Blog has moved to LiveJournal. For now. I like their format more, now that they've upgraded everything.

But will come back again.

Some time.

Sometimes, I wonder if I believe in destiny, that we're all predestined to meet who we do and become who we are. It's a silly idea, sure, but I think the human life is so complex that things can't just occur by chance. I can't imagine my life without any of you, and it all seems by chance that I even met you guys.

If I didn't go to PV's office to tell them I didn't get my student directory, they wouldn't have found out I moved, and I would have gone to PV all three years. Which means, by now, I would have a voodoo shrine of JH. Most importantly, I wouldn't have met P (both of you).

If Carolyn had never gotten to know me, she would have still hated me. We would never have become best friends. I would have never met K through her.

In ninth grade, if Cam and I weren't put in the same health class, then be placed in seats that were right next to each other, would we have become friends or just passing acquaintances?

If you step back and think about it, if my parents never divorced and just hung on to their pathetic relationship, my mom would have never married my stepdad. I would have never come to SR. I would have stayed in LA, and maybe eventually go on to date James in highschool.

If I'd stayed in NY instead of moving here, how rich would I be by now from modeling?

B, if you weren't born with such abnormally large eyes, I would never have stared at you during orientation. And you wouldn't have become my first friend there.

So, I can't figure it out. Is life a string of accidents or are we all marching along our preordained road?

This is a Public Announcement

Attention Please:

I have less than twenty-three hours to fix my VCR and find an empty tape so I can record Grey's Anatomy at eight pm tomorrow. If I can't do this, then all Friday plans are cancelled. Yes, that means you, P. And you, B.

I hate to sound like a obessive fangirl, but....

...Tom Felton was born today!!! Let's have a look at this gorgeous man (er...boy):


.........................And that was all I could find because he's not really photogenic and most of his pictures remind me of Aaron Carter.

Happy Thursday :D

Where's the rum gone?

This is what I'm doing instead of hw...

So, I was looking at my past diary and I thought I'd share a few entries with you guys.

There's no other way to say it. JH was...a disappointment. In a way, I'm happy he disappointed me. That way, I don't have to obsess over him any more.

:)

M
(some time between 2000 and 2004.)


Hi James (J was the name of my diary),
I don't feel like writing anything. We are taking the Sat 9 test, well ofcoarse I finished already. I don't feel like doing anything actraully. I just want to go home and then watch Tv and eat then repeat that (obviously, this was when we had cable).
J <3 M
or
M<3 J
The person James, not you.
(2001-ish)

Sunday
1. Wake up and don't watch TV!
2. Take a shower/spa (Awww, I remember that was the period I would take all of Saturday, or Sunday in this case, doing masks and spa things and stuff)
3. Make bed
4. Turn on TV & do coloring homework
5. Before 4 eat
6. Study
7. do EC is u want to
5 (yeah, don't know how that figures...). go for a swim

1-17-03
U know what James? I don't like anyone at PV. The closest boy friend at school is J (Haha...right. Just shows how erroneous and misguided I was)...and I can't like him again knowing that he's a player (Playa!!! Yo, that's right, dawg). Maybe K is right; I can't push these things.
But that do not stop me from doing what I can (I get one in hole. I speak good English. Who writ the bible?)! I will choose different hairstyles...choose different outfits (really, the only thing I remember wearing back then were stupid T's and jeans)...and not be so tense around boys (well, I've achieved that alright)...look at people's eyes when I speak...be nice to everyone...and be smart!
*Big Smiley Drawn Here*

You Should Date An Italian!

You love for old fashioned romance, with an old fashioned guy An Italian guy is the perfect candidate to be your prince charming If your head doesn't spin enough, just down another espresso with him Invest in a motorcycle helmet - and some carb blocker for all that pasta!

Which Foreign Guy Should You Date?

Um, which foreign guy should I date? The foreign guy, of course. We'll even watch porn together. Not on his friend's cellphone though.

I wanna be able to squirt water out of my vagina like Sugar.
"So, what's your deepest, darkest secret, something no one else knows?"
"I can shoot water from my sex! And take great aim! Hey, watch out there, I'm gonna squirt you next!"

Yes, Faber. Yes.

