not labeled for individual retail sale

infringing upon the rights of others:

2006-07-19T00:39:00.000-05:00

Producing ice cream as sweet as the cherry cordial flavor. My throat can't close upon something as sticky as that. If you don't stop doing that, I'm going to keep on buying your products and keep on being dissatisfied, and eventually sue you. Okay? Okay.

So I live in a neighborhood that is really small. I have a window towards the east (the sun blinds my face whenever I wake up). It's not very hard geometry - it looks a little bit like this:

------------------------------------------------
| |
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| pool!! zΩ! |
| |
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| |
------------------------------me---------------

I think my parents are weird about using which exit. They insist that the one underneath the south stairs is the fastest way. I don't really care, and by habit, I usually walk across the gated pool to the owner's garage. If their way is shorter, it's shorter by about 732.4 attometers. Someone should really tell them that speed isn't only affected by distance.

lunes martes miércoles tres. jueves viernes sábado seis.

2006-07-12T19:22:00.000-05:00

Domigo!

So now the only thing I have to do is track everyone I liked at the camp down. I knew it was a mistake to leave the email gettings until the last night, but I was busy making a chair tower that some bastard hotel employee took down after Bas couldn't break by repeatedly throwing a soccer ball at it. That kid really does seem a bit retarded.

I feel like I'm going to hell because I didn't say goodbye.

etiquette: not playing bridge base online when a string of people are waiting to check their emails

2006-07-08T11:57:00.000-05:00

What did I expect? Intelligence? Everyone here is intelligent. But they're still so asleep, so not... moved. I stay up till six almost every night playing drinking games with vodka and a cranberry mixer. So what? So Joe has slept with at least six women, and Andrew has made a pass at Carrie once, and almost everyone present at the game has masturbated in Slovakia. That's not what I want to know. I want to know if they've ever swallowed so much snow they threw it back up. I want to know if they'd walk in one shoe size too small until their heels bleed - for an economically stranded stranger they've never met to finally receive a job.

Yesterday I chose truth, and my question was very simple: do I fancy any boys here at the camp? The answer was really no. But I said yes, because they wouldn't believe me if I denied. The funny thing was, the only boy who I think is attractive is nameless to me, and I'm not even that attracted to him. If I pass him by I'll remember; otherwise I just look on. Everybody else is dead, or very nice, or elegant. If it weren't for his face, he probably belongs in the dead/nice category. Why is elegant play so undervalued? Why is it only about taking the trick? If you have to scramble to make your contract, you're not a very good player: because you're hiding, dodging, making it - barely. People who make dangerous bids should have the stuff to back it up. I hate seeing "out of breath" thought bubbles above someone's head.

My favorite was six clubs redoubled. Hrefna's face was fucking pale when Karl pulled that ostensibly out of nowhere. Spoilers~they made. He was nervous, but his tempo was right: and they made. Bridge is music at a certain level.

Unsure if I should play waitress and kibitz, write in my novel, or flirt tonight. Maybe all three if I'm supersupersuperproductive. Maybe I'll just sleep.

I'm done. Only you would know what's behind this façade, and you're not even reading this.

get that apron over your face

2006-06-22T19:38:00.000-05:00

I should seriously learn more math. I've gotten way too slothful for my own good. In other news, the bidding guide is finished at last. Very happy about that. xD

Excited about playing Multi2NT. Slovakia should be fun.

On another note: hmm... I think the tables might turn. I'm ready.

Go get them.

prada in san gabriel, ripples in apartment pool, bad taste in music

2006-06-17T18:23:00.000-05:00

Okay, this was hard to do - since I don't specialize in emotionally charged fics. Will polish and revise later. Haven't had time to look it over. Inspiriation is like a crowded fancy tapas restaurant. The owners rush you like crazy to finish so they can fit other customers. No room to think, just write. It's crazy. I feel so pressured by my own muse.

~*~

This was how she worked: halving problems, then halving the half-problems, and halving the halved half-problems. Her colleagues began to wonder how she eventually managed to pin down those problems. Small problems get under skins as badly as invisible dust mites. If no one can see the grime, how can anyone possibly begin to eradicate it? But Miri, in her spare time, rebelled against the status quo. As soon as she locked her brave fingernails around a problem she caught, she did her best to mince it into meson-like proportions. Even though at those levels, the problem suddenly decides it has a right to hide irascibly, much like the pea and the princess, Miri finds it all the more reason to find it and smother it – with every fragment of motivation.

Miri felt her childhood fly by in a small sailboat, one whose lone sail spiked the Neapolitan sky. On the sailboat was a young girl scout who stood next to a conspicuous white kitten, continuously yelling and waving at the shore, laughing as the colorful ribbed paper (glued crudely on the sail) flew through the air.

Can you hear me? the girl mouthed silently, dangling an object around her fingers. I’ve got your house keys, you fucking irresponsible daughter of Mercury! Hahaha...

Her laughter rolled beyond the necessary recipient. Miri watched and watched, she watched her childhood fly by in a small sailboat. She felt satisfied, as soon as it drifted away into a speck that couldn’t be reduced any further. One more problem checked off the list.

Josie leaned over her shoulder, smiling.

“Nice work, Miriena,” Josie said. “You’ve finished.”

Miri got up from her seat wordlessly, looking at the puzzle from a larger height. She appreciated how the corners were done – shaved and rounded, so the entire picture seemed to carry a subtle oval frame. Her fingernails – the same ones so well-suited for holding problems and picking up sushi – pried a random chunk from the middle out, dropping it in her purse.

“Why?” asked Josie.

Miri looked up, smiling impishly. She put a finger to her mouth. “Shhh!”

Then the girl put a reassuring hand on Josie’s shoulder, gently pushing her friend aside so she could make her way upstairs.

Josie looked at the puzzle.

She lifted another piece from the picture, this time with more ease, since Miri had already cleared a path with her initial hole. Josie’s dexterity tickled the piece; the piece responded by flashing once from the skylight above and then vanishing into her clenched fist. Her thoughts strayed at the edge of a funny abyss. No no, that line goes after a few paragraphs. It was eleven thirty-four. Earlier Claude had sent everyone a flamboyant message online about Subway and special deals that end in eighty-six minutes. Josie swapped the puzzle piece for her car keys.

***

Miri sat upstairs, rocking in a chair that barely allowed her comparatively large frame. Her elbows were tucked against her ribs so tightly, her bones could meet each other and said hello.

“Hello,” Miri answered for her bones, giving herself another push. The chair squeaked unappreciatively. Obviously it was straining to uphold the weight Miri presented, while she blithely flipped through a book called Could it Be Autism?: A Parent’s Guide to the First Signs and the Next Steps. Miri ignored the chirping. She wondered why the mother of this infant hadn’t bothered to feed her child, quell its fears of such a heavy customer, or at least replace the peeling paint that was making indiscriminate patterns on the carpet.

On the other hand, the mother of said chair wondered why, lately, Miri had taken up the obsession of trying to diagnose herself autistic. While she may know that Miri’s faith in life has caused immeasurable pain in many others, she did not know how much Miri’s cleverness has landed her into a junkyard of trouble. Miri wanted a better excuse to wreak havoc. She was sick of the raining accusations, the you’re fifteen now, act like you’ve had at least some toilet training, the if you keep this up, you’ll be a failure, the why are you digging through a dumpster?, and the infamous, is that your Airport card?

Downstairs, a door shut. The entrance was snug – as confirmed by sound of insulator disappearing into insulator. A black-haired boy took his shoes off using his heels. He held a bag mysteriously clouded by a tall fountain drink.

“Josie,” he called.

Josie perked up from the typewriter, not wanting to let go of her rough draft. “Yes, Luke?”

“Didn’t know you were back already. Where is Miri?”

“She’s upstairs, but she looks busy.”

As if, Luke thought. He walked up the steps leading to Miri’s bedroom, making his feet sound as unobtrusive as possible. For a moment, Luke didn’t want to amble into Miri’s room holding a foot-long Subway sandwich. He watched her face, her unguarded smile as she scrutinized her own brown curls with infinite patience. Once upon a time he would have ignored people like her, especially if they sat on a plain green bench waiting for the next metro to arrive. Her quiet did not translate into snobbishness, for example, as his dictionary formerly dictated. Her vitality did not translate into inexperience either. Luke finally rattled the paper, strewn diagonally with the company’s logo, with as little pressure and as much noise as he could produce, preferring to communicate with the lonely girl through unemotional sounds rather than human voice. Miri looked up from her book. She smiled at Luke congenially, surprised that he was kind enough to remember her afternoon needs. Luke, however, stopped mid-stride when he discovered what Miri was reading.

“Miriena,” he said, pointing at her lap. “What is that?”

“My crotch?” she asked. “I thought you didn’t like in that way me, Luke.”

Luke slammed the sandwich on the table, yanking the book out of her grasp. Miri made no attempt to intercept his violence; she merely shrugged and looked outside at a small girl being facetiously taught how to mow the lawn by her daddy. That’s sweet, she thought. My father should have made me feel important when I was that age. Maybe this is why I grew up crooked?

“At six months, does your child exhibit fascination in people, and turn his head toward interesting noises?” Luke read disgustedly. He glared at Miri over the spine, but her head was turned toward the window, eyes glazed over with an amber calm. “Why are you reading this?”

Miri seemed for a moment as if she was not going to answer. Suddenly, after the motor outside started again, Miri jumped, her entire face lighting up.

“Oh, Luke!” she exclaimed. “I just remembered! I have made a very important discovery!”

Luke glowered, his fragile frame almost unable to contain the anger he felt.

“It’s not about the conjecture, silly,” Miri rushed on. “You know I would never take that away from you, even if I could prove it before you had a chance to fiddle with it. It’s about me!”

Still Luke was silent, his heart aging into a crinkled piece of silk that spent too much time bent in the same gymnastic pose, waiting naïvely for a faerie princess to lift him up and wear him to a ball. How much longer could he remain? The sanguinity of her words, the untrue sparkle of her eyes, Miriena fought bitterly against his comfort for his few spare white blood cells. She had the ability to put him down using the purest intentions. He wished she were less greedy. He hated her fatuousness, the way she sang through the souls of sirens. If he didn’t pay so much attention to her, he could swear that her voice split into three different wavelengths. Luke stopped rolling the film through his mind and dared to behold her long enough to regret what he couldn’t see. He missed the face of his student.

“You see, I’ve been flipping through these books I grabbed from the local library. Josie was nice enough to drive me there since I don’t have a license. Did I tell you? Her car is the nicest smelling place in this universe. Anyway, she dropped me off for a couple of hours, thinking I’d just mellow out in the mathematics section and if I didn’t come back on my own accord, some poor old grandma would find me unconscious on the floor. She was wrong! Haha,” Miri paused to savor a moment with herself. “I headed straight for the psychology section as soon as I saw her pulling away, and I found a couple of excellent books catered to my situation.”

“You don’t have a ‘situation’,” Luke snapped. He attempted to be spiteful. Wasn’t his taste.

“No, but you don’t understand!” Miri’s eyes widened. “I’m autistic!”

“Shut up.”

“Think about it,” Miri stood up, leaning into his face. “Why am I so good with mathematics?”

“Intrinsic ability,” he dismissed quickly.

“Then why am I so awkward?”

“Mathematicians are awkward by default. Look, I don’t have time to play along with your childish games. I have to finish the code for Claude before sunrise.”

“Wait a moment!” Miri said, tugging at his sleeve. “At four months, I know for a fact I didn’t exhibit interest in people.”

“At six months, Eric also slapped the fuck out of his neighboring peers. Does this prove he has anger management problems?”

