Is it all God's Fault?

"Your eyes are too pure to look on evil; 
   you cannot tolerate wrongdoing. 
Why then do you tolerate the treacherous? 
   Why are you silent while the wicked 
   swallow up those more righteous than themselves? "

-Habakkuk 1:13

Only a few moments after getting deferred from college, I couldn't help but think how unfair life was. Not because I didn't make it: it was the fact that my friends made it and I hadn't. I had put the same amount of effort, done the same deeds, and even put my own spin on it—for what? Simply smacked right back down on my ass, and watching everyone else around me grin and laugh in happiness.

Unfair. At least, I was a Christian right? None of my atheist friends deserved their success. I didn’t think this, but that was exactly how I felt. And like any good, fake Christian, I turned to the Bible and read the passages where God promised fire and vengeance upon our enemies, and found that simple verse.

It was Habakkuk’s complaint. In my head, I had thought, “Perfect! Someone else with a grudge against God. Let’s see how it turns out.”

And looking at it, I knew it had to do with me. After all, wasn’t I the innocent one? I had been swallowed up by the wicked. And it was all God’s fault.

And I’m laughing now because that would make my friends the “wicked”, and not making college a horrible crime. Even I know that this is ridiculous. Unfair; yes. But, am I really one of the innocent being killed by the wicked? I’d have to be abusing power anti-psychotics for that to happen.

But it really did show me something horrible about myself. I had never noticed before that behind the jubilance and glee my friends showed, they hid their own sadness of my status. Had I ever considered what other people felt for once? Or had I simply assumed that they, like me, would be completely preoccupied with their own happiness rather than others’?

It was shocking. There was a reason they never talked about it. I, in my deluded, depressed state, had assumed that their silence was their apathy. Little did I know that their silence was one of retreat; giving me utter silence to help me heal. Even if they were atheists, they sure as hell were acting more Christianly than I ever had.

And so, looking at this passage, I need to ask, who is the wicked person swallowing up the innocent again? I seem like the part more and more. I took their kindness and responded with transparent false glee revealing a dark depression. I threw away their feelings and wanted only one thing: other people’s attention for my troubles. Did I care at all about what they felt? Of course not. And in my sheltered, Asian, high-school teenage life, I can almost think of no worse crime.

Well of course, besides stealing, murdering, lying and having fun. But that’s a story for another day. But in light of the Christmas spirit, I ask myself one simple question: why does God tolerate me?  I suppose that’s what true love really is.

Woohoo! College Results!

Yeah...right...deferred from UChicago
So much for this blog right? Sigh...

To console myself, I wrote a ton of tips, which I should really listen to myself...haha...hopefully whoever reads this enjoys it.

13 Tips on getting over loss (specifically college troubles)

1) Wanting to complain and tell other people the news is merely you trying to run away from your problems. By telling others, it becomes “not your problem anymore”. That’s denial. If you do tell other people, realize that it’s still your problem and your friends really have no obligation to listen, or pay attention. They do not share your burden with you; they may say that, but, in the end, you’re there by yourself.

2) Be sad in private. Your group of friends is not centered around you. Be happy for those who are happy. Our happiness is only important to us and us alone. If we’re sad, there’s no point in dampening the collective mood of festivity.

3)Looking for other people to be angry/sad/upset with is generally a bad idea. Not only will you feel positively worse due to collective emotions, chances are, neither one of you has figured out how to deal with the situation yet. Instead, find someone who either has moved on, or is generally happy. And ask them first to help you out. Their happiness may rub off on you, or better yet, they will help you look at the situation objectively. Either way, it’s a lot better than being miserable with the miserable.

4)Calm down. Logic doesn’t function in the emotional mind. You need to do something. Forget about it all for a moment. Your body will like change at this moment; change something minor that you do, or about yourself. This will give you more control and will give you comfort.

5)Don’t just push your emotions away though. When capable, take the time to examine them. Knowing how you work is a sense of control and this will give you comfort.

6)Don’t become all depressed because “nobody notices” or “nobody does anything”. Grow up. You’re not going to be baby-fed forever. And luckily for you, someone always notices, and nobody doing anything should be seen as them giving you space. Or they just have no clue how to deal with you. Either way, they’re helping you out. So realize that people do care for you.

