Redeem Yourself

Sorry.

It's a tiny, 2-syllable, 5-letter word. It really isn't supposed to be that difficult a concept to grasp. According to Merriam-Webster's online dictionary source, the term 'sorry' is defined as this:

Feeling sorrow or regret.

Emphatically, the term sorry, before being 'used' as a way to show regret or misfortune, stands primarily as an expression of feeling, a necessary feeling showing that one not only comprehends the grossness of a situation, but knows to feel shameful about said situation. In practice, it is a similar feeling to owing someone a large amount of money-it's a feeling of anxiety and debt, paired with a deeply-rooted, self-inspired need to make up for whatever one has done.

Unfortunately, this "supposedly" simple idea has proven so difficult for so many people in modern society; more and more often do people feel self-righteous and impossible to failure, trying to push blame for their own mistakes, creating excuses or turning a blind eye to their personal wrongdoings. It really is the bane of society's existence, in a sense-with the reign of narcissism and an inability to back down, the world has seen wars and political disputes over tiny, insignificant matters, ones that have been stretched out past the breaking point. From individuals to entire nations, people thrive on the basis of who's right and who's wrong, on who gets to win the argument this time, on who stepped on who's foot, or wrongfully claimed who's island, or accidentally bombed who's land.

And yet, people have remained unrelenting, turning tiny altercations to major, newsworthy conflicts, which brings back the point of how ridiculous people tend to be when it comes to admitting their wrongs.

But really, how hard is a sorry? And I'm not talking about a meaningless sorry, a sorry to get away from the argument, a sorry to hide behind, or use as evidence in future mentions of said event. Sorry isn't an empty word, and it should never be treated as one-going back to the dictionary definition, sorry is a term that embodies not one, but two entire emotions. Sorrow, and regret, and without these two emotions, sorry is practically synonymous to saying 'screw you.'

Personally, I feel like it's important to me that I am surrounded by people who can appreciate the power behind this loosely-thrown term; this comes from my childhood. When I was younger, I never said sorry. Ever. Because I never felt that I was in the wrong, and I would stand up for my ideals, no matter how irrational they were. And while one of my parents would try to convince me to say that "I was sorry" to the other, I wouldn't back down. I wouldn't use that term until I completely meant it. 

So what's the point of using the term if one does not mean what he or she says? Doesn't that "sorry" immediately become a dirty dishrag, tossed around haphazardly and infecting the trust of those who receive it? In that case, one might as well keep the word at bay.

And yes, remorse is an important feeling. It Is an internal emotion that should be felt with sincerity, and the words "I'm sorry" should be used with caution, not carelessness, to avoid misuserstandings, both outside and within.

Blank

I miss you.

It's these late-night, early, early-morning situations that bring me back to you. To this feeling. I miss you, all of you, every trace of you, every inhale, exhale, inhale, pause.

Pause.

What am I doing? How can I miss something I never had, love something I never knew, want you back, when you were never here? Clearly I'm mistaken. Clearly I'm mad. Clearly, or not so; perhaps each of my sentences should start with murkily instead.

But I do miss you.

I love you. Still. It's stupid, it's crazy, it's irrational and baseless and I'm vulnerable and shallow and young but really, really, who can judge? Isn't that the foundation of love, the lack of one?

It's been so long. So long since I last saw your face, so long since our last real conversation, so long since you looked at me with calm eyes, spoke to me with kind words. It's been so long, yet unlike drug withdrawal, the pain seems to never end. There is no rehabilitation. Sometimes I can dull it, sometimes I can push it down, past my diaphragm until it suffocates, like a tiny flame, turned into barren ashes. Except those ashes never completely die out. There's always the last spark, the final flint of life that comes springing back into full-blown inferno, on nights like this.

On nights like this, I sit in desolate solitude. On nights like this, I open a new browser window, and read through all our old chats. On nights like this, I hold back the tears, hold back the regret; I hold my breath, until I feel woozy, wishing that you'd be here by the time I let go.

It's not like I haven't tried to clear you out. I've deleted your number from my phone, but it's still here in my mind. Do you ever get that? Those specks of memory that somehow get so obstinately lodged into the canals of your brain that no matter how hard you try to forget, they still manage to cling on?