Pocky

I've written another story for competition. It's about the troubles of teenage life, and isn't meant to be a very uplifting story.

If you're reading this blog, then this story probably has you in it. I won't tell you which person you're supposed to be. However, keep in mind that the situations are dramatized and changed according to my will. It's not supposed to be strictly just you so don't be offended or anything. You guys were just the inspiration for each character.

-------------------------------------------------------

It was the transitioning period from the bloated warmth of happy summer to dreary autumn; dreary because it meant school, the annual storing of nice summer dresses, and red flaky noses that tissue companies forget to mention in their advertisements.
“Have six,” he said cheerfully.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t want any of that,” she tried to say, her voice softened by one part frustration and three parts exasperation.
He gave her the kind of grin she was now used to receiving from him. Before, years ago when her mom had just met him, she’d been afraid of that smile. The movement of muscle started at two opposite points of his lips and moved upward until the fine lines and deep valleys on his face began to move upward as well. Like plate tectonics, it rearranged his wrinkled visage. Formerly smooth planes of skin congregated to low hills and steep mountains of flesh. Valleys deepened or separated. His whole face shifted with his smile. It required so much movement that she hoped he would stop doing it. For his sake.
“Have six,” he said again insistently as he stacked two more on the existent four. She cleared her throat. “But I don’t want-,” she tried again.
“Four is an unlucky number, did you know that?” he told her.
Yes, she knew. And she showed as much by nodding. The word for four in Chinese was pronounced almost (almost, but not quite) like the Chinese word for death. The si sound applied to both ‘four’ and ‘death’, a completely random assignment by the studious caveman who invented the language, doomed the number four—and innocent enough number in English—to a life of being shunned and avoided. Even telephone numbers with repetitive fours were considered back luck among the traditional Chinese.
“Six is a lucky number. So,” he concluded, “you either should have six or nothing.”
“I’d rather have nothing,” she said as he walked away, louder so he could hear her speak those words clearly. But of course, she was ignored.
She looked down. It was an uneven lattice of chocolate covered Pocky sticks. Four sticks were laid vertically on the bottom. The newly added two were placed, horizontal but slightly slanted, on the top.

Elaine looked at herself in the mirror. Her shirt wasn’t fitting properly. She was sure of it. Her mom, who was standing next to her and critically examining the mirror, was even more sure of it.
“Your shirt isn’t fitting properly,” her mom told her.
She blew her chocolate-Pocky colored hair out of her face, which was damp from perspiration. Next to her, her mom’s face was as cool and calm as ever, but wrinkles of frustration and distaste were showing.
“You need a large,” her mom concluded.
“I’m a medium.”
“She needs a large,” her mom said, turning to the scurrying teenage girl rushing around the fitting room, face hidden behind an armful of discarded clothes. Her mom was ignored.
Elaine swallowed the bitterness in her mouth and shrugged off the shirt. Her cell phone vibrated inside her pocket and she quickly put on her own shirt (the one that sagged around her upper body much like jeans sagged on the cool guys at school), before answering.
“Hello?” she answered in an unfriendly half-sigh, even when she was restraining herself from showing her vexation.
Munch, went the other side of the phone. Munch. Munch.
“Hello?”
“F-shea, ‘m here,” said a blurred female voice on the other side of the phone. There was a quick succession of munching, and then a pause (in which Elaine guessed she swallowed whatever she was eating). “Sorry, I’m eating.”
“Oh?” Elaine asked tightly. Conversationally. “What’re you having?”
“Pocky sticks,” her friend answered her from the other side of the radio waves, or whatever it was that phones used to transfer voices from one place to another. “You know that Japanese snack?”
Her mom came back into the fitting room, carrying a large, tan long-sleeved shirt. “They only have an extra-large. Try it on.”
“Sorry, Jackie, I have to go,” Elaine said quickly, and then hung up. She turned to her mom in the reflection of the mirror—the surface on which she could see the both of them at the same time with side-by-side comparison. There was a difference. Her mom was tall and thin. Standing next to her, she suddenly started to see fat tacked on her body. They were everywhere. Her body screamed thighs! And hips. And arms. And stomach.
“I don’t need to try it on.” Elaine took the shirt from her mom, shouldered her purse, and broke open the magnetic door of the changing room. “I know it’s going to fit perfectly.”
Her mom watched her from behind, and then followed her to the line at the cash register.
As she stood behind a group of giggling girls (all measuring about four feet and carrying lingerie shopping bags for their flat chests), one thought went through her mind.
Fall shopping sucks.