7)Don’t be nihilistic. This does matter. The more nihilistic you are, the more you’ll end up lying to yourself. Its hard to be truly nihilistic and if its not in your nature to be a nihilist, don’t be. Its too big of a change to accommodate, and will create more tension than necessary. Usually, accept that you do care.

8)You are no worse than anyone else. Whoever said this was a contest? Although these are merely words, there is some application. But that’s up to you to decide whether or not you want to believe it.

9)Have hope, but be a realist. Some things are unlikely to happen. Acknowledge this, but also acknowledge the probability that it will happen. Remember probability: expected value.

10)Regret only helps to help you initially feel guilty. But after that, it’s meaningless. Remember your guilt or sorrow, and then move on. It’s only a stepping stone. Misplaced emotions are the enemy of any sort of progress.

11)Think to the future and salvage what you can. There is always something you can salvage, no matter how small.

12)“Moving on” doesn’t really have a true definition. As long as you can function properly without feeling overwhelming emotions, society defines you as having “moved on”. Which is complete bull-crap. Overwhelming emotions are easily derived from simply thinking about a specific emotion. Give time to yourself. After all, society also expects you to have “moved on” instantly. So giving yourself time is a prerogative.

13) And, learn from your loss. Life is full of “tough love”. Don’t give up on the sincerity and efficiency of humanity; these trials produce perseverance, perseverance makes character, and character generates hope.  Words are words, but reality is reality. If you don’t think these words comfort you at all, prove me wrong by genuinely acting these words out. If acting these words out doesn’t help you, then you have a full right to complain. Otherwise, nothing changes. Or worse, you have just regressed even more in immaturity.

Life takes us on its path; all we can do is keep walking and see where it takes us. Sure, we have control over whether we should step on thorns or sharp rocks, but for the most part it’ll lead us somewhere. So, breathe a bit and smile because while you're here, you might as well enjoy the ride.

Hopefully you enjoyed it! Once I get over my tear-stained pillows, I might enjoy it too. To all those who are currently experiencing loss right now, I can only hope that my words help you. Or if they don't, I thank you for taking your time in reading them.

Writing Warm-ups: 10/1/2011

He laughs so hard I want to strangle him where he stands.

"Ha! You think you get into college with this?" He laughs like a bipolar person. One second he's hysterical, and the next he's angry. Before I can protest, he's hit me over the head. "You don't get into college, we don't let you in house. Understand?"

For the umpteenth time, I nod and almost instinctively reach for my essay. Maternal instincts, I suppose. But he turns around, and begins to inspect it with cruel, malice-filled eyes.

"What this?" He asks. I know it's a simple question, but it is strange how only two words can become daggers. "This paragraph is only one sentence."

I wince. I don't know why I even bothered letting him read it. Probably because he would've kept nagging me if I didn't.

"I am just expressing how it is important." I say, looking at him in the eye.

He nods, as if he actually understood what I said. Then immediately he says, "It's wrong. Get rid of it."

And I am affronted. Wrong? How can writing be wrong?

I shake my head, and ask, "How can this possibly be wrong? It's just one sentence—"

"Paragraph can't be one sentence." He snarls. "You want to go to college with this essay? Ha! Try COD. You want to go to COD because you so stupid? Stupid boy. Listen to me."  He whacks me over the head. "If you don't get into college, you live on streets. Understand?"

I want to protest. But what can I say? He won't get it no matter what I say.

So I just promise that I'll change it, just to get my mangled essay back. It's injured, half torn up, as if ripped apart by raging wolves, which is actually an accurate diagnosis of how it was treated.

He still grips onto it, eyes narrowing. I know he doesn't trust me.

"Put up on computer now." he orders. "I watch you change."

"You don't have to—"

Whack. "Stupid boy. Who know better in english, me or you? Admission officer closer to me."

"Look, dad, I don't need that much help—"

"Yes you do! You think any college accept you with this? I wouldn't even use this as a grocery bag!" he glares at me. "It's bad! Everything bad! To think I would let you send this to colleges." he snorts in derision. "Stupidness must be a sickness because I'm catching it from you."

