18 freshman in college at the most wonderful three-letter place in the world. started a blog because I had so many feels one day that I needed to write it all down.
you'll find quotes, food, poetry, thoughts, longings--a collection of my moments; sit down and stay a while.

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"The best revenge is massive success."

– Frank Sinatra

He Kissed Me and It Was Glorious

And it didn’t end there. 

I am the luckiest person. Social group, academics, extracurriculars, love life… everything’s falling into line. 

I never expected it all to be this great. Boston is beautiful and the trees are changing colors and my university is my home and I’m so happy.

I’m really, really happy.

He made me pancakes this morning, chocolate and blueberry. Sitting there, licking the gooey mess off my lips, I realized that it was only going to get better. 

I’m so glad that I picked my friends carefully and kind of forced them all to be friends with one another… the group that I met at college preview weekend is now a group of over thirty kids that I feel comfortable hanging out with at any time. They are people that I can tell anything to and that teach me things and that listen to me and that I can just goof off with and have fun with and watch ridiculous movies even when it’s late at night. What I look for is genuineness and kindness as well as a lighthearted but focused take on life, and they share that with me. 

Pass/no record is absolutely brilliant. For most kids, I feel, grades require x amount of work, and A’s are definitely achievable, but it’s the freedom to really build a group and other things outside of academics that is so liberating. I could spend five hours studying for a test to ensure an A but I feel okay spending just one, getting a lower grade, but going to a concert instead.

I’m everywhere, always busy. I literally have maybe four hours of free time a day, dedicated to psetting and napping and friends and get five to six hours of sleep a night. My calendar is packed with events, but I feel a buzz, an excited motivation to succeed. It’s like that mental state, called “flow,” a balance of stress and genuine enjoyment and skill. Clubs are an opportunity to network with upperclassmen that I really admire and to learn about what I might want to do later on.

Lastly, I could write forever about this boy… I think I will post something about him eventually. I never thought it would be possible to be this physically and this mentally/emotionally attracted to a single person and have him feel the same way about you. 

College is heavenly and I’m starting to think that when you send out good vibes to the world, the world sends them back.

I Met Someone

I met someone that makes my heart beat so fast, like the uneven movement of a cheetah across the plains, with its forelimbs extending long over its rear legs and then stretching far, far beyond the expected, pounding down on the ground, dust flying everywhere.

Sometimes I catch him staring at me.

Sometimes I catch him smiling at me.

Sometimes I catch him holding my hand peacefully, with his eyes closed as if trying to hear the soft hues of the violin sifting through the air.

Other times I lean in, and I catch the whispers of his heartbeat, a murmur stifled under layers of muscle and a soft, white T-shirt.

I like listening to him talk, his voice like the taste of chocolate, smooth, sweet, and deep. Sometimes he’ll laugh at himself, and I’ll start laughing, too. Sometimes he’ll talk about antelopes and grease and making cars. Sometimes he’ll talk about physics and calculus.

Sometimes we’ll talk about how I don’t like being alone, and the big picture.

In the mornings, sometimes we’ll just lie in each other’s arms, and he’ll stroke my hair and tell me things. Sometimes he needs to go, but he stays, saying that if he doesn’t look at the clock, time doesn’t exist.

I like when he’s not practical. But he is, most of the time.

Sometimes in class, I’ll hear something or smell something that reminds me of him and flashes pour in… his fingers here, his lips there… and yet it’s sweet. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing’s been done that I couldn’t share. But everything has changed.

I remember hearing one part of Miguel Zenón’s piece, the brassy sounds of the alto sax, the longing…

I like that he writes me letters in the mornings, when he has to leave, and that he leaves me breakfast even though he knows I can just run and get food two houses down, because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. He holds doors open for me, even if he has to run up in front of me to do so. He offers me his jacket, he let’s me walk through a doorway first, he asks me if it’s okay for his hands to rest there.

It’s okay. It’s so okay. Stay a little longer.

He wants to date me, to get me flowers and chocolates and dinners and happiness, because he thinks that because I love romance, that’s what I want. I just want to be with him. I want to read with him and do problem sets with him and go to concerts and parties and formals with him. I want to cry with him and grow with him and learn with him. If it all ends, I want to be friends with him.

Sometimes I worry that I’m not going to remember all of these moments. All of the little things that he does for me that make me feel like… you know that saying… find a guy that doesn’t make you want to be other girls, but makes other girls want to be you. From when he first put his arm around me, when he told me that I was in control, when he told me that he would work hard for this, when he told me that he believed relationships to be sacred… I realized that I couldn’t remember it all.

But it’s not not about remembering every note that a piece has, the flats, the sharps, the accidentals, it’s remembering the feeling that it all leaves you with. I don’t know what this is yet, but it’s something.