Cling on, the way I'm doing right now, in such utter desperation?

It's pathetic. It's laughable and ridiculous, and come morning I'll look at this post and wish I'd never written it. But in the depth of tonight, I have no resentment. I want these words out. I want you to know, even if you don't and won't ever know, how much I miss you. How much I miss us, though we were never really us.

But I still miss us. And I want you to miss us.

Sometimes I over-analyze your previous words, those sweet nothings from our long forgotten past. I guess they were really nothings. Nothings, that, over time, became even less than that. Is there anything less than nothing? You used to tell me the opposite of love wasn't hate, but rather, indifference. Is that what you feel now? Do you even remember me, remember what we had? Perhaps, in your mind, I am but a distant whisper of an entity, if that. It's okay though, really. It's probably better this way.

It's probably better if you never remember me. If you never come to realize how I really feel. And on my end, I'll try not to feel. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and the amount of time and space that separates us is so immense. I feel like I'm drowning. I can't latch on anymore. I don't have the strength to persist in holding my breath.

I need to breathe. It'll hurt at first, but the pain will dull; and then, maybe, I can feel what you feel.

Indifference.

42, thank you. Thank you for allowing me the chance to grasp the concept of love. Thank you for giving me this boundless expanse of emotions, over all these years. Thank you for showing me a part of myself that I would have never discovered alone. Thank you for helping me become who I am today.

I'll always love you, even when I no longer do.

Dissatisfaction

It's hot. I'm bored. I'm tired, even though I just slept 13 hours. I'm lonely, but dating is hard and I don't like the idea of settling. There's leftover makeup on my face from last night, and I know it'll give me acne, but I'm too lazy to go wash it off.

I applied for my dream job last week, and I've yet to get a response. I keep checking to see if I actually sent the email (which I did), and now I'm doubting myself.

I feel inadequate. Did I not make a good enough impression on my supervisors when I was interning? Am I insignificant, so much so that I don't even deserve a letter in response, something that at least signifies that someone, somewhere, actually read my message?

I usually bottle these feelings up. Yeah, yeah, let's just talk about our cliched problems now, why don't we.

Honestly though. I'm always confident. That's my thing, that's my image. I'm always sure of myself, always.

Except I'm not.
I'm really not.

I'm scared, all the time. What people think of me, and what they see in me, is really really important to me. I'm fake, a lot of the time, just as an attempt to be likable. Which is ridiculous, but I have a really hard time inspiring that feeling of "I'm great and everyone should like me" by myself.

I need constant affirmation that I am, indeed, "the best." I'm sure some of my closest, oldest friends may have a sliver of an idea that this is the case, but I'm good at acting. I'm good at seeming like I don't care, that it doesn't bother me.

But in reality? I'm extremely weak to rejection. I hate the idea. I don't heal easily from it at all. I make this big deal of how make up is just something society puts upon girls as a regulation of BLAH BLAH BLAH but in reality, I wear it to almost every social gathering. I get super hurt and broken every time anyone rejects me romantically, and yet I act like it doesn't bother me and "I don't even want a serious relationship right now anyways." And every time something like this current situation, where I'm waiting for a reply, an acceptance into a field that I can only dream for, occurs, I get so ridiculously antsy and nervous, to a point where I turn to even religion for hope.

But why?

Why am I always so dissatisfied with myself? Why don't I ever think I'm good enough?

I mean, we can all blame our problems on our upbringings. With the traditional Chinese parent system where nothing was every good enough, perhaps now I've placed that idea on myself.

But I want to go beyond that.
I want to be good enough.

No, I want to be better. I want to be able to live everyday with the mentality that I am amazing, that nothing about me needs to change, and I want to reach that internally. I want to stop relying on external forces of recognition and confirmation when it comes to my self-worth.

It's so hard. But I have to try.

...And My Love Life's DOA

I think I kissed my dance instructor.

Okay, so that's not exactly the best thing in the world. It also doesn't make much sense-how can I think I kissed someone? Shouldn't I remember the people with whom I get THAT intimate?

Well, apparently not (which basically accounts for me getting Strep, and then ending up in the ER and...well).