Glancing up, he grins wickedly. He sees my facial expression. He knows I want to say something; he also knows I don't have the guts to say it. "Don't you see, this essay is bad!" He stabs at it with his middle finger. "Here." stab. "and here." stab. "and here!"

"I just wanted to—"

I feel the burn in my face before the sound reaches my ears. My head is twisted around, and I stumble backwards. Something salty fills my mouth. My ears are ringing, and my head feels like I've been rattled.
But when my ears clear up, I hear a sound that fills me with boiling water.

It is the sound of his laughter.

Before I know what I'm doing, I've gotten up. I wrench my college essay from his hands and before his eyes, I rip it to shreds and dump it on the ground. Then I storm outside, slamming the door shut behind me.

I don't want him to hurt me anymore. I don't want that pain. Why do they always have to be better than me? Why are they always the superior ones?

Why do they always have to be right and I always to be wrong?

8/26/2011

Alright today...straight out blog moment because I'm depressed, confused and I don't really know what to do. I know I did something like this a few days ago and I'm worried that this might be a bad habit of mine in this starting school year. I don't know.

Let's start back to last last year. I met this blond girl, sitting at an Asian Table. Typical love at first sight right? Wrong. I didn't want to be the same as all the other Asian guys: desperate for some girl who was just slightly closer than porn models.

She was weird. That was my first impression of her. And it still is. She was vegetarian. She was Athiest. But she was more...Asian than I was. She obsessed over grades; that's all she talked about. While I sat awkwardly on the side of the table, not really talking, but just a weird kid. They say immaturity is all in the head, and that if you believe yourself to be an adult, you will change. Will you? I sure as hell haven't, and believe me, I've tried believing I was an adult, but I'm still the same 5th grader trapped in a high schooler's body.

Anyway she seemed interesting. She was childish, more so than me at times, tying one of her friends to a desk with fragile thread-like things (My school's health teacher was weird; he hung balls of threads from the ceiling.). She threw carrots at the cool people at my lunch table. She had some sort of attitude that pissed me off; she was always so stuck-up, always supposed to be perfect, always supposed to be right. She disgusted me. Little did I know, I was no different. The only difference was that she had a social life, whereas I, had a family of Pokemon to go home to each night.

Sophomore year passed uneventfully. I would like to say that, but that's just a lie. I did horrible things to her; "horrible" meaning I regret them now even more so than ever. I threw meat at her. I insulted her, the start of a new habit. I pretended to want to talk to her just to mess with her stuff. After all, children are children, and I was no different from anybody else. If it wasn't her, it would be somebody else. However, this year, it was her.

Junior year swung on by. That summer, I had resigned myself to be a true Christian, a real follower of Christ. I wanted to be loving and kind and strong and faithful. That at least, had been my goal.

We were in the same lunch period, and started tutor training together. I sat near her each time, trying to get close. And when tutor training was over, and we had assigned days to come in to tutor, we sat at the same lunch table. In my head I said, "Love thy neighbor, no matter how annoying she is". However, in my heart, I said "she's actually cool. And I want her all to myself."

Predictably, I had fallen for her. I was such a freaking idiot. Why did I fall for someone who just gave me pity? I hate myself immensely. I am so shallow and dumb. And that's where everything collapsed.

We were in the same AP US history class together, along with one of my four best friends. And already, I began to feel jealousy. Why did she spend time with other people? I thought. It didn't occur to me that it was to get away from me. But paranoia set in, and I was such a fool to let it stay.

I had to release stress. I abused her behind her back, insulting her without refrain, talking about her with friends. I don't know what they thought of it. I don't know what they imagined at all. But it led back to her. And she hated me.

She never showed it. And her forgiveness was so thorough that even now, my heart is hurting so badly. But it soon got worse.

I had some sort of emotional break-down. I like to pretend I was in control, but, really was I? I don't even know why I was so upset, so dark. I wasn't depressed. That's a disease. I was just really upset and I even made up a reason why.

She noticed and her kindness makes me wince even now. She was my only friend who talked to me. Or at least I considered her one. I don't know what she considered me as.

For a while, we kept our distance between each other, due to my loose mouth and idiocy. But she was always the one who apologized, even though it was all my fault. I never once said "I'm sorry" or meant it.