Locks of Love

Donated to Locks of Love for the second time today. For a moment, I admit, I was nervous about how my shorter hair would affect my appearance, especially with college looming and many new people to meet. Then, I realized that cancer patients have to deal with that and so much more. 

My hair is still pretty long, longer than last time (as it’s a couple inches past my shoulder despite ten inches in a bag), and this good feeling I get overshadows any doubts I ever had. After two years of growing it for this purpose, it’s liberatingly light, and the thought of making someone else’s day a bit better fills mine with joy. I have been so lucky in my life, and it’s important, when we can, to give those suffering a bit less to worry about. Besides, if I do say so myself, I quite like the new look—shorter hair is “in,” after all. :)

Help someone by checking out their website here and donating some of your hair! In two years, you can be sure that I’ll be back in that chair.

Fantasia Bubble Tea

This is the best bubble tea I have ever had in my life. 

Passion Fruit Green Tea with Tapioca and without Milk, 百香果綠茶. image 

Yum.

As seen in the skies of Stanford Shopping Center

As seen in the skies of Stanford Shopping Center

As seen in the windows of La Baguette in Stanford Shopping Center

As seen in the windows of La Baguette in Stanford Shopping Center

The Jungle

Everyone needs to read The Jungle at some point in his or her life. It may have lost some of its direct relevancy regarding the packing and meat industries, but its messages regarding capitalism and corruption are still incredibly apposite for the modern citizen. While its black and white portrayal of capitalism and socialism can be a bit myopic, it’s a moving novel once you get past the first few pages. 

There are books that make you laugh, books that make you cry, and books that make you think. The Junglemade me terribly depressed and hopeless. There are points when I laughed internally and others when I cried internally. It’s an internal book. I can’t really explain how Upton Sinclair crafts his story except by saying that he does so with sharp wit and terrifying imagery. Irony is abundant, and you see the gradual atrophy of the morals of a good man. You feel and smell and taste and understand everything, but you’re an observer, watching the story unfold, unable to help the deaths and hunger and prostitution. Other people wouldn’t understand how you felt unless they had read the book or, worse, lived the life. 

I used to think that The Jungle was a very two-dimensional, factual report on the state of affairs in factories, but it’s really about the people that were affected by them. Social studies and history classes don’t do it justice. Sure, it helped effect national legislative change in the regulation of food preparation, but it’s also about Jurgis and his wife Ona, it also highlights the differences between the American Dream and reality, and it also asks us if society is really beneficial for the working man or for just a handful of wealthy manipulators. 

When faced with the economy the way it is today, with perhaps less classism but a wealth gap nonetheless, it’s a question worth revisiting.

Just some doodling I did a couple of days ago and a bit of color editing. The hand on the right looks a bit awkward, but whatever. 

Just some doodling I did a couple of days ago and a bit of color editing. The hand on the right looks a bit awkward, but whatever. 

Lost at Sea

image"Down to the sea in
ships they go, these
chosen men of steel.
Though mist and foam
and northwest wind is
pounding at the keel.
So sail they must each
crispy morn, away from trees
and sod. The sea may own
their windburned flesh
but their souls belong to God.”

- Bud Smith 1975

We went to visit my grandpa today, whose urn is in a mausoleum atop a beautiful mount. It was serene, and the view was peaceful, with rolling hills and a view of water and sky tempered with bright blues and dark teals and soft greens. It was chilly inside the building where he rested, and in the case across from my grandfather’s, on the bottom row, was a young man who had died in his twenties, presumably from a car accident. My grandma told me that once when she visited, she saw his wife there, a young thing, sobbing on her knees in front of his little box. She was still there when they had left.

There were larger cases for couples, and one couple had their urns designed as large bronze hardcover books, upright and pillared next to each other. 

Flowers were everywhere, fake linen ones and orchids and the pink-white and yellow roses we had brought from our garden in a clear glass jar. 

"What does life mean?" my grandma asked me, "Have you ever really thought about it?"

"No," I whispered then, not sure how to word my thoughts.

Looking back on my answer, life, for me, is an opportunity to change things and help other people and be happy, and, even if I’m not remembered, to do things that will be meaningful. Life means an opportunity to find meaning.

When we visited Half Moon Bay and saw that little monument in that picture up there, I realized that I really am not afraid of death, at least, no more than the typical concern over not knowing the answer to a question. 

As my sister, the self-proclaimed atheist, has decided, we don’t really remember what happened before birth, so why fear what happens after death? To extrapolate from that, regardless of whatever happens to our physical bodies, God will take care of us. If there is no God, there’s nothing we can do about it. But I have this feeling that, because there is so much beauty in the world, there should be something more out there, and that we need not worry because our “souls belong to God.”

I wish my grandpa a good rest, wherever he may be. I hope he looks upon the flowers and over the hill and is at peace. I hope he looks over us and guides us in our lives. I hope he is happy at how far we’ve come and proud.

A part of me knows he is all this and more.