Miri scowled. “But at twelve months, I didn’t make the milestone either! I tended to ignore my parents when they called my name. I certainly didn’t make sounds, like 'ma', or 'ga'. And I didn’t giggle when they blew bubbles, like this book said I was supposed to.”

Luke sighed, unsure how long he would allow her to storm at him with nonsensical evidence.

“And at fifteen months! I still didn’t know more than two words and I abhorred playing social games, like dressing up dolls. I really didn’t care much for eye contact either. The only way my parents knew I was listening was if I walked away.”

“How ironic,” said Luke sarcastically.

“Please believe me,” Miri said, her tone now wheedling. “When I was three months old, I never smiled at colors and varying shades of light. I wasn’t even intrigued.”

The girl fell silent for a few seconds.

“You used to believe in me so much,” she remarked quietly.

Luke felt like he was stabbed. Damn right, he used to believe in her. Miri showed him on a daily basis just how swift he might run out of material. His waters were deep, that was doubtless – but no divers had ever tested them. The moment she placed a hesitant toe in his pool, Luke knew she was not going to be easy. Didn’t she know he was exhausted? Was she so unappreciative she forgot how to respect her teacher? More broadly, did she respect anyone at all?

“Humans lose faith, especially around people like you.”

“Really?” Miri looked up. “That’s all the more reason why I should be autistic. I cause others to be exasperated with my social incompetence.”

“Miri, you are not autistic!” Luke yelled.

“Yes I am!”

“Your tantrums were cute for a while –“

“– I AM NOT THROWING A TANTRUM!” Miri screamed. Her outburst brought Josie, Claude and the rest of the group to the doorway. There was a brief, riveting moment when everyone’s mouths were sealed with a thick transparent paste. Josie was the first to speak.

“Is everything okay here?”

She took one glance at Miri, the unopened sandwich on the table, and the forlorn self-diagnosis book before she turned around blankly. Her throat made swallowing saliva feel more like tasting a significantly pruned raisin. Her eyes roved uncertainly toward Luke. “Oh my God,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

Luke glared at her.

“I am so sorry, Luke. She asked me to drive her to the library, so I agreed, because I knew she was doing some research on coincidence theory. I didn’t expect her to get a hold of something that would cause this again.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replied unconvincingly. “Though for your information, she finished with coincidence theory last year.”

“Last year?” Josie echoed. “But we need that stuff now! Especially with José –”

“– Shh!” Claude covered her mouth. “You know how Miri gets when we mention his name!”

“I HAVE ALWAYS FOUND OBJECTS MORE INTERESTING –”

“Oh dear,” Josie said. “There she goes.”

Luke struggled against Miri’s clawing, which were growing increasingly in strength. “I SERIOUSLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND BODY LANG –”

“– I’m really sorry,” Josie repeated. “I know she’s been throwing fits for weeks now, I should have been more on my toes –”

“– AT TWENTY-FOUR MONTHS I SURE AS HELL DIDN’T EXCHANGE FACIAL EXPR –”

“– I appreciate your thoughts in the project, but Miri –” Luke yelled over Miri’s fragments from the book. He grabbed a hold of her shoulders and attempted to compress her elbows against her sides, like the chair did a few minutes ago. Miri twisted her wrists around and held tightly to Luke’s arms.

“You will never be as elegant as the chair is,” she whispered violently into his ear.

Luke flinched at the comeback. It was at moments like these when he was reminded sharply of Miri’s acumen; just because she had lost control of her superficiality didn’t mean she was careless about choosing her words.

“Behave,” Luke ordered.

“You wish,” Miri said. Then she took a step back from Luke, drawing a deep breath until her entire stomach arched with the outlandish combination of nitrogen, fear, and exhalation. “AT FOUR MONTHS I STILL DIDN’T RECOGNIZE MY MOTHER’S FACE –”

Josie winced. “When did she start?”

“When I questioned her,” Luke said, between her gasp of “ – WHILE PUSHING OTHERS OUT OF FRUSTRATION –”

“Jesus,” Claude intoned. He quickly handed a roll of duct tape to Josie, who passed it on to Luke.

“Be gentle,” she said.

Luke caught the tape. It screeched between his fingers until he ripped a promising seam with his teeth.

“Not good enough,” Miri replied scathingly, before he could attack her. She stole the piece from him and stapled it to his mouth. Josie gasped.

“Smile for me!”

Miri laughed, tracing his lips that were locked tightly with sweet silver adhesive, clearly making fun of his shortcomings. As soon as she grew bored of drawing rebellious smiles on the tape, she began to scream facts about her autistic condition again. Eric shook his head, looking at Nicolai with his face unnaturally creased. Josie took Claude’s hand, as if any unhesitating action would somehow yield Miri’s tranquility. Heidi was still clutching the fax she printed. Her imprints on the paper, the shadows of her knuckles, every small crevice – was beginning to blur from sweat. They all grimaced helplessly. This was their punishment for not taking Miri seriously during the day. Eventually, when everything draws to a cloudless end, they will have sold what is left of their souls for the sanity of a brilliant girl. Luke tore off the tape.

“AT FOUR MONTHS –” Miri continued.

“She’s beginning to repeat herself,” Josie remarked. “Luke,” she said. Luke met her eyes unequivocally. “I’m starting to worry that maybe Miri has a condition, like she claims. It’s a far cry from autism, but her behavior seems beyond her control –”

“ – I HATE HAVING TO EXPRESS MYSELF –”

Josie permitted Miri to finish the sentence. Each word seemed eternally bitter; they hung in the air too long for comfort, like bitter hair spray or bitter perfume or bitter antibacterial product. “See? She’s really worrying me, Luke. I know she was just pretending for a while, but how long has this really gone on?” She watched his expression turn slightly gray while she continued. “Maybe we should take her to the hospital –”

“– There is nothing wrong with Miri,” Luke interrupted.

“Luke, I know you’re very proud of your model student, but that doesn’t disprove the fact that she may have lost –”

“ – THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MIRI!” insisted Luke, and his harsh tone seemed to kill eternity, even though there were small enough corners for eternity to hide.

“Luke...” approached Josie.

But Luke pushed Miri backwards and set her down on the bed. Miri blinked a few times, genuinely confused by his anger. After a few more blinks she swallowed her breath and belted out, “I HAVE MEDICAL TRANSCRIPTS TO SUPPORT MY DIAGNOSIS –”

“ – Stop it!” Josie yelled. For the first time, one could see small, round droplets denting her eyelashes, much like the way water isolates itself on a waxed cookie sheet. She clumsily pulled out her mobile phone. “Luke, I’m going to call in for an appointment –”

“– No you are not,” Luke said, and he lunged from where he knelt, snatching the phone out of Josie’s fingers. He looked at Josie – from her manicured nails, down to her mildly oversized sandals. He stood there for a moment. Josie did the same. She saw only his windswept hair; it engulfed her view. He must be very lonely, Josie thought. The way they hang, it’s like he’s trying to impress other people. The way he doesn’t question whether or not someone he loves might be offended, or unhappy. “There is nothing wrong with Miri,” Luke repeated.

Josie considered his sentence again. “Your voice is tearing up,” she said quietly.

“So is yours.”

“But I’m on my side,” she replied.

“And not on Miriena’s?”

“Miriena can’t see herself.”

Luke glared at Josie for the second time that afternoon. “Miriena can’t see herself?”

“I HAVE LANGUAGE IMPEDIMENTS, I TEND TO SPEAK ICONOCLASTICALLY, I HAVE NO VERBAL ABILITIES APART FROM A STRANGELY LARGE LEXICON –”

As Miri listed common traits seen in adults with high-functioning autism, she began to cry, rocking herself with her knees to her chin and her feet teetering at the edge of the bed. Luke nearly slapped her across the cheek. She would not stop.

“DOES YOUR CHILD, AT SIX MONTHS, RELATE TO YOU WITH REAL JOY? I CERTAINLY DON’T KNOW WHAT REAL JOY IS, LET ALONE WHAT IT MEANT AT SIX MONTHS! DID I COO OR BABBLE WHEN HAPPY? WHAT ABOUT CRYING WHEN I WAS UNHAPPY? WHAT THE FUCK IS COO? CAN SOMEONE DO A DEMONSTRATION, PLEASE?”

Suddenly, a red-haired girl shoved Claude aside and strode into the room wearing a white Sanrio apron, her hands still wrapped in a pair of heat mittens. Her hair was tucked away fiercely in a confusing bun, away from her face that was still pink from baking.

“What’s going on in here?” she demanded.

Nobody spoke.

Finally Miri curled her toes around the metal frame, softened by inches of bedding material. “Oh Phoenix,” Miri sniffed loudly, “It’s them. They won’t believe me.”

“Who?” Phoenix took off her mittens and smiled kindly at Miri. “Who won’t believe you?”

“Them.” Miri pointed.

Phoenix turned around. The first person she saw was Josie, who shook her head wordlessly. She mouthed something to Phoenix, but it was too quick, too fleeting.

“Tell them. Tell them I’m autistic, Phoenix.”

A fragile wind blew into the room, causing the window sheers to bend forward. Phoenix still had her back turned to Miri. “No,” she said.

Immediately, the group crowded around the tiny doorframe shuffled angrily. Their expressions were of outrage, their fingers twitching nervously, now that the last unexpected hope had imploded. As Josie opened her mouth, as did several of her friends, the word “no” died on her lips. No, Josie thought. No, Phoenix. You were supposed to say yes.

“You...” Miri began weakly. “You don’t believe me...either?”

“You don’t have autism,” Phoenix replied. A few remaining spangles of her hair where carried forward with the sheers. She held her mittens at her hip. Miri pretend she was a skinny teapot.

“WHY?” Miri cried.

“Because you’re not autistic.”

Miri began to whimper again. “BUT I AM! I HAVE FACTS TO SHOW YOU! AT FOUR MONTHS I DIDN’T RESPOND TO COLOR OR FACES –”

“ – YOU ARE NOT AUTISTIC!” Phoenix whirled to face Miri, her voice having a strange quality.

Miri choked on her last syllable. She fell silent – not defeated, but sedated. She tried to speak. “I – I think I forgot to –”

“ – Shh,” Phoenix reassured her, sitting next to her.

“But the apples in the fridge –”

“ – They can wait.”

Phoenix smiled, stroking Miri’s back lightly, rocking her according to her predetermined rhythm. The difference Phoenix made was astonishing. Her full potential was never realized, even when she paused for a moment to set her mittens aside.

“Shh,” she whispered, when she resumed cradling Miri.

i want to sleep with you

2006-05-02T23:01:00.000-05:00

Mizuki Hajime is so, incredibly, alluringly, intensely, seductively, contradictingly, hair-twirlingly, fascinatingly, manipulatively, arrogantly, oddly, unexpectedly, smirkingly hot.

what's the price of love got to do with love

2006-04-12T19:17:00.000-05:00

No one reads this anymore anyway.
Good.
Because I officially announce the end of my academic career. I am unfit for academia. It boils down to this.
Either I'm weak or my interests are weak.
I refuse to admit my own weakness. I'm going to be a businesswoman like the rest of mankind.
Heh.
This blog has no more interesting content, either. Don't expect any more sparks of hope from me, no more of that save the beauty shit.
Nuh
uh.
This girl finds number theory terminally boring,
and topology overused. She finds pure things most unpure and distasteful.
Computers are a waste of time. Programming is the silliest and shallowest thing ev-ar. String theory is a bunch of gay dog shit, if dog shit had sexual preferences.
Really.
I told Madeline today... you know how some idealistic people marry poor artists and say... well I'm so in love, who cares... love is transcendental, love will conquer all. And then they fall out of love because of their own personal embitterment and they're left with neither love nor material goods.
You know what?
It's better to be left with money than to be left with nothing at all. I'm trying to save myself from the utmost corner of cynicism.
I can't believe it.
As much as I say I have no more love for mathematics anymore, I still find it a very wonderful subject. I'm not going to be another mathematician who ends up bitter and taking it out on math. No one really loves math anymore. We're too poor to ignore the perils of society. We're not superhuman, despite how much we want to keep on loving what we chose to study. We can't help but be bitter! I know all of us, when we have plenty, don't care about living like a slum, or barely making ends meet for whatever family we choose to have. But when we really get to that stage... we do care. We really do. And the secular frustrations will end up winning over our original passion. Silly things like taxes - we still giggle when adults moan over their paycheck - but honestly, one day we'll be like that too. If I had the capacity to, I would chose never to betray myself and the subject I loved in my childhood... so thus, I will never walk that path. To be honest... that's only a small portion of why I'm giving up math... there is so much I wish I could say but really don't wish to write it down. I'm so afraid of being misunderstood.
You'll never hear me crying
You'll never see me trying
To love you once again
Your love
is
so
past tense.