But my desire for her went too far. I used a poor freshman girl like a hungry pharisee. That's a story for another day, but, it hurts me, if not more, than what happened to me recently. Anyway, eventually, I did the stupidest thing I could've done. I confessed to her.

And even then she forgave me and kept her distance.

Finally summer came. I got over her, easily. Lust only lasts temporarily. But once that left, all my disgust and hate returned. And boy, did I hate her. She was putrid to me; she was too perfect and kind. It wasn't fair. She was too mature. She had changed while I hadn't. And this change made me hate her even more.

I insulted her non-stop, despite all her efforts to maintain a positive or even neutral relationship. It got to the point that she didn't even look at me in the hall. Finally, after one mean remark too many, she snapped.

Her email was long and powerful. She swore, for the first time I had ever heard her. She reminded me of all the things my childish mind had long since forgotten. She told me how disappointed she was in me, only in harsher words and a sharper tongue. And then she ended it by asking whether I was happy to finally piss her off after years and years of torture.

And without apologizing, I told her to simply, leave me alone.

She replied, mainly with words to make herself to feel better. But I said the same: leave me alone.

She doesn't hate me. Hate is a surge of passion. What she feels is much worse: absolute apathy. Whether I die or not, she doesn't care. I don't think she ever did care, but now I know this is all she ever will feel towards me. And there's nothing I can say that will make it ok, or any excuse that will justify my actions. I'm in denial right now; I'm not letting myself think about it; I know tears will come to my eyes the moment I even realize the words I am saying right now. Because of how stupid I am. Because of how weird I am. Because of how immature I am. Because just how horrible I feel for treating her like someone, but not a person.

I don't hate her anymore. And for the first time, I want to apologize for real.I want to do something drastic, but I know nothing I can do, for however long, will ever change her heart.

But this time, my apology isn't in words or actions.This is an apology by moving on. We'll never talk again; although some part of me hopes that we do, with a desire to cause her more pain, I am certain that we won't. I need to be exactly like her: warm on the outside, cold and dark on the inside. And the only way I can ever move forward is to stop regretting, and to simply forget.

After all, that's what children do, don't they?

Writing Warm-ups: 8/19/2011

I remember an incident before summer ended, school began, and life began to feel like it would never end.
I was helping settle a dispute between a group of arguing children, and the story begins something like this...

The sun raps down hard on our backs as shouting reaches an unbearable pitch. Two groups of children prepare for battle, drawing an invisible line across the basketball court.Vicious girls and angry boys alike growl and hiss over a small red ball, currently in the boys' possession. However, unlike the girls, the boys are enjoying this. More importantly, unlike the boys, the girls are beginning to pick up rocks and sticks.

"Hey!" I shout, as I reach them. "Boys! Scatter!" I push several of them away. "Move it! Go!" Intimidated, they flinch backwards, and then quickly move away from me.

"But!" the girls immediately respond. I silence them quickly with a glare. Its just too hot for this. Nevertheless, some of the girls are persistent.

"That was ours!" she cries out. "It's not fair! They're mean people!"

"Yeah!" other girls join in. "Boys are dumb! Everyone knows that! They're mean, dumb and stupid!"

"Quiet!" I shout impatiently. It's only until I shout myself hoarse that they finally calm down. And when they do, I ask, "How is picking up sticks and rocks going to fix this? Throw them away!"

Reluctantly they move. Some begin to give excuses and answers, but a single look is enough to keep their fragments from maturing into sentences.

"How many of you consider yourselves to be nice people?" I demand, exasperated by their attitude. "Just raise your hand; tell me if you think you're a nice person. If you don't raise your hand, I'm assuming that you think you're a bad person."

Hands shoot up. I roll my eyes. Nearly every girl who was picking up weapons has raised her hand. However, there is one kind, but lazy girl who has not raised her hand. I don't remember her name, but I remember her face; it was kind and round; she was generally quiet, but always went out of her way to help others out, especially when no one would thank her in return.

After I dispersed the mob, I tracked her. When she saw me she smiled; it was a good sign as it meant that she had been paying attention to me before. If she didn't like me, she would have ignored me in the first place.

"Why didn't you raise your hand?" I asked. "All the other girls did it."

"I'm not very nice, though." she says. Then she pauses.

