as queer as a clockwork orange

I rarely get pissed off. And I rarely talk about things that other people will have no idea what I’m talking about. But today, the verbal attack that one particular person directed towards me really ticked me off. Sometimes people misunderstand so easily. They take my absence to mean that I don’t care. That is not true at all. When did I ever imply that I had become indifferent? I simply couldn’t go and my reason was not an excuse. It was a fair and valid reason. I’m sorry that you’re in a position of authority in which you can command me but I am not going to lie about the truth. I could have told you I was going to go and then not turn up. I could have let you go ahead and talk to my parents. You would have been scared shitless. I know you have your intentions but think again. Be glad that I’m not like Alan Wu.

Who am I? I’m not so sure anymore. I am torn between who I should be and who I want to be. Sometimes I’m lucky, sometimes I’m downright unfortunate. Or I could say sometimes it’s simply my fate.

Sometimes I see other people in magazines, television, books, and I wonder what it would be like if I led their lives. What would it be like to be an author, an actress, an olympic athlete, an artist. There are so many various eccentric lives that these people are living right now. My life feels so encaged and narrow in comparison.
Of course, a straight planned out life isn’t necessarily something to complain about. There’s a goal, a purpose, a destination. Actually, it might even be a much easier life than those of failing artists or corrupt athletes.

Nevertheless, the endless options and possibilities fascinate me. It’s nice to dream sometimes.

Tobacco is a dirty weed:
I like it.
It satisfies no normal need:
I like it.

It makes you thin, it makes you lean.
It takes the hair right off your bean.
It’s the worst darn stuff I’ve ever seen;
I like it.

G.L. Hemminger

This is the funniest poem I’ve ever read; I like it.

Reality doesn’t seem so attractive anymore (no suicidal connotations intended). Today I set my alarm to 7:30 am so I could wake up and actually get some work done. Unfortunately, when the clock started beeping I unconsciously reached over and turned the alarm off. My mom, disturbed by my alarm, woke up and decided to let me sleep until eight. When she woke me up half an hour later, she reprimanded me for always turning off my alarm and then going back to sleep. At that moment, I realized I completely did not remember turning off the alarm at 7:30. It wasn’t a part of my memory at all. I could recall nothing of that incident. Nothing. I even tried imagining myself turning off the alarm and burying myself back in my sheets again. But even so, my imagination failed me.

My subconscious was helping me escape reality. How nice. Next time, I’ll consciously make a point to not set up my alarm and let myself sleep (once again, no suicidal connotations intended). Then, my brain won’t have to work so hard jumping from conscious to subconscious. Poor brain. The SAT had already squeezed every ounce of energy out of my brain. I really shouldn’t abuse it. Don’t you think?

Sometimes I really wish I were a guy. I wouldn’t have to worry about rape or harassment or all the other crimes women are subject to. I wouldn’t have to find someone to run with me. I would be able to run on my own, anywhere I wanted to, anytime I wanted to. I wouldn’t have to be victim of this stupid subjugation of women. I’m not dumber than any man. I’m as independent as any guy. Gosh, I sound spoiled but I’m so sick of it. Sick. Sick. Sick. Of it. I’m sick of being expected to live up to the standards of a guy and yet get beat down by vicious stereotyping. There are so many opportunities out there that I could pursue but unfortunately, I am of the female race and the limits that I encounter everyday are merciless; they cage me in. I need out but I don’t need your help.

Let me write my essays in solitude. Solitude.

When you were a little child, you burst into tears when you fell off the bike because your dad let go too soon. Or maybe you cried a few seconds after you realized that you had just been knocked down head first by a soccer ball. But nothing could have been worse than the moment you crash landed from the monkey bars to the ground into a crouching position, your legs stagnant and unable to move. You realized you were trapped. Paralyzed. And then the tears started flowing as you told your friend, I can’t move. The whistle was blowing, signaling the end of recess and a wave of panic ran through your body. Suddenly, with a jerk, the legs straightened and you half hobbled and ran to the recess line. It felt as if you had just acquired a new pair of legs.

But were the tears shed out of self-pity or excruciating pain? Did you cry because you felt sorry for yourself? Maybe those tears rolled down because you just realized that your dad had just abandoned you; he let you fall down. You felt so alone. Or maybe you started tearing because the whole team was huddled around you, your body flat on the ground. How humiliating. And you probably cried when those legs locked up on you because no one could help you get out of that trap. No one.

Today as I was doing my business in the toilet, I reached back to my left to get some tissue to blow my nose. As I violently jerked the tissue out of the box, a whole stack flew out. My other hand immediately reached down to catch it but unfortunately, the toilet lid interrupted my reflex action. My elbow crashed into the edge of the hard cold lid. I whisper-screamed out in pain as the pain crescendoed mercilessly. The fragile one-celled capillaries burst and the blood seeped into the surrounding tissue, swelling it up slowly, slowly. As I cringed holding my elbow, no tears collected in my eyes. I couldn’t force it even if I wanted to. I just waited for the pain to subside slowly, slowly.

So do you cry out of self-pity or pain? I’ll leave you to judge your own boo-boo.