“I really need to do my shopping for fall,” Shelly sighed into the phone, trying to explain her infuriating predicament. “There’s just nothing to buy. I’ve gone twice, and I’ve only just gotten two shirts.”
The other side of the phone munched sympathetically. “F-shea.”
Pause.
Munch.
Pause.
“What are you eating?” Shelly asked, watching her ceiling absently. If she squinted, the shadows on the white plaster resembled a man with a big, hooked nose. She squinted again. The tortured voice of her favorite singer garbled softly in the background.
“Nothing, now,” said Jackie, finally answering her. Her voice seemed oddly depressed. “I’m all out. I only had six to start with. I think we still have some more, though.” Jackie was speaking to herself now. “In the cabinet, maybe? Hmm…”
“Six what?”
“Nothing. Pocky.” The topic fluidly reached a junction, and turned. “You know what?”
“What,” Shelly echoed obligingly.
“I’m so ignored by my stepdad,” Jackie explained, the pace of her voice picking up as the subject excited her. “Take today, for example. I mean, I tell him something. I say it once and twice and three times and he acts as if he can’t hear me.”
“Aw,” Shelly cooed as her mind searched from something appropriate to say.
“Call waiting,” Jackie suddenly said, saving Shelly from having to console her. “I’ll call you back.”
Shelly hung up the phone and sat up on the bed. The house was freezing. Her room on the second floor was hell (literally) in the summer and Antarctica once the weather turned cool. It was perfect. Really, really perfect.
She couldn’t see why she couldn’t move into her sister’s room. After all, her sister had gone on to bigger and better things. Like college. She’d shed her past life in this town like shedding an extra layer of clothes.
New York, she thought glumly. She’s in New York and I’m stuck here.
Dinner had been sizzling on the kitchen stove downstairs, but by now, it was reduced to a rich, warm aroma.
“Shelly, dinner!” her mom yelled up the stairs, ringing the small, silver dinner bell she’d bought at a recent shopping expedition.
She glanced at the time on her cell phone. Six fifteen on the dot.
All I want is Anarchy. When will they ever stop being so rigidly precise?

Crisp, cold air whipped her cheeks as she stepped out to the curb of the empty street. Silently, a black vehicle glided down the street, and stopped smoothly in front of her. The mirrored window came down.
“Get in.”
She complied and hurried around the car, reasoning that the wind will stop piercing through the loose wool of her sweater if she was quick about it. Also, the voice wasn’t friendly.
“Lois, you’re late by fifteen minutes!” her mom reprimanded at once as she ducked into the car. “You said to pick you up at six fifteen and I was here at six fifteen. It’s now six thirty.”
“Breathe,” Lois said slowly, stressing each syllable. She looked at the car’s digital clock as she lugged her backpack into the seat next to her. “It’s six twenty-five. God, seriously, if you can’t even get the time right, what justifies your authority to tell me about keeping track?”
“Okay, six twenty-five,” her mom ceded crisply. “I was worried, Lois. If you’re going to be late, you have to call me. You have your cell phone with you, don’t you?”
“Oh my god, this is not a colossal issue. Seriously.” She tried to explain and took a deep, deep breath. She released it in a series of quick, loud sentences, whizzing through the air like darts. “I was in the library, mom! What could have happened to me? What, some rapist-“
“Okay, okay, okay,” her mom said quickly, hitting her palm lightly against the steering wheel as she steered away from her daughter’s short fuse.
There was quiet in the car but the sound of the metal hitting against plastic as she absently tried to buckle up.
“So, how was studying? Didn’t you say Mark was going, too?” Her mom’s voice: conversationally light, tinged with warm, maternal inquisitiveness. The bad, frizzling air had dispersed almost immediately after the short-lived argument.
“Yeah.” The answer was offhand and uninterested, like trying to throw hunting dogs off the scent of their catch. In this case, it was her mother’s catch. “Studying was alright. We completed most things.”
Her mother gave her a sidelong glance before turning her eyes back towards the road. It was six thirty, and everywhere, there were cars. It was a Friday. People just wanted to go home.
They stopped. Two parallel lines of unblinking red backlight glared back at them as if challenging them to a staring contest. Lois could only see the backlight on the right side. Her mother could only see its parallel brother. Neither the woman nor the girl realized they were looked at, essentially, the same thing, only flipped the opposite direction.
Lois traced her finger around the dashboard, mentally making a list. She had to remind her mom to stop by Jackie’s house to drop off the chemistry book she borrowed. And so they waited, twenty feet away from the stop sign, moving one inch every second.
Lois calculated that it would take them four minutes to reach the sign.
“Mark is a nice boy,” her mom suddenly said, her voice still very light. Again, that sidelong glance. “Do you see him often?”
“No,” Lois said flatly. “He’s always studying.”
“Like you.” Her mom beamed.