"Really?" I say. "Are you sure? You help out others all the time."

"I don't know," she says, a bit distracted. "But...being mean means that when I'm mean, it's ok. And being nice means a lot more. I think. " She looks at me, her mouth slightly agape. "What do you think?"

"Who are you mean to?" I ask. "Is it just one person?"

She nods. "I'm always mean to my sister. I don't know why, but I have to blame her and interrupt her and say she's stupid."

"Is she?" I ask. "She's only a year younger than you."

"No!" she replies firmly. "I'm just...to her, I'm really mean. I don't like it. But she is my bestest friend in the world. And all her other friends are mean to her! Somehow it makes her laugh, but when I do it..."

It's a desperate look on her face. Within a moment, though, it wipes away.

"It doesn't matter." She says. "I'm a mean person, and that's it. Mean people never change." Then, as whimsical as the wind, she flickers off to some of her friends.

And I still wonder: how many of her words were her own? And how many were her sister's? And most importantly, how many did she really mean?

8/18/2011

Urgh. I give up. The last 15 or so posts were all writing warm-ups which immediately afterwards I wrote another college essay/edited one.  This one, however, is going to ignore the attempt at trying different styles, to characterize something, to make any attempt to show that I'm a normal human, because, in all honesty, I'm not.

In other words, this blog is going to be the lowest form of writing: a complaint. Girls might call it diary entries, and seeing as this is a blog, its about the same thing. I don't know. But seeing as its you, the reader, who has the choice to continue reading, I guess I'll assume in the next few paragraphs that you want to hear me complain.

Really, I don't care whether you want to continue reading or not, because the real reader who I want to acknowledge these words is myself.

Part 1

As a 17 year old, there's all these stereotypes I'm supposed to be: having a blossoming love life, a courageous social life, and an unbearable excitement towards the future. Or if not that, an all-or-nothing attitude towards work, capable of doing absolutely everything simultaneously and caring less about the consequences of eating Ramen everyday. Or, if I'm not even like that, I'm supposed to be a self-sufficient person, whose self-esteem, motivation, and overall personality does not depend on what other people say or do.

As a child, people are expected to wild, shallow, confused, and could careless about what will happen a week from now, much less a month. They are supposed to flash between being depressed and being wild. They are supposed to be children.

And yet, why I do I still fit the definition of a child?

I am wild; I am shallow, confused and have no sense of the "grand picture". I only want a social life, to work hard, to have a love life because others have it, because it looks fun, because I have never understood friendship, discipline or love and am hoping for a new sensation. I only want to be unique because everyone else is unique. I only want to fit in because who else will tell me "that's funny" or laugh at me? I only want to be an adult because no one else wants to be a child.

Why do I get so depressed when someone doesn't greet me? And then why am I surprised when people I hurt hate me in return, when they don't talk to me, or when they don't acknowledge me? Why am I sad when others leave me alone? Isn't "alone" all I wanted? Did I want to be "alone" simply because everyone else wanted to be "alone" from me?

You know you're shallow when you can't even tell a friend why they're your friend. Their personality? Their humor? Their money? Their car? The opportunity to be superior to another person? Are they an ipod, or even a tape recorder? Or are they just a habit; just like flossing before brushing your teeth? Or are they a temporary measure, like a duct-tape patched back-pack?

I have written about other children this entire time, talking about their actions, as if they were below me. It's just to bad I can't do the same to myself, because I am, if not worse, just as immature as the other children.

Part 2

What’s wrong with me? She makes me sigh, and laugh, and sends warm shivers ripple through my head spinning my heart in circles. Cold sweat collects on my neck, and it takes a few blinks to refocus my eyes, wiping that dreamy smile off my face. But she is still sitting beside me, and it’s all I can do to not stare or move any closer to her. The teacher’s saying something, and there’s other noise in the background too. At least I think so; I’m not certain. I’m too busy feeling comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.

She has no expression, normally. A blank face, looking around, telling nothing of all the effort she puts into studying and working hard, she makes everything seem so easy, not minding the existent boredom throughout the class. But when she smiles or laughs, something in me cracks; I feel like I’ve just molted off an old layer of dirt and dust and disgusting skin, and have emerged, metamorphosed and awakened.