There's nothing going on in my life. Don't even worry about it. I'm just getting by one person at a time. Since I have found everyone boring, I'm now just going through different parachutes to keep me living like a small carrot dangled in front of my poor rabbit self. Currently, my attention is resorting to some boy in Chile, who happens to be the second youngest son of my calculus teacher. Within a few weeks I'll probably get bored of him and move on to some other girl in Venezuela, who happens to be daughter of the founding father of sidewalks. Hey, who knows! If I move with sufficient fluidity, I might even talk to you! Haha.
That was meant to be a joke.

Funny, this song has chords that sound like little plump raindrops or something. It's called Recuparar, by Sara Valenzuela. I guess that's how I feel. I'm recuperating from the shock of being robbed of the only definite thing I had in my life. I thought I had loved something forever, something constant. That's why I didn't need friends, family, a lover, or anything. I never felt inadequate. I had all my acquaintences asking me all the time - why haven't you gotten a new boyfriend? Why don't you ever feel lonely in this world with all your friends being so different and unreal? Don't you wish you had someone to talk to?

And I answered no... I'm very independent and I'm fine... because I love what I do, I love my life, I love what I do with my life. It's a type of drive, a curiosity... it's like, a search for something that will always be a centimeter out of grasp, it's that thrill that will always take up my entire mind. I really have no room for somebody to share. I occupy myself sufficiently. My life was writing. My life was manipulation; my life was playing in an abstract playground and pushing others away so I could slide first, down a slide that frankly doesn't exist.

So now that the fire in my life has been stamped out, naturally I seek outside and try to talk to humans and try to empathize and try to laugh and build a real friendship (in which I don't get tossed aside because some boyfriend stepped in - it's like I don't exist anymore when couples get together!)... naturally I find people boring, naturally I get disappointed... so now, I really do want someone to talk to... I really do want a friend... hey, is it too late in life to start realizing that having someone is important? As a backup to your life's devotion? That the work you love so much isn't as dependent and concrete as you thought? Is there anyone in this world who could possibly understand me completely, end to end, anyone who could hold me, anyone who believes in me, anyone who agrees with me, anyone who can make me cry by saying things about me that are so true but that I overlook, anyone to warn me of a pitfall, anyone who gives a fuck about me? Because sorry, I just don't give a fuck about the world... I'm kind of cold, I'm kind of spoiled.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god but what have I done

Can't change the way I am.

I'm saving you from a future fall, Demosthenes... I hope that you'll forgive me. It's better to get over a relationship that lasted five years than to forsake a relationship that really (society-wise) had become your entire life... a span of up to your entire lifetime. It's better to feel sad now, it's better to try and find another occupation before you fall for the wrong one and end up bitter like the rest of the emo intellectuals. So much for ivory towers, you just don't belong there.

You'll thank me in the end.

what goes around comes around what goes up must go down

2006-02-16T09:26:00.000-06:00

Today was chilly. It was pretty. Our physics teacher didn't show up for lab. I hope he's okay. Our physics department has taken a blow. One fired, one dead... one just as mad as I am (that's why we get along)... another depressed, and one just purely incomprehensible. Oh dear. What will happen? I'm scared. And tired. 200 mg caffeine pills. Kept me awake.

Keep me awake.

Something happened yesterday that made me smile. Laptop doors were so open, mine was so closed... the sky made fascinating patterns and I fell head over heels in love with a beautiful mirage. I had never heard sweeter words uttered, I swear! Haha, it was adorable. I wanted to hug it like I used to hug things - no trace of bitterness, no trace of fear that I might lose the game. The second class let out. Somehow I found the voice to yell over the chatter of the group to the other side of the bamboo-vine. Same difference, same difference.

Keep me awake.

Sundae bar was open today. I looked over at her; she gave me a look of pure disapproval.

"Don't you dare," she hissed.

I merely shrugged. Kanye West could have done better.

Keep me awake.

My friend used to tell me that there was no point in going to bookstores if all you were going to do was look at books. That's what libraries are for. He insisted, every day we shared together, that we opt for the local bakery instead. You see, it was a perfect excuse to shower me with pointless fructose corn syrup, to pamper me, to make me feel wanted and to make me know that I wasn't so lacking. Up until last week, he kept to his word. Bookstores are for owning, libraries' for rent. Huge distinction, will make a fuss out of it, will touch my hair gently and then pretend like his hands didn't go there. Then he bought this partial differential equations book from a bookstore. He read it all on a Thursday night. "This is a terrible book!" he declared, looking at me with exasperation. "I wish I looked through what I was buying at the bookstore before grabbing it! =("

And that's what I call 139.99 ill-spent.

Keep me awake.

Frozen. The doors were frozen again. Trader Joe's make me so weepy. This nice guy, who was probably gay, smiled at me congenially and asked, would you like a frozen strawberry? I looked at him with shock. It was so kind. No one has ever been this kind to me. I dropped my mask for a second, picked up the delicate packaging around the strawberry, held it for a moment, and said... thank you....
God, one instant, and I'm broken.

Keep me awake.

Just to hear you say you haven't been drunk in 3 months. I am proud of you. I really am. I am proud past words.

Keep me awake.

lol, me being stupid... =D

2006-01-16T02:52:00.000-06:00

Well, okay - I found out I was a contemptible waif and I've been poisoning his worldviews for a long time, and he claims to have really liked me, but two days afterwards he started dating one of my close friends. So... ignore the last post please, I was just being really stupid and blinded by feelings, because that happens to even the most logical girls of all time. Hehe... sorry, I swear I will never date again. It's very pointless because all good things have to come to an end and you always discover (and hate yourself for it) that you've wasted so much time. What gets me is I really wish they weren't so awkward about it. I sincerely don't have a problem with them dating; on the contrary, I wish the best for them. I know it sounds wrong because most people are supposed to be angry, but... yes... sadly, I'd kill to see her smile. And I'd kill more to see him smile. I'd do anything for happiness, because (I guess) I've never experienced much of it so I view it as something precious - the best gift you can give any person you care about. I'm not doing this because I want to be a good person or whatever, or that I want to feel better - or anything of that sort. I actually want to see them happy. How fucked up is that?! Honestly, I'm not really sure if I'm faking it and not knowing it, because it sounds so unfeasible. I know I'm not a very nice person, really, so you can understand why I doubt myself when I say that. But that's just how I feel. I have no clue. I always thought in situations like this I'd be extremely bitter for a long time, especially since I liked him a lot. Occasionally I will feel that way, for him being a jackass thanks to all the words and thoughts I've never said, but that's usually because something triggered it, like a really bad flashback. I've just been very horribly misunderstood. I would want to explain it all, but I can't see a point in trying to now because it's the past, and it would be very silly to bring it up. There's too much effort involved and you guys all know I'm very inert. I don't mind having this issue being misunderstood for all eternity as long as it doesn't pop up. Which it won't. If I try to explain myself he'll probably be pissed at me all over again. If he ever reads this post he will be very pissed, but I know he won't, because he doesn't know this of this blog =D

I love my blogspot sometimes, none of my friends remember that I even update. ^.^ So I can say whatever the hell I want! w00t! I just wish I spent more time learning math and less time with him now. Regret regret regret =( Why did I go out with someone who didn't even like me?? Morever, why did I try to help him in all the wrong ways? A large part of it is my fault because I never thought how he might take it (he took it quite offensively). I think I made him feel worthless =( but that's the problem with him, see? He wants to date the first person that comforts him... does he ever think about compatibility? He's not worthless, he's actually very talented and witty, but he doubts himself a lot, so it seems like he always needs some girl to be there for him and cheer him up. He's not independent enough. I mean, can't he find happiness outside of a relationship? Why can't he be more mature? He needs to grow up soon or he'll be very, very hurt one day. And I'm not going to see this because, well, in a few years I bet I won't even know his name. So I won't be able to talk some sense into him. That really worries me! He'll fuck himself over!! I thought he was a very smart guy, why can't he figure out that he needs to be independent first before he starts dating if he can figure out galois theory?? All he's going to do is discover that whoever he's dating isn't right for him, and start the cycle over, and over, and over again. With different crushes! That's not a very satisfying way to live life. Oh well. It's his, I guess. He has a huge problem with me drinking, btw (he was disgusted and he ran away lol)... and I have a huge problem with him throwing himself into relationships without considering how he will feel after it's all over... it's like he doesn't respect himself at all, just like I waste myself. It's a lack of self respect, and if any of you guys have any sense, you can see it's basically tantamount to drinking (except on an emotional level). Case in point:

12:53:32 twilson456zwan: whats up on your end
12:54:44 functorface: nothing, just...
12:54:49 functorface: talking to keely
12:54:52 functorface: aren just stormed off
12:54:54 functorface: they won't be dating
12:54:55 functorface: it's al ong story
12:54:58 functorface: i'm trying to comfort people
12:54:59 twilson456zwan: yeah..
12:55:03 twilson456zwan: keely mentuioned it
12:55:05 functorface: i'm trying to maintain like
12:55:09 functorface: never mind
12:55:12 twilson456zwan: k
12:55:13 twilson456zwan: i wont
12:55:25 functorface: i'm always the one who's trying to make others feel better lol
12:55:28 functorface: but it doesn't work
12:55:34 functorface: and i'm very sad and frustrated myself
12:55:43 functorface: i just want to go to sleep and do math and eat ice cream all day
12:55:45 functorface: does that sound familiar?
12:55:52 functorface: three greatest wants, since i was 11
12:55:56 functorface: i think they will last a lifetime
12:55:59 twilson456zwan: : )
12:55:59 functorface: nothing beats those three things
12:56:00 functorface: nothing
12:56:06 twilson456zwan: ha
12:59:36 functorface: *SIGH
12:59:57 twilson456zwan: ich auch
1:00:05 functorface: say something cool
1:00:08 twilson456zwan: ummm
1:00:13 twilson456zwan: like......
1:00:16 functorface: tell me that one day i'll be in college or something
1:00:19 functorface: and things will be cool
1:00:22 twilson456zwan: you will
1:00:31 functorface: and people won't have these stupid feeling thingies that fluctuate. it's not real, it's infatuations
1:00:32 functorface: jesus christ
1:00:38 functorface: i wish ww was more mature
1:00:52 functorface: he goes through infatuations
1:01:03 functorface: whoever is there at the moment who helps him go through one crush to the next
1:01:12 functorface: will become his new obsession
1:01:14 functorface: it's so stuipd
1:01:19 functorface: why can't he just get settled with one girl
1:01:22 functorface: that he truly likes
1:02:00 functorface: seriously, it's so because of him. keely is tied into this now too
1:02:05 functorface: if he didn't like people so often
1:02:08 functorface: drama wouldn't happen
1:02:14 functorface: he's so unstable, he kind of disgusts me in that way
1:02:21 functorface: that he's kind of selfish when it comes to crushes
1:02:24 functorface: and he makes other people feel bad
1:02:31 functorface: and they're only crushes!!
1:02:37 functorface: if it were someone he loved, i can totally understand
1:02:39 functorface: but it happens so often
1:02:41 twilson456zwan: hang on
1:02:43 twilson456zwan: i gotta read it
1:02:43 twilson456zwan: lol
1:02:45 twilson456zwan: all...
1:03:30 twilson456zwan: yeah
1:03:32 functorface: everyone just gets sick of it
1:03:34 twilson456zwan: hes like shinji from eva...
1:03:35 functorface: and gets sucked in
1:03:36 twilson456zwan: lol...sorry
1:03:41 functorface: whos shinji
1:04:04 functorface: dude... im still angry
1:04:21 functorface: i mean, keely's another girl he's touched, then who? lucky for ellie that she was mature
1:04:36 functorface: bella? pamelia? christine?
1:04:42 functorface: he affects everyone
1:04:45 twilson456zwan: i don know
1:04:50 functorface: doesn't he realize what he's doing??
1:04:52 twilson456zwan: i wouldnt worry about it too much...
1:04:55 twilson456zwan: hes a good kid....
1:04:57 functorface: people take him seriously but he doesn't take them seriously and in the end
1:05:00 twilson456zwan: its not as bad as it seems....
1:05:00 functorface: it's kind of like
1:05:06 twilson456zwan: : ) i know...
1:05:08 functorface: i know it's not as bad, but keely is an emotional girl
1:05:12 twilson456zwan: dont think im being an ass or somhting
1:05:15 twilson456zwan: yeah
1:05:15 functorface: and he knows that
1:05:18 functorface: i know you're not being an ass!
1:05:43 functorface: i'm sad that he's sad, but i'm angry at him because he made keely sad, and all sadness can be avoided if he learned how to separate crushes from long-term ....
1:05:45 functorface: i don't know
1:05:57 functorface: it's just, why is he so dating retarded? but he's dated so much
1:06:11 twilson456zwan: he has?
1:06:24 functorface: yeah!!!
1:06:26 functorface: he HAS
1:06:35 functorface: his ex gf list is ...,.
1:06:38 functorface: crazy
1:06:42 twilson456zwan: oh
1:06:49 functorface: jeeeeesus christ
1:06:54 functorface: what makes him fucking happy
1:07:00 functorface: he's never satisfied
1:07:05 functorface: just like i am. im always depressed
1:07:13 functorface: but not because i need someone
1:07:19 functorface: i just have problems with myself
1:07:21 functorface: and my dreams
1:07:30 functorface: but it's like he always needs someone!!
1:07:39 functorface: he needs to realize that any someone isn't the right answer
1:07:48 functorface: he should wait and search for a better and more fruitful relationships
1:07:54 functorface: than these small short-lived ones that make him hurt
1:07:56 functorface: and ultimately
1:07:58 functorface: make the other side
1:07:59 functorface: hurt too
1:08:23 functorface: it might be kind of sad to be single and stuff, but we can all exist without a significant other
1:08:32 functorface: he needs to realize that he is a friggen person himself too
1:08:35 functorface: and he has self-worth
1:08:41 functorface: and he doesn't need some girl to boost him up
1:09:03 functorface: and if he does that he will date less but he will date ppl more compatible with him
1:09:12 functorface: and the breakups less nasty, misunderstandings less nasty, etc
1:09:21 functorface: quality > quantity
1:09:21 twilson456zwan: yeah...true
1:09:24 functorface: i'm not saying keely
1:09:26 functorface: is a bad person
1:09:27 functorface: i love her!!!
1:09:30 functorface: it's just...
1:09:30 twilson456zwan: yeah
1:09:31 functorface: he's never
1:09:31 twilson456zwan: iknow..
1:09:33 functorface: considered
1:09:33 twilson456zwan: ...
1:09:35 functorface: if they'd work
1:10:11 functorface: would you rather have summer flings that affect you a lot and makes you moody (vicious cycle) or a long year of deep romance that ends, but at least you get something out of it other than flirtations and a lot of hurt
1:10:22 functorface: i prefer the long-term, don't you?
1:10:23 twilson456zwan: mmhmm
1:10:25 functorface: yeah
1:10:27 twilson456zwan: yeah
1:10:30 twilson456zwan: thats why im always single
1:10:32 functorface: and long term relationships take OBSERVATION
1:10:40 functorface: not the first person you see
1:10:44 functorface: that is interested in you.
1:10:50 functorface: sorry i'm ranting
1:10:53 functorface: i've never ranted to you so much
1:10:56 functorface: i'm just sick of it
1:10:58 functorface: very sick of it
1:11:02 functorface: and i thought he knew better.
1:11:12 twilson456zwan: yeah
1:11:14 twilson456zwan: i know
1:11:19 twilson456zwan: everyone has problems though...
1:11:26 twilson456zwan: he does need to see
1:11:29 twilson456zwan: that he is worth something
1:11:32 twilson456zwan: i give you that
1:11:38 twilson456zwan: i dont think he thinks much of himself
1:11:41 twilson456zwan: and he SHOULD
1:11:44 twilson456zwan: hes a great guy
1:11:48 functorface: i agree
1:11:52 twilson456zwan: and when he actually talks and jokes, he is FUNNY
1:11:58 twilson456zwan: but he hides that
1:12:00 twilson456zwan: he gets shy
1:12:15 functorface: maybe on monday when he explains the mordell-lang conjecture to me i'll point out to him that he might be the only 17 y/o in the state of indiana who can do that
1:12:34 functorface: see? i mean, he has talent
1:14:03 functorface: not only is he humorous, he's good at math
1:14:28 twilson456zwan: yeah
1:14:31 functorface: im damn hungry...
1:14:33 twilson456zwan: hes gonna do so much
1:14:37 twilson456zwan: or at leat, he can
1:14:40 functorface: lol
1:14:43 twilson456zwan: least*
1:14:51 functorface: oh yeah, we're going to totally prove the riemann together
1:14:53 functorface: hahahaha
1:17:50 twilson456zwan: nice
1:18:20 functorface: it's not going to happen but it's fun to pretend
1:18:29 functorface: like we're child geniuses who finally have the answer
1:18:35 functorface: to oh, just the most famous question in mathematics
1:19:05 twilson456zwan: lol
1:26:05 twilson456zwan: brb
1:29:40 twilson456zwan: k
1:37:14 twilson456zwan: you sleeping?
1:37:35 twilson456zwan: i guess so, see you tomorrow or somrthing

So basically, what the fuck? No fucking clue! I wonder if he's shattered that klein bottle I gave him, because it'd be probably the most reasonable thing to do, though that klein bottle had very interesting origins. I swear! I'll post about it in depth on a later night when I'm less tired. The story of how it came to be is cool. =) Just don't date, kiddos! You'll regret it. I'm really hungry, I'm contemplating eating some noodles. It will be very yummy. *yawn* Goodnight.

...

2005-12-13T23:07:00.000-06:00

i < 3 my boyfriend.

i hate it when people lie to me

2005-12-06T07:22:00.000-06:00

It's really cold out and Amber wouldn't let me go upstairs to get my comforter. Nor would she let me brush my teeth. I literally froze to death during the night; our radiator wasn't turned on because we don't control it. I really have no idea why I still acquiese to go to this school. I don't get the whole point of this blog, either. It's a far cry from asking for the help of utter strangers online, but is it really? Do I really hope that if I whine and cry and spill forth a frothing of poetic nonsense enough some kind-hearted physicist would post a comment that reads, "Hey dear, it's perfectly okay if you stay over at my house since you can't stand your home, and you can't stand your school either. I don't need to question you because I know there are some things you can't explain, ever. I understand that all people make some mistakes, and you made a very big one. I forgive you."? Do I really hope the dean of admissions of MIT would somehow stumble upon this site and read the actual reasons behind my seemingly mediocre transcript and let me in anyway? Do I really hope that someone could vouch for my existence, making sure that I'm not a reject from a factory assembly line, that I'm not damaged material but material that's been damaged, a thread spun from pure air, which isn't so pure anyway. It's not like I'm asking for pity here. I'm only asking if anyone else in the whole world is sane, and if they are, where are they hiding?

I went upstairs and heard a stream of conversations. None of them were interesting. I seem to have lost how an tight, hacking community felt, or how an aloof, crazy, bubble-wrapesque mathematicial community felt. I've forgotten, in the short few months stay at this hell. There used to be so much caring. So much you could even taste it, it was a part of the atmsophere, I swear it was, I swear I saw it and I'm not just making some shit up, it wasn't just idealistic, it was real, it was real because I saw it once, or maybe twice, or maybe negative eight times; I don't know, this school has really fucked up my memory. Some girl with thick braids stooped down to someone's face to teach her QCD despite already running late to the funeral of her mother. A young boy wearing a turquoise shirt was pouring water back into the drinking fountain. People refused to talk about shoemakers unless they were one.

I felt so cared for. I don't care if they were mostly ethereal, I don't care if my real friends these days hug me at night or offer their food or blanket or love. I don't want to be offered smiles. I want to be offered intellectual security.

I'm getting sick and tired of people telling me things will get better. Shut the fuck up! No, they won't! That is an amazingly immature tendency that 90% of humans seem to shackle onto. I don't want to be told lies. I want someone to look me in the face and tell me what I should do, instead of blindly dwelling on the current quite unchangeable situation. The problem is, when I express clearly what I want, people see that as permission to try and change who I am. I don't fucking want to be changed, you jackass, I want you to give me some sound advice! And you know what's sad? Most of that sound advice isn't worth jack, because they're trite, overrated, or said by people who haven't even experienced what they're saying. They're said by so-called adults and psychologists and invited dinner guests and in-laws and cashiers and famous mathematicians and cats and hobos and your mom. They're always uttered by people who tell you that they're right and you're wrong, and that you should be more open-minded and accept older people's word simply because they're older, and that you shouldn't always assume that you're right. They're always the misunderstood do-gooders who are never appreciated and frequently stomped upon, and I am the troubled (stereotype here) that can be remedied with a dash of cliché comforts. After all, it worked on everyone else, right? I fit in a box labeled Everyone Else. The Greeks also managed to square a circle. And every time I try to tell them that this doesn't really help me, people start saying how conceited I am and how I always think I'm different from everyone. I don't know why no one ever sees the contradiction in that sentence, but I guess many mathematical truths were proved through contradiction, so I should take your word for what it is because you're right and I'm wrong, and I don't even know if you ever even listen to me because I'm only a 14-year-old girl, and automatically I must be naïve, inexperienced, f'ugly, and insensitive.

because i'd, already, know

2005-11-21T17:01:00.000-06:00

Saying I love you
Is not the words I want to hear from you
It's not that I want you
Not to say, but if you only knew
How easy it would be to show me how you feel
More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
Cos I'd already know
What would you do if my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn't make things new
Just by saying I love you
More than words
Now I've tried to talk to you and make you understand
All you have to do is close your eyes
And just reach out your hands and touch me
Hold me close don't ever let me go
More than words is all I ever needed you to show
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
Cos I'd already know
What would you do if my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn't make things new
Just by saying I love you
More than words

a gulp of improperly integrated air

2005-10-04T12:48:00.000-05:00

One day I'm going to grow up and I'll never be great.