Fern couldn’t have them see her tears, so she went outside. The air was cold, gripping her like the clammy fingers of the dead. Or at least what she imagined dead fingers to feel like. From inside the pocket of her jeans, she fumbled out a crushed cigarette and lit up.
Usually, she would’ve been more careful with smoking, just in case someone saw her. But tonight, she didn’t care. She shut her eyes and breathed in deep, taking into her lungs every last drop of sweet tranquility that thin cigarette had to offer.
Almost twenty paces away from the house, she could still hear the screaming coming from inside. It was her youngest sister’s voice—shrill, frustrated, and loud enough to shatter most eardrums.
Arguments in their house were most like fire. It could be very small, flicker, and just die. Or, if it catches on to a dry stalk, it might swell and swallow everything around it like the wildfires she’d seen firefighters try to extinguish on TV. They never do extinguish them. Most times, they just had to let it burn itself out.
“I’m not breaking up with him! Everybody stop minding my fucking business!”
She didn’t even bother to glance back, but just winced. That was loud enough for the whole street to hear.
When they were younger, her mom would take her sisters and her swimming. She would pack fruits. Kathleen would pack plastic packages of instant noodles. Elsie, her youngest sister, would pack Pocky. Personally, she thought that stuff was disgusting. Kathleen thought fruits were disgusting. Elsie despised instant noodles, and thought it below her.
But still.
They’d gotten along. She didn’t know what happened, but somewhere along the way of growing up, things started unraveling faster than she could put it back together.
She wished she could remember what it had been. But her memory was nothing like it used to be. Even if she racked her brain until her temples started hurting, no magic would happen. It was a pity because she had once considered her memory her greatest asset. She could remember things down to the very minute detail.
“Don’t you remember?” she used to ask people. Nowadays, people were asking her that question.
She was frustrated with herself, yes. Her only condolence was the fact that she would turn eighteen in just two years. Then, she could get out of this place and maybe go to New York instead of staying in the hellhole she was in (it was the opposite side of the country, and she figured that would be far enough). And maybe then, her memory could improve.
The frigid wind was giving her a headache, and she ducked behind a car to escape the assault. Sitting down on the asphalt, she reached inside her back pocket, took out her cell phone, and dialed the numbers with her numb fingers.
Munch, answered the phone. Pause. “Sorry, I’m having a snack.”
“Jackie?” Her voice wavered and broke. “I just really need to vent right now.”
After she cried, she wiped her eyes carefully before going back to the house. Inside was instantly warm. It was almost too warm and made her frozen limbs tingle. Everyone was silent, mutinously ignoring one another. Her mother impatiently banged pots and pans together in the kitchen as she started to prepare dinner.
After shutting the door to her and Elsie’s room, she sank down on the bed and took out the pills from underneath the mattress.
They were only sleeping pills.
She took her nightly dose of three, then paused and decided to add one more. She had a feeling she would have trouble sleeping tonight.