But I know it is all shallow. I’ve talked to her before, and frankly, I’ve gotten bored of talking with her after an hour. It’s not that she’s not interesting; it’s just that I don’t know what to say anymore. The mysteriousness that draws me towards her vanishes when we talk. And all that’s left is just empty lust and social obligation.

It may not all be childish and foolish, but for the main part, it is. And in my case, I am only attracted to her because she’s quiet; she is alone. I only want her as a trophy, not as a friend; someone I can target so that I can be just like everyone else. In the end, I’m just thinking about myself; when I see her, I only think of what she is to me, and thereby react accordingly. I’m just in denial.

So who is she? Is she really the one making me feel the way I do, shudder when I see her face, hear her name? Or is she just a trophy who’ll make me desire her when I’m not talking to her, or not in contact with her?  

Writing Warm-ups: 8/12/2011

A quiet voice, hardly heard beyond the white noise in the background, she filled a notebook page with writing, always writing with a pencil—although her eraser sat lonely in the corner of the table, unused and unnecessary. 
After finishing the page, she looked back at previously filled pages; she would need a new spiral soon. They were like little blooming flowers, but instead of colorful petals, there were busy paragraphs, and instead of nectar, there were, as she thought, at least somewhat beautiful words and lines.


"Let me see!" Eva, her sister, said, grabbing the notebook, energetically, but perhaps a bit too excitedly. But she still let her sister and her friend, Rachel read the page, as she secretly smiled to herself. 


She watched the pair read, and saw their faces change expression, slowly from excitement to confusion then to glee. Her heart thumped in her chest; would they like it? Hopefully they liked the main characters' names.


"Yay! You wrote about us!" Rachel giggled. "Even about the faries and the hobgoblins!"


"We asked her too!" Eva said. Then after reading a bit longer. "Oh my God! Why did you make us do that?"


"You told me to." she said, a bit nettled. She slid back into her chair, arms crossed, wearing more boyish cloths than girlish.


Her name was Danielle. She knew school was about to start. She knew most of Naruto manga. She knew that she didn't know anything about junior high school. 


"This Shuriken doesn't have a hole in the middle."  she stated, showing me a four-pointed origami figure, looking into my eyes to see whether she should smile or not.


"Cool," I reply blandly. It's too late, but before I know it, she has walked off, a little more upset than she'll show on her face. No smile. She just walked away, shoulder-length hair flipping around her back.


An hour later, she was watching Naruto episodes on my laptop. Then realizing that her notebook was vulnerable to others, she quickly ran to her seat, took it and came back, hugging it tightly to her chest.


He was pretty, although, to me, not particularly spectacular. However, there was something about her, like a cliche in a good book, that made her stand out even though she seemed so normal. Whether it was that strange chant she made her sister sing for me, or the fact that she responded with "Negi Hyuga" when I asked for her name, there was something mysterious about her, making her seem so much more interesting than any of the Naruto characters. In fact, if anything, I was certain that her story was more beautiful and amazing than any manga at all. 


It's just that I'll never see her again.

Writing Warm-up: 8/4/ 2011

(Poetry Practice)

I loved her; heart racing, too hot

for normal breaths.

I’m comfortable, too uncomfortable for thoughts

Too clichéd for words and me.

I’m still waiting for the sea

To clash back, one wave and again

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow,

I’m still waiting for it to come back again.

She was beautiful too

amazing for my precence

And life.

She could care less

Smooth, calm, too cool

To listen to me

I’m still waiting for the shore

The waters too deep and long

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow,

I’m still waiting for it to come back again.

She was smart; I hardly knew her

Name.  

Cold like ice. But she never melted.

She never spoke.

Once.

I’m still waiting for the day

The darkness retains its bulky wetness

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow,

I’m still waiting for it to come back again.

Writing Warm-ups: 7/31/2011

"A dancer, and gymnast, can never be satisfied with what they can do."

She said it through a chat. I can only imagine what her face was like when she typed it though. Tittering about front walk-overs, handstands, doing lefty splits more easily, she did not sound like a 9 year old, soon turning 10 come September. She was older. She was my age, at that moment. And I, too, was her age.