I guess I should recount.

So a week or so ago a few friends and I went to a rave. Now mind you, I am NOT about that life. Really. I swear. Nonetheless, one of my friends' roommates happened to have never gone to a rave before, and well, you know how it goes.

Anyways, all of us ended up a bit "punch-drunk" before we hit the venue (quote Easy A: "we had a few pre-cocktail party cocktails...like...before the cocktail party...with cocktails"), and I left my glasses elsewhere, so by the time we got to the rave, I wouldn't have been able to distinguish Leonardo Dicaprio from Meryl Streep (okay, it wasn't that extreme-maybe Leonardo Dicaprio and Ryan Gosling...)

So we're at this place, and of course, drunk me (which is the more hyper, more entertaining, louder and somewhat looser version of normal me) starts to get her dance on. It's like an out-of-body experience, no joke. I'm doing things that I wouldn't even dare to do in sobriety, moving and shaking things that normally barely even bounce.

Of course, enter guys. And I mean A LOT of guys. Not even in a bragging sense-I kind of "let it go" (cue snowstorm and violins), and I basically ended up moving around to quite a handful (or two) of random guys that I could barely see, with my lips gracing every one of theirs. And no, none of it was classy.

I am appropriately ashamed.

At some point in the night, however, I distinctly remember dancing (and macking) (yes, I did just use that word) with a tall hispanic guy, whom I excused myself from at some point later to go rejoin my friends. It was a very no-strings-attached sort of thing, and I didn't think too much about it.

Until Monday.

That was the day I walked into my Hip Hop I class, and came face to face with...well...what seemed like a very familiar face.

Now, here's the part where I bring in the fact that I was obviously not visually capable the night of the rave, and thus cannot confirm nor deny that I indeed, khkhm, kissed this person. Perhaps I've seen him on campus before. Perhaps I've seen him at work. I couldn't say. But the creeping familiarity was there.

Of course, even if it was him, I highly doubt he'd remember me-the venue was dark and I was wearing a lot of makeup (to the point where I could really have been anyone) so I'm not going to bring it up. Better safe than sorry.

But wow. Talk about lesson learned.

(Though it would be fitting to say that he can definitely still get my heart pounding)
(That was a bad joke)
(I'm sorry)

Day 1

Ok, so I just spent about an hour trying to figure out what to write in my Profile Introduction. Does that mean I don't really know who I am? That I'm lost, in ways? That I'm trying to find an outlet for my confusion, that I secretly seek an answer to who I am and what I believe in?

No.

Honestly, I think it just indicates that there are things about me that are perpetually altering, parts of me that I will never be able to understand fully, due blatantly to the fact that I will never be me. I'll always be some rendition of the me I know in this instant, because, in every instant, I will change in some way, whether huge or microscopic, so that I'll never be really able to put myself down on paper.

Now, before I rush into the metaphysical side of my little rant above, let's change the subject. Today is Day 1, as is so eloquently pointed out by this utterly creative title that I have placed upon this post. What is the meaning of this blog? I'm not sure. Maybe I am using it as an outlet. Maybe it's my thought toilet, where I can bend over and hack up the word vomit that regurgitates now and then, while my few readers hold my hair back and pound on my back. Maybe I secretly want to gain some sort of recognition in the world of blogging, some sort of following for my incredibly inflated level of narcissism (okay, maybe not quite that). Either way, it's a place where I can put my mind, a sort of comfort couch, or like one of those things they have at the zoo where you put a quarter in and it vibrates your feet for 2 minutes. But, you know, for my mind.

Hopefully I can keep this up. I'd like to be able to consistently update, though I hold no promises-when it comes to things like this, I do lose interest pretty rapidly, and I end up flaking out before the month is up. But I'll try, so bear with me.

So I guess that's about all I really need to say right now. Please don't be offended by anything I post (or you know, just don't let it sit in your mind and bother you because honestly, I'm one person, and if you care so much about my opinions that it actually hurts you, then really, you shouldn't be following my blog.), and I am always open to comments and input. Input is good. Input helps me grow.

Oh, and one last thing: Hello Blog! It's nice to meet you. I hope you're excited for this journey.