I looked up two afternoons ago after a nap and stared straight at a blue doll and knew it was the fucking answer to the world. The bear beside it looked tempting, as did the lamp, as did the pink doll to the right, but it still ended up being the blue plushie. It hung from the ceiling, and it is the answer to the world. I swear. It's the fucking answer. I stared at it for a long time and was angry because I couldn't tease the Riemann Hypothesis out of it. I tried, though. It was fun.

heh

2005-08-19T01:11:00.000-05:00

Strawberry bikini - fuzz - 86.3 - run, deer! Run before he catches you! What if n is not an integer? Oh noes! Don't look silly girl, you might see something! Don't look!

we dress in elaborate rain

2005-08-10T23:01:00.000-05:00

I mocked someone
But he deserved to be mocked.
I asked for something
And, you know what? It wasn't anything at all.
I shared the interval
Before, during, after, again
Like I've never shared before.
I tried to print shit
I tried again
I failed totally
Though the Spanish still leaked
KOTEX PADS
And the mice still tweaked
DOWN IN THE TREEHOUSE
And you still reeked
And you still smiled
And you're still lost
And you must be one big stupid fucker
And I just must be better, or stronger, or faster, or smarter, or prettier
Or happier.

sniff your underwear

2005-08-05T17:36:00.000-05:00

But I shan't be fooled twice.

I rounded back to the place where I fleetingly saw the shadow of an outlet that was placed (sooo strategically) out of view. Since all the thick, boring cylinders that held up the ceiling looked more or less the same, I had a ton of difficulty locating the suggestive location again. I know you're wondering, spine erect and completely at the edge of your seats, the same question I asked myself: Why didn't I just use it the first time? Because I was afraid my mother wouldn't be able to see me, even though no matter what, I would still be able to catch the flight on my own.

This time I was left without any choice. Yes, the outlet was indeed working - as connected to it was a large machine holding seven different scratch-off cards, none of which I would win anything promised. And yes, this bulky and inelegant object blocked my peripheral vision until I no longer had any. How lovely. I get to obscure myself further.

Upon entrance, the green light flashed, and turned orange. Yay! Now if I just turn down the brightness...

There.

The lowest level of visibility was set, and I was on my way in Hogwarts trying hopelessly to thwart the awful, terrible, mean, naughty, no-good Draco Malfoy. Unaware of any lapse in real time (except for the mournful coos of "It's thirteen forteeee-fiive" that emanate out of my speakers every fifteen minutes), I didn't even notice the battery meter - something I had been checking every two minutes when I first sat down. There was a mere thirty minutes of charging left, when suddenly, I leapt up and decided to find Mom.

"Excuse me," I said in the sweetest voice possible. Frankly, my voice is always sweet, so, um, go fuck yourself! "Can you watch this laptop for just a few seconds? I want to go find my mother and tell her where I am."

Awww. What a dutiful and pretty daughter. Let's give her some stale peanuts.

Hopefully, those weren't the thoughts running through the stewardess's head. But whatevsky; she replied positively, so I dashed off only to knock right into an Asian woman that oddly resembled my own mother. Hey, what do you know? It is my mother!

"The boarding session has already started!" she said in shrill Mandarin.

Hwa? The boarding session has already begun? "But mom, I told you to stand in place so we won't have to split seats again!" I replied wearily. The last time we were forced to sit in the middle seat at two different places, and for coach class, that translates to Being Squashed Between Two Titanium Walls [BSBTTW]. I was not looking forward to three and half hours of vertical pressurization, whilst trying to thwart the awful, terrible, mean, naughty no-good Draco Malfoy and balancing a small transparent cup full of cranberry juice.

In case I die before I finish this post, I'll go ahead and relieve you of your suspense. I got an aisle seat.

Moving on. As I heroically cascade through three different time zones, I was also forced to relieve past memories of hope. This summer, I have originally been planning to finish 12,000 more words in my novel, code a kickass calculus program so I wouldn't have to do any math work during my first year at the Academy, get a boyfriend, and vacuum my room. Really? Did I really hope that? Damn! I'm so naïve.

**Present-day America, July 28^th - August 2^nd, 2005**

These days have gone by monotonously. When I wake up, I doubt that another day has come, eventually convince myself otherwise, skip breakfast, sleep, and wake up again. The highlights that puncture my routine are trips to Indianapolis to shop.

Most of you know also that I am going to be moving into a cramped dorm room soon, full of mildew, hidden cameras planted by Vicki Barton, and excruciating heat. And probably the lost ghost of Erdős. But I like Erdős. I have an Erdős number of 5. So you see, the only good thing that comes out of this is Katy Bowling, because she's more awesome than you are.

This is not to say that I'm an ungrateful little brat, though that I am as well. This is to say that I have shopped some fifty hours just this week, and I have a lot of stuff. Like this halogen lamp...and...um...this saved scrap of the draft of my first Strongbad email...and...a doormat...and...um. Yeah.

One of these escapades was particularly ferocious. Let me set the scene, or as we say in Spanish class, use a lot of "eras" and "abas". It was a nice Saturday morning. The birds were chirping. The earth was spinning. At least one person at Princeton, NJ choked on his coffee. Ha-ha. I had been given a heads-up beforehand by Mom, stating plainly that if I wanted to go, I would need to hit the sack early. I followed this order to the last letter. Unfortunately, I still decided to wake up late that day. In fact, the only reason I woke up at all was because my mum was yelling at the phone (she never talks) with Helen's mother.

"Oh, our Demie...she's so tall, don't worry about it/Yep, it's a teenager thing, Demie is getting *gasp* moody!" Oh noes! Moody! That is so terrible, considering the type of stress I'm experiencing, with writing my novel and whatnot! I'm supposed to be superhuman, remember? But wait! I never told you of my plans to publish it, pay for Nettie's university fees, and do something worthwhile, 'cause every day you wake up you bitch about how useless and worthless I am because I'm always on the computer! Why should I bother with spilling the beans to you, then?

I groaned and my eyes fluttered open, subconsciously ranting against my mother. Oh. Look at the time. It's ten thirty.

Whoa! The mathematician! And his genius son!

I shot straight up, levitating another seven feet. This time, I wasn't the least bit surprised, because I knew our ceiling was built that high. I closed my eyes and fell sideways again, my hair pouring over an invisible edge. Helen's mum is married to Mister Jin Zhi Ren, one of the few people who truly understands me. He's this hilarious guy...and...yeah okay, I'll stop there, because if I continue I'll go into a rant about how cool and amusing and awesome and sock-rocking and smart and interesting and I WISH HE WAS MY DADDY and... yeah. And yes, his son is a fucking prodigy.

Right. I woke up and laid in my curled position for about ten more minutes, listening to the loud laughter thankfully muffled by a door. Finally, I obligated myself to fly down, jump in a cute skirt, and step out into the living room. My mum saw me and bid the caller goodbye.

The road to Indianapolis was riddled with Strauss, Nelly, and complaints to shut the damn music off. I've been telling Mum I need new headphones for over a year now, but she refuses to buy them because they're too "expensiiiiiive, nya nya nyaaah." By the way, if you're reading this, you had better give me a new pair for my birthday. Count on it, suckah.

So the big dilemma, while we jostled around the minivan, was whether to eat lunch first, or pay Kohl's a nice visit. At first, my mum was pissed that I had woken up so late, because she had imparted her aspirations to me yesterday that she wanted to go early so we can shop at Kohl's. Then we realized that we could either go on the way or on the way back without cutting through the gas too much. That took a lot of thinking, man!

First stop: Macy's.

I ran around in circles screaming on the top of my lungs that I needed a comforter and if the laundry god would just help me again, I'd repay him in ways he'd never known. Suddenly, I spotted a wonderful deal and I called my mum over to a 39.99 object stuffed with a bunch of goosefeathers. Mother felt it and proceeded to scold me for about two hours how awful and uncomfortable this felt against her sensitive skin, and that because I was a little brat, so it'd feel worse against mine. Then she ranted about how quality > price and that I should get a nice down or something. I looked around. All the downs cost ninety dollars or more.

"Well," Mother stuttered, "whatever." This bold, intimidating woman standing before me was no longer standing before me when she strode over in front of an Egyptian cotton blanket. "This is 14.99," she said stiffly. "And I like it."

I slapped my hand over my head.

The truth is, I liked it too. I loved it! In fact, the first time I went to Macy's to shop seriously for my dorm supplies, I pointed and whined and clawed and cried and made a big ruckus, but she refused to hear me out.

"It's cotton," she retorted in the same stiff voice. "And it unravels if you wash it."

Okay, so now she's telling me she likes it as if she found this first and I was just a wannabe poser. I can take that. I glared and swiped the blanket away from the shelf, muttered something that sounded like "that's what I thought", and went to pay for it. The end.

Second stop: Target.

Oh yeah baby, Target! Target is my favorite store ever for the reasons I subtly noted in part one. I basically just rocked there, buying my mini lava lamp that lights up when I plug the USB cord into my iBook, trashing the place, and overall, singing loudly through the shoe aisles.

Third stop: Kohl's.

Yeah well, Kohl's is an expensive slut, so I went next door and found a really cheesy looking store that had great deals. They were so great, they were better than the gummi bears I foolishly bought after a very talented salesman spewed some esoteric words that I didn't understand. In my face. I had heard that there was a store specializing in only bedding items; this vast area of merchandise included the Perfect Down I was looking for, and maybe even one of those plush pillows filled with refreshing beads. Or rice. Or goosefeathers.

But alas, I had been swindled again! I meandered pointlessly in the hot, sweltering sun, asking first the people at Kohl's, then the people at that other store, then crossing two busy streets to reach two connected strip [topology!!!!] malls so I could better read their signs. I was hoping one of them named themselves Awesome Bedding Materials™ (So Awesome We're Better Than Gummi Bears) ABM (SAWBTGB), but... wait... Swedish Beauty and Australian Gold tanning lotions?? Hwa?

Okay, this just took my adventure to a new degree of scariness.

And, to top it off, all of the individual stores were closed! Except on the very end. Dominoes Pizza. Late night hours, too. Wow, finally, a contrasting, decent, hard-working place serving the general population undyingly even during the wee hours. We need more places like Dominoes, yo! [Hear, hear)

The second hear is unbounded, in case you thought it was a typo. Quit trying to trip me up over a mistake I didn't make.

Finding myself a sixth of a mile away from Kohl's, I begrudgingly exited the air-conditioned dining parlor and walked all the way back again. After all, I admit, this was my undoing.

I called my mom to tell her I was coming back. She answered the phone with renewed tones of happiness, so I could only suspect that she has found something worthy of attention. Sure enough, when I walked in, she held up a very ugly pair of pants and went on to coo at it like Marzipan talking to a sandwich that Homestar Runner made. The laundry god was on my side this time; therefore, her cooing did not extend through the rest of the day, but ended within twenty minutes.

"Let's go buy it!" she concluded firmly.

We marched up to the sales register and expected to leave in less than five minutes. To our utter surprise, however, the woman's computer refused to ring up the item in question.

75476811

25000000

25000?

10783000

Because she was bewildered, she kept on punching in random numbers that were printed on the tag. It was totally silly because a) some of the ink has worn off through fatigue and age and b) the number that denotes every article of clothing should be at the same location. Also, there can't have been that many numbers, so was she starting to put these numbers in a matrix and type in their eigenvalues? I had a hunch that, because 25 was too little to be the correct entry, she added zeros to bluff the computer. Well, the computer certainly wasn't going to take that shit.

"Right," I said, after a while. "Is it not coming up?"

It was a rhetorical question, but, you know, a lot of good, insightful conversations start with rhetorical questions. Instead, she ignored me completely and went on with the mindless striking.

"Umm," I began again, this time trying to sound tentative and polite. A lot of people don't like fourteen-year-old girls appearing even remotely cheeky. "If it's not working, don't you think you should get your manager or something?"