She complained about how others were better, how she could only do handstands for a few seconds. She did not get what made others better, what made their actions so much more elegant or more gentle. But she knew that it required "lots of hard, hard work."

Even then, she was stretching. "If I don't stretch, everything feels sore." she said. "So, I stretch randomly."

According to her, there was no perfection. Or rather, no one achieved it. After all, the point of dancing is for improvement. What good is something that was already perfect? Perfection meant finality; all you had to do was maintain the state. There was no growth. There was no creativity. There was just...boredom.

At this moment, she stopped chatting, as if waiting for me to refute her. It was not a challenge. She wanted me to understand. And then realizing I did not, she continued on, treating me as if I were her equal, her age, the same type of person. 

But by then, she was older than me. Far older than me. 

Her birthday is in a month's time. I wonder how much older she'll be by then.

Writing Warm-ups: 7/29/2011

"Stop that! It's mine!"
Her high-pitched voice reverberated above the asphalt. After spotting two 8-year-olds screaming at each other more than 30 yards away, I flinched and checked my ears for head-phones. Nope, still there. Either I needed new head-phones, or this conversation was about to get physical.

"No!" came the reply. "It's mine! Give it back!" Yank. I saw the object in question: a small, fluffy brown bear. Looking cuddly, but I knew that if it had a voice, it would be screaming out in agony. Even I was amazed that the bear was still in one piece, cotton filling not spilling out already.

"It was mine first!" A harsh pull to left.

"So? You said I could have it!" Another crude jerk to the right.

"I said you could borrow it! Not have it!" Back to the left. But this time, the bear was twisted.

"Yes! You! Did!"

"No! I! Didn't!"

"Yes! You—"


"Stop it!" I told the both of them, snatching the tortured bear from their wrangling hands. I looked at the both of them. The two smiling, laughing girls I saw the first days, locked in arms embrace, had been replaced with squabbling demons. Sigh. Why did this have to happen on my day? 


"Aren't you two friends?" I asked. Cut straight to the chase. Forget about the whole dispute. Just solve the issue at hand. Now if only I could write essays in the same way. Apparently colleges don't like essays that are longer than 2,000 words.


"No! She's not my friend!" they said in unison. "I don't even know her that well!" 


Irony, at its finest. Or is that tragedy? Whatever.


They continued to argue, calmly at first, but then frantically and with jabbing fingers and squinting eyes. It was all I could do not to try and smother them with my hands.


"Stop!" I repeated. Luckily they listened to me. If they were boys, it would've been completely ineffective.
"What's wrong? You guys know each other for at least—" I made up a number in my head. "—2 weeks. Aren't you friends now?"


They both gave me a glare. "No! Friends aren't made in 2 weeks!"


Exasperatedly, I asked. "So how long is until friends are made? A month? A year?"


They shook their heads, and I did my best not to roll my eyes. But when it was apparent that neither would talk again, I sent them off to opposite sides of the playground. Which left me standing there were a teddy bear in my hands.


In the end, it turned out that  it was neither of the girl's bear. A child had lost it last week, and had been looking dramatically for it as well. It was returned without a single rip, to my relief. Well, that was one mystery solved.


But there was still one more. How long does it take for someone to be a friend? Granted, those two girls could have just been experiencing the melo-dramatic weekly fights all girls have. But still, the question remains unanswered. 


In the end, I can not help but wonder whether the girls have very high standards for friends to meet, or I simply have never had any friends at all.


Either way, I end up worrying about girls that I'll meet in the future, or girls I already know. 


Why do girls have to make life complicated?

Writing Warm-ups: 7/26/2011

She wrote with a half chewed pencil, scribbling words I could never have thought of myself. She was funny; she was poignant; her words drew pictures that could have been passed off as Picasso's. And yet the music her words played was equal to Beethoven. Her mix of abstract personality and traditional style was beyond anything I could try to imitate and anything I could attempt to imagine.

Needless to say, I was jealous. I wanted to stop her. But, the strong dominate the weak, and I knew when I was defeated.

Why is life so unfair?

Writing Warm-ups: 7/24/2011

The dinner table clangs with four dishes and one soup, the perfect Chinese dinner. The children are quiet, as we're supposed to be, while my parents chatter about the summer and the upcoming church retreat. They chew a little, talk a little, and scoop more rice into small plastic bowls. They complain about the air conditioning, but I know their true focus is on the younger children, more specifically, me.