Nessa lay in bed, unable to drift off. Soccer practice should have left her exhausted and thirsting for shut-eye, but it hadn’t. Some things never did as they were expected.
A box of Pocky was balanced on her stomach. She’d never tried it before Jackie gave some to her, and now she felt that they were kind of addictive. She was thinking about the kiss. Yes, the kiss. Not a kiss.
Actually, she’d had neither, yet. That was probably the reason she was thinking about them. People didn’t usually keep thinking about the things they’d already uncovered the mystery of.
Anyways.
The kiss. Nessa couldn’t imagine the guy in the picture. Inside, it made her a bit guilty. Most girls would see their boyfriend in the kiss, wouldn’t they? So why couldn’t she?
Before she could fully understand the complexity, her cell phone burst into life on her desk—vibrating, flashing, and ringing all at once. It was a hell of a ruckus, especially late at night.
She leapt up, cracking her back and sending Pocky sticks flying. Her hands were slippery with sweat as she tried to flip open her phone as quickly as possibly.
In a dead whisper, she answered, “Hello?”
“Hey.” It was a raspy voice and very distinctly male.
“Hold on.” Putting down her cell phone, she tiptoed to her door, opened it, and peeked out into the hall. No one had stirred, thank God. She went back to her phone in the same manner and picked it up. “It is kind of late, Justin.”
“Aw, man, I know that,” he agreed wholeheartedly on the other end. She heard the starting of a car engine. “Listen, Nessa, I know this is kind of a lot to ask, but can I crash at your house tonight?”
Nessa paused, wondering if she had heard correctly. Then, she felt the urge to laugh at his stupidity. She wasn’t even allowed to have a boyfriend and now this said boyfriend wanted to ‘crash’ at her house? She’d be a dead woman before sunrise. Nevertheless, she was curious. Then, curiosity turned to worry. “Why? Did something happen?”
“I just got kicked out, man,” he sighed, slamming closed the car door.
“For what?” she asked naively.
Another sigh. This time, it was long, and drawn out. “Look, can I stay at your place or not?”
“Can’t you stay at one of your friend’s house?”
He laughed softly. “Nah, can’t.” His voice then turned pleading. “Please, Nessa, it’ll only be one night. It’s fucking freezing out here and I don’t want to have to stay in my car.”
Nessa panicked. She couldn’t refuse him. The words simply declined to tremble on her vocal cords. “I’m…uh…what? Oh, damn, I can’t hear you… Er…” Then, she hung up, heaving a deep breath. Quickly, she turned off her phone.
Love was trouble.

The next day, Jackie received a call from Elsie, and cried. Elaine put on her new shirt and found it too baggy. Shelly moved her lamp to her sister’s room and saw that as the first step towards total domination. Lois found Mark throwing stones at her window with the sign: Come down. Fern opened her eyes and found herself in a white, sterile room, her sisters and mother assembled tightly around her bed. Nessa got her kiss. But it wasn’t the kiss.

My muse has poofed the grounds.

I am now so desperate to find something to submit to upcoming writing competitions. I haven't written anything in...well...forever. I have nothing.

But am I desperate enough to enter something I wrote for English class? Read on and give me your honest opinion.
Seriously.
Submit it anonymously if you must.
-----------------
If David Copperfield can begin with, “Chapter one: I am born,” then I can certainly begin with sentence two.
I was named.
I was a few minutes old, swathed in golden cloth and bathed in the melodic river of an angelic chorus, when my parents (beaming with joy, mind you) proclaimed me Eugenia Victoria Anastasia Virginia.
Except not really. There was no golden cloth. If you must know, there was no angelic chorus, either. Eugenia Victoria Anastasia Virginia was fabricated as well. The story of my name began before I was even born. My father and mother, pregnant with me, flipped through the Chinese dictionary and gave me the name Xin He. It means ‘to be like a lily’.
But even that doesn’t tell the whole story of my name. The real story, the one that leads to my name now, began when I was five years old. My father is dropped from this third version of my story and replaced with a man of minor ecclesiastical position. This story takes place in a time when my mom and I—having recently moved to the United States and wanting to be closer to western culture—went to church on Sundays. As we were passing the grand church doors on our way out from a sermon, my mom paused in front of the priest.
“What do you think her name should be?” she asked the priest, perhaps not in those exact words.
The priest, in my memory, didn’t even pause to think about it. “M,” he told her. And M I became.
In elementary school, I was “Hey M*male form of my name*o!” in that laughing, teasing voice of cootie-ridden boys. At home and to my mother, I am very fondly, “Niu niu”, a Chinese term of endearment that my mom herself invented. I am “Ma xiao jia” to my father (“Mistress Horse” because I was born in the year of the horse and because he thinks I am spoiled). I am “He He” to my grandparents, “ Jie jie” to my baby cousin (“Sister”), a shy, silent smile to admirers, and “Mamasita” to the produce workers in front of supermarkets.
In the future, I plan on changing my name every year. I’ll be Magdalena, the woman who reportedly hooked Jesus’ heart. I’ll be Lilith, the woman who hooked Satan’s heart. I’ll be Delilah the third year, just to keep up the sexy, biblical trend. Then, I think I will switch to boy names I like. Claude, fourth year. Drake, fifth year. Luke, sixth year.
For the next few decades, I’ll go through names alphabetically. When I’m old and almost out of names, I will probably became “Grandma Zyta”—the last name I will ever own.