Again, the ignoring thing. Finally, she had the sense to lift up her beige phone and press the intercom button. "All available to number six, all available to number six."

It's always fun to hear that around the entire mall and see the source saying the words at the same time. Kind of akin to when you walk into a radio station and see the guy talking to the whole city, only a lot less enthralling, because a mall is not a city. I like amplification.

Sometime afterwards the phone rang again, and the woman, whom I shall conveniently entitle Labbaba, picked it up and spoke into it.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

I won't bore you with more yeahs, because the rest of it is just "yeah" until I couldn't believe it physically possible for any human to say yeah anymore.

Labbaba hung up.

"Listen, I don't know what's wrong with our computer, but it's not ringing up," she pointed a long, manicured finger at the pants. "So, I'm sorry. I can't do anything for you."

A thick (not to mention, embarrassing) silence built up. It was so thick, I probably could've taken my pocketknife and sliced a nice donut out of the air. This wishful thinking, desgraciadamente, is hampered by two facts:

a) I didn't have a pocketknife and
b) Air is invisible, so I wouldn't be able to prove anything

The lady behind us smiled, as if her well-intentioned smile could dispel such tension. You see, at first, we were still digesting this piece of information. We didn't know what she meant by "I can't do anything for you." Then it struck us: we're not allowed to buy them!

Mother and I exchanged enigmatic looks.

"What?!" I finally spoke. (Don't blame me; I just couldn't hold it in any longer! Something like that merits some type of dramatic outburst, don't you think?) "You mean, we're not allowed to buy it?"

But this Labbaba, oh man, she avoided my question even though I attacked her with it several times using different variations. She simply stated again and again, "I can't help you."

No shit, Sherlock! I can see that! But why don't you just tell us whether we can buy it or not? So you're saying we can't buy it? But we're your customers! This is the fault of your badly behaving technology, not the people who pay you! Which is weird, isn't it, because most stores are begging for purchase, whereas here, we're being denied it. Why don't you just believe us when we say, "The original red sticker was 15.00, and there was a 70% discount on it."? Oh, because –

Wait a minute. Some old lady is coming over. Covergirl, again. She's so wrinkly! And she smells like Mrs. Mitchell, my middle school principal, because she's wearing so much perfume.

"What's going on here?" she asked.

Note: the above is slightly fabricated because the authoress didn't have time to put in the correct sequence of correspondence. That is, I couldn't find an eloquent yet short way to phrase the fact that Labbaba called over her manager first, and then the manager asked about what was going on. That is to say (further), that because I couldn't find an eloquent yet short way to express this, I used a note, which is automatically excluded by the 'eloquent', 'short' parameters of blogwriting.

"These people are like, taking up my time, and I don't want to deal with them," whined Labbaba. "Like, they want to acquire something that isn't in our database, so, um, if you could like, give me a raise, I'd totally appreciate it. Enough to buy you some sandals for your birthday. You're fifty, right? But let me tell you, you look like you're sixty-one."

The manager looked at us, then at the pants, and then at Labbaba. Finally, she said, "Let me see what I can do."

She disappeared immediately into the thicket of overpriced clothes and fake brand-name substances. After a while, the manager emerged with another pair of pants that looked completely different from the one we were hoping to buy.

"Do an override," she said. But since Labbaba was quite inept at handling her own computer, it ended up being the manager who carried out her own orders.

The screen flashed up.

10.00

"为设麽银幕上写十块钱?" I asked Mum.

"I think there will be a discount," she said in English, indirectly hinting that there was something wrong to Labbaba.

Labbaba, being the insensitive clerk she was...yep, you guessed it, ignored us.

The screen quickly showed a correction of three dollars. We relaxed.

Just as we were walking toward the main exit, though, my mother found a glaring error in the receipt. Although it read

10.00
-3.00

We were actually charged 15 dollars.

"Stop," my mother commanded in her motherly voice. She dragged me painfully back by the wrist and rounded upon Labbaba again.

But, of course, Labbaba ignored everything my mother said (rudely) and imposed, "You pay ten dollars. That pair of pants costs ten dollars. End of story."

Even in the face of my mother's leet logic!

"But," my mom bravely said in broken English, "that pair of pants was completely different from the pair I bought! How can you just override them like that? They're not equivalent! I also – "

" – They're ten dollars," interrupted Labbaba.

Obviously we weren't going to get much out of her.

Next step: March up to the customer service department.

The worker behind the desk was blonde, and her hair was frizzied up from overperming/restless sleep. It seemed like she had never seen a comb in her life, because in retrospect, "frizzied up" may just be too gentle for what I'm talking about. She had like, an afro or something. And if it isn't an afro, it could be portrayed as "the change in velocity", because her hair definitely looked like a delta sign miles away.

"Hello," said the woman (her name was Sandra), after a brief wait. "How may I help you today?"

"Yes," my mother said. And proceeded to pour out her soul-touching story.

Sandra mistook our situation quite like Labbaba did at first. She was, however, much more intelligent and open-minded. She was willing to hear my mother out.

"So it was 15 dollars," Sandra reiterated. "And she charged you ten dollars. But you're really only supposed to pay nine. So she overcharged you by a buck."

The last sentence was uttered with an almost revolting air, as if we were bickering about something so little.

"No no no," I interjected. "It was 15 dollars, but we get 70% off because it was placed in the red-ticket clearance racks. Honestly," I added, catching her eye.

"I believe you. But 70% off of 15 is nine."

I looked at mother incredulously. A large bubble of laughter started to grow at the bottom of my stomach (as well as Mum's), and I had to fight it with all my strength to keep it from erupting.

"Umm, let's see here," I said, taking out my cell phone. Demonstration is the key. "15...times...point seven...equals 10 point five...15...minus 10 point five...four point five..."

Sandra swiftly turned away from us and went farther in. The tapping of her fingers was so noisy that I wondered just how big her calculator was. Probably one of those mirror-sized calculators in which the display alone is bigger than my two thumbs combined. If I had an extra hand, bigger than my three thumbs combined. For some reason, though, she took a very long time with her calculation. Finally she grumbled and turned around.

"So you pay $4.50..."

We left the store giggling like a pair of Japanese schoolgirls, which is only quarter correct because we're Chinese and only I am a schoolgirl. That took a bit of a strain on our shopping schedule, but it was well worth it. I mean, I won't claim to be an expert on complex analysis, but I will take to bitching about an adult woman not knowing how to calculate percentages while WORKING AS A STORE CLERK. *cough.

Oh, and, did I say intelligent? Oops.

Fourth stop: Wal-Mart.

Little Miss Demosthenes walked complacently in through the sliding doors, hair uplifted as if she touched an intensely static megalomaniac. In reality though, it was the welcoming Wal-Mart vents, blowing cool and hot hair continuously whenever a new client dares to enter. The hidden speakers were booming a message so loud that Demosthenes could no longer distinguish what it said; the beginning was something like, "WE'RE SORRY, WE CANNOT AFFORD TO KILL YOU ALL. BUT, WAL-MART EMPLOYEES? YOU GUYS ARE ENCOURAGED TO SWITCH TO FREEBSD NOW TO SPARE YOURSELVES ANY PHYSICAL HARM. SCREW THEM CUSTOMER BITCHES..."

For some reason, the message made Demie's hair stand on end - and every single strand of it. If the air and the incomprehensible booming wasn't enough, the lights were virtually off, giving the dirty discount store a dim glare. All the TVs overhead were churning with white noise, combined harmonically to drown the dull roar of conversation. Seeing all of them at once from a safe distance reminded her of the mosaics they did in art class...though she had never taken art. False, implanted memory? Perhaps so.

It was then that Demie realized the entire power had been cut off not long ago. Sound waves altered their pitch as Demie went under each air vent, finding locked bathrooms, entering an open one illuminated only by two emergency lights and the flickering, strobe-esque pipes...

Fifth stop: County Market.

Just kidding.

***

"Why yes. Yes indeed," I said, while twirling my hair. "Of course. Excellent. Well then, we have nothing else to say, do we?"

Pause.

"Goodnight, Albert."

Click.

Mwahahahhaha. One more step to controlling the entire country of Belgium.

omg liek f=ma?? lol lol loll!!! wat wuz n3wton thinkin???

2005-07-31T22:30:00.000-05:00

BANG.

The car door snapped shut, and I found myself painfully on my feet with one hundred pounds of luggage. Not far away from me was Papa, waving a feverish goodbye while stepping as hard as he can on the gas. He, too, wanted to get away from the sun. I could imagine. The only real difference between San Diego and Los Angeles was ten degrees.

My lung took a full sigh of hot air, gasoline, and virus-imbrued vapor. I looked around, still not being able to comprehend that I had made it this far. I am on the west coast. I have four new puppies, since news came to me that my imaginary dog had procreated with some bimbo on the street. I am a free girl, and if I wanted to, I could easily get lost in the crowd, speed up, and escape from the ugly cycle that I know as life. I am with you, LAX. *tear.

Now, LAX has always been one of my favorite airports, especially since I've taken too many rendez-vous as a little kid to Taiwan, which entails the mandatory stop at this lovely, international hizatch. I don't know whether my parents also shared my fetish, but if they did, this long standing love will soon break down. During my wait in line, I did nothing but wince and think about everything that was wrong. My memories were full of plush chairs, clean carpets, large digital clocks beaming all the times around the world – an overall feel of organization and creative design, like Target. Décor would be simple but unique, often juxtaposed at the passenger's vote and whim. Crew members would be pretty and elegant, not slutty and overbearing. A true, stereotypical airport where TV dramas were always staged. Instead, I looked upon an ordinary building, no different from any other in a smaller town, or even a worse city. It appeared all too much like its own ghetto, and nothing like IND, which I love, but to a lesser extent. All their materials seemed to be cheap and grimy and plastic, like they couldn't afford comfort. Everything was navy blue. From the floor to the ceiling I was forced to look at jarring displacement, akin to my room before revamp: pink lamps, dark brown dressers, soft silky curtains, but a postmodern rainbow comforter. No one understood the word variety, even when I used it in context. Scans turned up empty-handed, and still I winced as I dragged two separate baggages into the air-conditioned room.

Were the people in southern California really this pushy? Were they always so stupid and fat and impatient? We got into a line which consisted of at least forty individuals, and I stared blankly in front of me at a huge butt. Even though I don't really love my mother, she was handling another hundred pounds of stuff, trying at every moment to quell the larger one from flipping sideways. That pulled a few strings attached to my heart. We both knew she had suffered a recurring bout of back pain.

"Excuse me, but I was in front," interrupted a wrinkly lady that looked far too young for her age. Covergirl, no doubt. No, actually, she wasn't. She was from another line and, seeing a huge gap due to our fumbling, stepped forward rapidly to block us off.

Mother began to protest, because we were running late.

The woman waved off the English. "Do you have passports?" she asked, her face now wearing faux concern.

What does she mean, Do we have passports? Why, because we're Asian and my mother doesn't speak fluently? Because we were rude in claiming our rightful spot as next in line? Because we towed suspicious-looking luggage that were bursting at the seams from a month-long jaunt in Chula Vista? Because we don't use Covergirl?

"Of course we have passports," I replied brusquely. And with that, the woman's face fell and let us pass her without complaint.

I pulled my luggage away with much protest from inertia. The woman, now officially behind us, laughed at my attempts and hastily rearranged her face into sorrowful understanding when I glanced at her. Bitch.

By the time we pulled up to a Southwest airlines personnel, we were sweating from so much work. And, let me tell you, what a load of assistance she was! Her name was...well, I forgot, but I'll conveniently call her Savolowsky, because that's the only query Google says nothing about. At any rate, Savolowsky did absolutely nothing to direct her attention to her customers, opting instead to laugh with a nearby colleague over some stupid thing I didn't want to hear about, while interspersing important words like "Name?", "Photo ID?", and "Reservation number?" between vapid chatter. Um, hello? Shouldn't you be doing your job with more focus, and maybe a little enthusiasm? I mean, I'm really excited about asdf marrying too, but, I'd appreciate it if you'd help my fifty-two year old mother with hauling things up on the weighing scale. Bitch.

Eventually we were redirected to a policeman wielding several nasty things like a two-way radio, and a leather belt. He was nice enough to help us put our four items underneath the fabric tape that marked a policeman-only area. Thank you, Rubarbly Billy-Bob. You deserve a promotion.

I was fuming by the time I reached our terminal. I knew we had to get something to eat because it was noon already, and domestic flights aren't known for its hospitality or generosity. The only edibelría that sold food for less than fifty dollars, however, was McDonalds. I certainly wasn't loving it when I saw another mob of obese people struggling to tear down the place. I quickly stood in the third line, taking the opportunity to call my dad (Hi dad. Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. I understand. Right. Suxx0r. Why? Oh. Really? ...Truly! Gracious me! Forsooth! Et cetera! Wait, that was out of character, right?).

A cute little Mexican girl was whining about getting a toy plz plz plz in beautiful Spanish. Her mother looked both vexed and anxious while holding the child's hand. "Hush," she reprimanded, peeking nervously around her. A lot of families were starting to stare. "Muévete allá, la linea es más rapida." Go stand in the second line; it's faster. It was moving with more momentum at the time of the statement. Her daughter, nevertheless, had other plans. She repeatedly stood out of place to be closer to her mama. "Mira hija," the woman pointed, whenever this happened. At last, sick of reiterating, she counted aloud to present evidence. "A ver...uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis y aquí uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis igual. Oh, es igual." Nevermind. My line caught up a few minutes ago. With nothing else to talk about, the Toy Subject surfaced again. I finally gathered the nerve to turn around.

"Creo que McDonalds no se regala un jugete con su comida," I replied kindly to the girl. The mother's agitated expression dropped, replaced by a blatant smile, because I did her job. The hardest thing to do - ever - is to deliver bad news in the face of hope.

Unscathed, save for a penny. And what is with the 10-piece chicken nugget thing (later, I suspected that I only swallowed nine), a shot of sprite, medium fries, and two packets of barbecue sauce (one of which I ended up not using at all)? Oh, that's right. I ate it. The penny was for that Korean dude who had spiky hair. He punched in my orders with such pizzazz and efficiency. I still have this vague, tingly feeling that he just walked off of a set from a kickass TV series, like Trading Spaces.

Again, back to the penny thing. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why he kept asking for a copper coin. I thought maybe I was going to be rewarded for my loyalty to McDonalds with a cute penny that became oblong and deformed after vigorous pressing through a leet machine. But no, it turned out he wanted a little tip for his service. God-befuck-the-wha-? A cent for a tip? Wow. California has some really strange people. I should have given him at least a buck if I'd known, but I was pushed out of the way before I had a chance to even say goodbye to my lover.

*Sigh.

I still miss you, pennywenny.

So, we arrived at Phoenix after stale peanuts and cramped seats with, again, little brouhaha for us. I took a dive in a store with tons of magazines, took one look at something that said "Wi-fi without hotspots" (so funny, I happened to be searching for a connection then), and dropped it like it was hot. Like HOT MAMA. Only not really.

Then I wandered from terminal to terminal like some Bedouin with...a laptop. No luck. Better get some expensive Wifi bloodhounds, eh? Fuck that shit! But, connection or no, I was pretty low on battery, so I changed course and decided to search for outlets. I wanted to be able to read a few more chapters in Harry Potter on the long plane ride. This whim hinges solely on whether my computer decides to sleep or stay awake. My ecstasy built up when I saw one right above some middle-aged man with his daughter (why are there so many daughters in this airport noquestionmark).

With grace like one who is learned in the matters of social etiquette, I blabbed, "Hey, I'm going to use this outlet above you, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, I shoved my power brick into the wall.

...

Nothing.

No orange light signifying recharge.

It was then I realized that I had been fooled.

rumors about the tooth faerie

2005-07-22T22:00:00.000-05:00

Two days ago the world started raining just enough for me to get scared, but it turned out to be a pathetic drizzle. I actually fled with my laptop during the peak of the storm - you know - when you could see a few specks of water land on the concrete and start turning the whole floor into a really ugly shade of dirt gray? Well, yeah! Now I can say "I've been through that once in my life before!"

It was muggy and hot and fucking uncomfortable throughout the rest of the day (I ran to the Chula Vista library again, they had air conditioning), which leaked into yesterday, and now today, but the night is making me impossible to stay angry at the weather. jet was right; that time I told him I was logging off because my tummy hurt due to unwise ingestion was, in fact, a normal part of being a girl. I didn't find this out until I actually came home. There is a reason for my bitchiness that is evident throughout this post, and I do apologize in advance for such an eyesore. At this point, I feel like arguing with everyone, even if they said cos^2 theta + sin^2 theta = 1. Try it. I'm sure it would make a hilarious Adium log, and you can probably walk off shaming me and spreading hideous rumors about how pig-headedly ignorant and incoherent I am.

Just remember, I gave you permission.

I woke up and realized that I had been floating about seven feet off the ground. This was surprising, because I didn't know our ceiling was even built that high. Go Cambridge Apartments! Way to build tall dwellings for such petite humans as myself! I applaud you, and would gladly pay extra rent this month. Not that I pay it anyway.

I walked onto the carpet without my flip-flops to grab a large dark-green suitcase in the adjacent room, and before I knew what I was doing, I was packing. I sniffed every article of clothing to make sure it was clean (you cannot believe how awful the washers are here for a buck a cycle; sometimes scent alone can't let you to separate the pile accordingly either), and folded it neatly before I headed outside near the gate to practice my wireless again.

I came back sometime really soon. I didn't like the outside for algo razón, so I think I contented myself by curling out on the couch provided by CA and reading chapter 11 of The Half-Blood Prince. Suddenly, through the wooden windows that connected to the kitchen, there was an eccentric popping noise that mimicked (poorly) of popcorn being heated. My head shot up, my hands reached the two gold knobs and pulled the windows apart, and I saw our rice cooker trembling slightly in place. Mother promptly lifted the lid to reveal an unnecessary amount of steam. I looked in. The water around the rice was just beginning to boil.

"Oh dear," intoned Mother. "It's broken."

Damn right it's broken, after 15 good years of wearing use. I wondered how we would have our meal now that what we had depended on for so long finally crashed and bled out. (Seriously, I didn't even know that inanimate objects could contract Ebola). Mother took out a huge, stainless-steel cylindrical pot that she and I had picked out at the local 97 cent store (that's right, ninety-SEVEN for all you pedants who think it's 99). Her fingers barely scorched as she pinched the sides of the container and flipped the rice elegantly over into the pot. By now, I have made into the kitchen and was standing by her side. The heavy waft of Jasmine was merciless to me and drifted lazily into the air. The contents looked so silly and vulnerable. This was a huge pot. It took... a mere 1/20 of the space. I wonder if sweet nothings were being exchanged now, as they neared their death and consumption. A last minute goodbye? A hasty kiss on the cheek - no time for that passionate tongue action? Or do the laws of physics - shut up, laws of physics!

"You start with an intense heat," she explained, while adding some tap water from the faucet, "and when all that water evaporates, you bring it down to a low simmer so the rice within can suffocate and mature."

Oh.

Right.

By then I went outside again, not willing to look at that reflective pot in the face. Do pots even have faces, anyway? Well, whatever. As long as the Jasmine rice turn out to be just as excellent as before, I don't give a damn which method you employ.

For now, you can all call me the tooth faerie.

rubber duckie, you're the one

2005-07-21T15:29:00.000-05:00

You make bathtime, so much fun.

every pion decay constant has a goose

2005-07-19T20:49:00.000-05:00

So, um, right. Xerxes, this is for you (again). I bought you the knife. You know, for your talk. Just in case.

We all love you.

Even if f_pi doesn't.

what microsoft did to win my love and virginity

2005-07-18T20:15:00.000-05:00

It was the first time I had sweat stuck to my shirt before I left for the library.

It was also the first time I took off at a leisurely pace, the first time I crossed the street immediately, and the first time I made myself a nice rice snack. There's always a first time; then you lie about all your other times and pass them off as first.

I seriously thought about hurling my laptop into the pretty blue waters of our swimming pool today. Someone put a pipe in it or algo así, and water kept frothing out of one corner as if a wicked kid dunked himself under there, kicking until all the oxygen left his lungs and his legs were just mechanical detachments. Whatever was making the bubbles, I didn't stay long enough find out. I was probably more interested in escape.

Cute. Cute is a good word to describe our kitchen. If I opened one cabinet, all the others start to smell from old age and rotten wood. Because of this, I've always been extra careful to open one and then shut it immediately - not because I was afraid of stench, but because I could trick the neighboring oak into thinking that I wasn't going to open it again. Today was no different. I pulled on it, slammed it close, and pulled on it again, this time reaching for a red and transparent package. My mother had recently bought me a large batch of seasoned seaweed, and I eagerly tore the wrappings open to pop a few in my mouth.

Wait.

Spicy?!

What?

No, really.

I swallowed and started to read was written on the front of the package. I stopped when I realized everything was in Japanese. No, wait a minute, look - there, see it? that says "la wei". Which means hot flavor. Funny. The ingredients list on the back said nothing about spice.

No matter; none of this got in the way of making my snack. The only thing that would was a person - a person other than myself, of course. At one point I slumped over the sink when I thought I heard someone coming, but let up again in relief after a mere second or two. False alarm. They've been happening a lot more than usual, eh?

Jasmine rice.

Another commodity made available by my dear mother since I had praised the rice at that one Chula Vista restaurant so highly. Damn, it smells so good - even after cooking, after lifting the lid repeatedly to refill my bowl during lunch. I wondered how Jasmine rice viewed itself. Tasty? Slender? White? Separate, qiu qiu, heterogeneous? Lista? I giggled. ¿Estás lista, o no? I pictured one of them whispering sweet nothings to another after a difficult day of sitting calmly in the water. Or did another stupid rule in physics dictate that Jasmine rice wasn't sentient, and even if it were it couldn't observe itself anyway? Stupid physics.

I barely remembered what should have used as a container, but I do know that I ended up with an odd-shaped styrofoam cup. My fingers had groped instinctively for the fourth one down; the first three stacked above had almost toppled out had it not been for my head, which butted it back into place.

Then I grabbed the white spatula and started scooping ungodly amounts of rice into the cup. I ripped the delicate seaweed into pieces, spent around thirty quality minutes with my sister, the single chopstick, and by the end of the hour I had made a yummy treat that would last only a minute.

My hair protested as I went out the door. The cup was now safely tucked into my Targus laptop case, after I layered on top of it two yellow, spread-out napkins tied firmly down with a red rubber band. Saevar said zugg scanned all the pages of the sixth Harry Potter book and extracted the text forming a lot of htmls. But I know better. Microsoft did it, and I'm planning to marry it soon. He gave me the zip file and went offline, and now I have something to do without pretending to be working, or busy, or rereading Ender's Game, which I have already done. liquid dot nitrogen at gmail dot com, if you don't already have one. But I'm sure you already do.

Life is funny, you know? I didn't pre-order anything, nor did I get into a long line of noisy people pushing each other to their deaths get the first copy. But I did get a digital version in which certain r's were replaced with t's because the software got lost sometimes when it tried to translate the page. And funny - that I was curious as to how long the file "30.html" was, but by opening it, I have spoiled one of the things for myself. I know who died, you know. Just ask me.