The Perks of being a Muse

Alright, so my dad really didn't want me to take this painting with me because he wanted to fix the face (my loverly, loverly face). I'll admit that my eyebrows look a little weird. He thinks that he made my lips too pouty. Anyways, I like the colors and plus I'm very proud of the fact that I have a painting of me. There's a lot of symbolism in this painting that my dad explained to me, but the only one I can remember are the closed doors (it means that I'm not in tune with playing the guitar yet).

Rotten.

I am a joke.

I mulled over some stuff on my walk back home, and this is what I realized. I'm not going to explain it to you, and don't bother calling me to find out (because, frankly, it's just too embarrassing and I'll only get mad talking about it).

Just know that your friend is a joke to some people.

*Poof!*

1. Poof!
-My sanity. Look, I'm even writing my blog like my notes. If I could do cornell
note format, then I would.
-My sanity is mainly disappearing due to the stress from:
------------------*growing up
------------------*college
------------------*SAT (Which doesn't even stand for anything. Jeez.)
--------------------*I was looking at the calender and spotted 'Sat'(which is
---------------------Saturday, for anyone who's unaware of this) and I cringed and
---------------------freaked out before I could realize that it was only a day of the
---------------------week.
2. Poof!
---*My crush. Yep. Gone.
------*I can't say the exact reason for its disappearance. He's still as nice as
-------ever, and his smile is just as sweet, but somehow...hmm...nothing there.
3. Unrelated to *poof!*.
---*I had a cool dream where I read a book. But wait! It wasn't just any book. It
----was a book written like a dictionary.
------*Every single word was written as a dictionary entry complete with tense, use,
-------and, of course, definition.


Hmm, alright, so my cool note format totally isn't showing up on the actual blog. But I assure you it looks cool when I'm typing it up in this window.

I've hopped onto the Little Miss Sunshine bandwagon and watched the movie. Let me just say that it is one brilliant work. I mean, they only had mediocre actors. But somehow, they did an awesome job at conveying emotion. And the script and story were great. I hope I can write something like that one day.

Anyways. Great movie. Laughed and cried through the entire thing.

Zoom! The pigs are flying!

I think I might have a crush. I know, I know. Crazy idea, right?
So, I don't really have a crush on him as much as...being curious about him. And liking his smile. And feeling my lips tug up whenever I talk to him. His name is Spanish Guy II. Hopefully, he'll be different from Spanish Guy I. Spanish Guy I was rather...nice. I mean, he was a really really nice guy. Just...no. I'd rather not think about Spanish Guy I.

I'll just keep my mind of Spanish Guy II. :)

Your Vibe Is Somewhat Sexy

On a good day, you're the sexiest woman in the worldBut on a bad day, you can't help but feel a little averageTry to remember the times you've felt the sexiest...And keep that attitude even on the worst of days

Um, are you kidding me. I am the sexiest woman in the world.

Throw rocks.

So, it's becoming blatantly clear to me that I should avoid all things and all people when I'm pmsing. I punched some annoying freshman on the bus today because he kept insulting me. Normally, I probably would've ignored him. But since I'm pmsing, I slapped his head. And then punched him. Two of my knuckles still hurt. But seriously, he was such a dumbass. Anyone can testify. I really don't feel like typing out the whole story, since it was just so stupid. But basically, there was a lot of 'bitch, flat-chested, fuck, she's a dude!' thrown around (on his part) and also a lot of 'fuck, shut up, I'll hit you if you don't shut up' (on my part).