Czechoslovakia.

It's not Slovakia, or the Czech Republic. It's Czechoslovakia.

fuchsia always spells itself wrong

2005-07-13T19:25:00.000-05:00

My feet smell if I stand in a puddle of pink foam for a very long time. This observation has been scientifically proven (please refer to the latest entries in hep-th), and furthermore supported by the below empirical evidence. Before I went with mum to wash my car today, my feet didn't give off any suspicious odors. After my nice black shoes got soaked with, oh, let's just say, disgusting fuchsia cleaning agents, I went home with not only ruined shoes but stinky feet. Fortunately, this is only temporary. With a shower I'll be as spiffy as...um...when I was born.

So lately things have calmed down. Father came home with a complaint and a headache, two things that should never mix, but do frequently anyway. He was bitching about his work again, and how if he had read this composite thing earlier he would have "astounded his interviewer" [original quote in Chinese]. Then he asked me if I remembered how to extract a characteristic polynomial.

"Dad, I don't have an LA book," I replied.

"No no no, I just want to know the sec eq stuff. Why should a kid your age need an LA book to begin with?"

I felt like choking him then. But I thought, if I choked him right now, what would be left for me to do when I feel really, really angry? That's right. Stuff Wikipedia in his mouth.

So I plunkered off feeling rather shitty because I had promised to help him (a guy his age shouldn't forget linear algebra in the first place), which equals translating four pages of encyclopedia mush into a difficult language. The said pages include words like "field", "eigenvalue", and most notably, "fuck you!". That's a lot of work for me.

Did I mention, I've never taken linear algebra in my life before? That's totally not a problem, because according to my parents, I've been solving differential equations since I was 12!

I wish.

Anyway, he ended up not being able to spell 'polynomial', because talking over the phone is like talking to your deaf grandmother, who can't hear you in the first place. After thirty minutes of hard work, he exclaimed at how beautiful the encyclopedia is, coughed several times, and hung up. Wow. Thanks a lot, Dad. I love you too.

Today he came home with a 40 pages worth of shit because he clicked on every fucking link the article had and printed it all out. He explained to me that his high school never focused on matrices a lot, and (in a very pretentious air) told me if I could understand it all he'd buy me a cow or something. Come on, Dad! Lots of your colleagues probably don't know what the Laplace forumla is (I bet Vince doesn't). Admitting it is the first step.

I went outside to patter on my keyboard before I had a chance to tell him that he was looking at the wrong similarity link. He started scribbling in the middle-school geometry area, and printed out the topology section too, leaving the portion squished in between, which was clearly marked, blank. How touching.

To make this entry slightly more whiny, I will conclude with an unhappy note. Later on I went to Henry's because they had sweet deals like 97 cents per watermelon (limit two!) and 67 cents per pound green beans (limit six pounds). But then I went to see Mother self-wash our vehicle [details I will not include], and I got my glasses all waxed. Conclusion: pissed off.

Moral of the story: Australian kids are really smart.

300,000 is a number

2005-07-11T22:22:00.000-05:00

July 10th 2005 || 23:01

You know what's funny? I think networks like to run away from me. Before I was forced to sit outside and endure bites from various insects, I was using a connection called NETGEAR. Then, for some reason, it decided to quit on me, leaving nothing but its brother 2WIRE274, which demanded a password due to WEP encryption. Now, both have vanished from Airport's list of available networks. Pretty strange, eh? Maybe it's because I don't know Russian.

Well, I didn't get to revising calculus or revising C++ today, but I did get to see all the stores close in front of my eyes at a major shopping plaza. Just as we all arrived, everything was shutting down. We had forgotten that it was Sunday, which meant early hours and little brouhaha. Silly us. The empty parking garages that met us should have given us a hint, but my dad was too concentrated on celebrating his find on the perfect nook for our car. Yeah, good job dad. Way to go, seeing virtually ever spot was unclaimed anyway. All in all, a very disappointing evening. But whom can I blame? No body, except me! I was the one who dragged my parents to take me shopping at the last minute!

/me stretches

So...that leaves tomorrow all open for me to read a hundred pages in my textbook, and another fifty from The Stuff I Stole From Mr. Combs [TSISFM.C]. Oh glory, I can't wait!

...I have no idea why I'm so upset about doing math.

Maybe it's because I found out the county department dealing with property and taxes and useless shit is based in Murrieta (um, Demie, it's actually in Temecula) and not Riverside. This means I will not be dropped off at UCR campus and will not be seeing Baez. Fuck that county shit! Move your damn headquarters back to Riverside!

Imma gonna email him tomorrow (technically, today, because you readers are seeing the product of yesterday, as I have no internet connection indoors and am reduced to typing on Word) and ask him to hand over his number that way. And, to ensure that he does, I'll probably add a little threat at the end for fright's sake. Like, "My mother saved Gauss' life on more than one occasion, so that genius owes [the family] one. You had better give me your contact info or Gauss'll have your head when he sees how displeased I am," or maybe something more appealing to sympathy: "My mother is dying...if only you could hand over your cell phone number so I can sell it to get money...you are a really popular guy, you know, especially around sci.physics.research...you have a whole fan base..."

Damn, I'm moved to tears! I had no idea that emotional stuff was in me. Furthermore, I had no idea that I could make myself cry. Maybe this will win me a 1st place ribbon in OP next year during sectionals. Maybe.

As for life, life is spiffy right now. I am not tired, not pissed, and not hungry. And I haven't had to resort to Ramen noodles, which, despite its sinfully good taste, means I'm not overwhelmed with work. Yay!

Currently, here's how I've mapped out my tomorrow.

2) Wake up.
3) Groan.
5) Sleep for another hour.
7) Really wake up this time.
11) Groan again.
13) Take five.
17) Have mother bitch in your face and haul you up by your nightgown.
19) Jump out in and out of clothes.
23) Eat breakfast, or if possible, skip it.
29) Swallow medication.
31) Do hair, apply chapstick, snap cell phone out of charger.
37) Sit in a car for an hour trying hopelessly to get on a network.
41) Give up.
43) Begin reading code.
47) End reading code.
53) Get out of car.
59) Stand around doing nothing for several hours.
61) Keep standing.
67) Look innocent.
71) Finally get out of the damn place.
73) ?
79) Go home.
83) Eat dinner.
89) Read a bedtime story before you go to bed - integration techniques!, chapter five
97) Go to bed.

I'm so excited!!
Wish me good luck, guys~~!!!!1111 LOLOLOLOLOL!!!!

Right.

Besos,
Demie

no, because it isn't scalar

2005-07-10T18:15:00.000-05:00

Update: lethe wrote a sentence back to me three and a half hours ago.

i am a mazda commercial

2005-07-10T17:24:00.000-05:00

July 9th, 2005 || 0142

I don't know what type of bitch I am. I just reopened a doc containing some sparse contents of my novel, and realized that I have been using the font Cochin. I mean, I'm all open to Macs and their wonderful font selection, but Cochin? Come on! Grow up already!

Speaking of which, I've been living like a child these past few days. Between rendezvous to various suburbs like El Cajon (which really should have an agiu over the o, but those lazy sign-makers don't bother with correct syntax) and my own ant-infested adventures (positioning myself strategically to receive the network, default), I have hardly enough time to sip a bit of boba tea or even sit down. And by sitting down, I mean my butt connects with something, preferably plastic – not concrete. My spine's been taking a blow, and so has my skin. But, I asked for wifi, right? That means I'll have to be prepared to make some sacrifices, however severe they are.

It's nice to see that Xerxes has made up with his girlfriend. He didn't even tell me of their brief reconciliation though! And after all that time I spent with him nodding my head (even if he couldn't see me) and empathizing with his bitter stance, you'd think he'd do me the favor of saying, "Oh, by the way Demie, gf and I are back." But nooo. Well, I guess it isn't entirely his fault. This did just happened recently. I know that because when he was suffering from his self-induced whiplash, things were still unpleasant (123215 sparkling_watermelon@mindless.com: yay! things with gf are better!! 123225 xerxes314@hotmail.com: not really. excerpt July 8th 2005, Adium) Id est, in order to install kde 3.4, he needed kconfig_compiler; in order to get kconfig_compiler he needed kde 3.2; in order to get kde 3.2 he needed arts 1.1; and in order to get arts 1.1 he needed root access, which was impossible. So basically, he wasted two days installing an environment by means of a dead end street. Summary: pissed girlfriend, pissed linux, and pissed neck.

By some magical incantation our favorite lattice theorist and our favorite Taiwanese chick got back together. Flowers bloomed from every corner, lots of sparkles fell from the sky, and even Kiki the hyperactive ferret attempted to trek across treacherous terrain to give her blessings. She never made it.

Well, that is, until they got into a minor bickering again on their night plans. Something about catching a 22:40 movie (or rather, avoiding it) and where they should go out to eat in the one of the busiest downtowns in the world: Manhattan.

Anyway, enough broadcasting on my unofficial cousin's life. I have no clue how their date went, but I bet it ended with something like:

21:35:54 Sylvia: Xerxes, you don't understand!
21:35:57 Xerxes: What is there to understand?
21:36:03 Sylvia: If you understood you wouldn't have to ask me in the first place!
21:36:04 Xerxes: But –
21:36:15 Sylvia: I don't care! I've stopped caring since this afternoon, when I began to make arrangements for tonight! I hate you so much, but I keep convincing myself that maybe you'll change!
21:36:20 Xerxes: Change what? My hero-complex? My conceit? My genius?
21:36:41 Sylvia: No! (tears start here) I keep hoping that you stop pursuing me...pursuing me...because you don't really love me...but I can't, as you're irresistible when you want to be, so my every move lies in your hands...but...but...(intense crying here)
21:36:45 Xerxes: You hate me because you think I don't love you?
21:36:51 Sylvia: Of course you don't...love me...so many girls have tried...why should I win...?
*Xerxes grabs Sylvia and intense making out starts here (21:36:59)

All my other friends are doing fine.

Well, except lethe of course. Is he even my friend though? I'm worried sick about him, and I'm sick of worrying about him. He's been gone for at least two weeks, and his only visible sign of life is when he posts on funky functors. Oh and, last week when nettie made me check myspace, he apparently logged in on July 1st. That's it. He has since neglected his Feynman diagrams. Frankly, I don't even think I'm part of the team anymore. Should I go ahead and write a draft of the forum rules? Or should I not waste my time? After hearing nettie's story, I've been inspired to pay for his college – and to do that, I must publish my book as soon as possible. Which means avoiding time sinkers. Anyway, this paragraph sounds more bitter than anxious. But for those of you who don't know me very well, I ought to tell you that I am anxious. Probably more than that. I mean, you don't know lethe. He's a mathematician. Most of you think a bit of silence gets me overreacted, but I'm pretty sure something's up when he ignores me, and a lot of the things he usually does. Sure, he's loath to tell you anything about himself – but it's definitely not like him to get up and leave. He would only do that if he's given up on me and hates me for life for what I've told chroot, or the fact that I'm highly incompetent in his professional field. Here, let's make it simple. There's a logical reason behind my fear. He can't fucking take care of himself! All I hang onto is the fact that he might be in Portland and safe, with Rebecca watching over him. That's his girlfriend.

Well, it's nearly two AM, and I can hear my parents snoring to the right of me. Luckily I'm separated by a wall. I don't know, I should go sleep or something. So here's how things wind down to.

Basically, I'm going to splurge another day tomorrow (living like a child kicks ass) by mall-hopping and pigging out every place I can dream of. Later down the week I'm going to Riverside to pay John Baez a visit, so I can obtain his cell phone number. If you guys don't know who that is, you should kick yourselves in the face.