"These kids have never been through—" my dad asks my mom a specific Chinese phrase even I haven't heard of. 

She responds, half-way through swallowing, with, "Boy scouts. But harder."

"Yes, like boy scouts." My dad turns to me, pointing his chop sticks like little pincers. "Except we had to walk for hours every day. It was 6 hours I think." He looks at my mom for confirmation. She's busy transferring laddles of soup into her bowl. Then she nods. He continues. "And we were younger than you. We were about 14 years old.

"I remember walking down in the country side. There were lines of children, some with shoes, some with sandals, none of them fat like you. We had-we had—little bags in the front for food, little ones in the back for water; sleeping bags on the back, and if we were lucky, hats from our parents. It was always hot. And when it wasn't, it was rainy. They wanted to make us into—" he asks my mom another word in Chinese.

She smiles sardonically, and looks at me. "They call it 'iron feet'. They want us have 'iron feet' after 3 months are done." She pretends I understand, and nods to my father to continue.

Helplessly, I watch my father resume his story. 

"I remember the first day—we had water bubbles on our feet—"

"You mean blisters." I interrupt, standing up because I'm done with dinner. He gives me an appraising look.

"Yes, blisters. And at night, we had to pop them with little nails—so that we could walk tomorrow. Every day, it was walking for kilo-meters. And then at night, we were told to sleep there on 干草—hay—even though there many animals all around.

"Sometimes we walk through 沼泽里—" he glances at my mom, but then turns away. "—a swamp. There were many 水蛭, and 水蛇—water snake. There is no feeling like stepping on a water snake. And then we wake up and same thing again. Every day like this for two weeks. Then we work on farm for three months.”

My dad is silent for a moment. He is too busy reminiscing to notice that I’ve already washed all the dishes and packed all the leftover food into the refrigerator. He has this weird grin on his face; as if talking about such horrid experiences gives him superiority.

And when he continues talking, he begins talking in rapid Chinese. He tells me how he once fished for chickens on top of a farm roof, and how he once found rats in the hay he slept on.  He tells me how he was kept a grade back, how my mother never went to high school, how he had to study underneath half-working, dim "street lamps" in order to catch up that last grade. He tells me about how the Cultural Revolution ravaged his life; he had never seen a whole chicken egg before moving to Shanghai, near the end of the Cultural Revolution. He continues on and on, how as a child, younger than me, he has gone through more hardship and more experiences than I ever will. 

When he's finished, he gazes at me intently, and I know what he is getting at. This entire summer, I have been too lax, and too lazy. He doesn't need to tell me to work harder; he knows that I know. He's done this many times before. Only, this time, I know it is not just to shame me about all the adversity he had to face in order to get me where I am. It is not only to tell me to work harder; it's to remind me of my disappearing childhood.

"But this happened so long ago." he finishes, with a sigh. "And I've told you this so many times before. How long before you leave the house and live on your own? Hopefully by then you'll understand that a person's greatest enjoyment is in accomplishment."

He stands up, and without much care, dumps his dishes in the sink, and rinses them thoroughly, placing them on the drying rack. My mom has long since gone to another room, clickety-clacking on her laptop, while my sister has disappeared into her room. I hear the thump-thump-thump of my father climbing the stairsteps, and then I hear him close the door to his office.

The kitchen table is empty, and I'm the only one sitting there. The food is all gone, and the air is all silent, except for the erratic AC. My dad has finished his research involving math and probability. My sister has finished her first story. My mom has finished several projects for her workplace. While I sit here, alone. 

And I can't help but think I've wasted my summer.

Writing Warm-ups: 7/23/2011

Superiority, insecurity and insensitivity. All of these would lead to naivety, ADD and manipulation.

I remember her as a person, not as a girl or a name. Someone with a changing character, a deep personality, and a sense of humor no imagination could possibly replicate. She wasn't outstanding, but she was definitely not normal in any sense, from her dark brown eyes to her heavily scarred legs; she was simply one-of-a-kind.

And I had seen her as a sister I always wished I had had.

When you begin to make realizations like that, everything becomes incredibly awkward. And in this case, it did.

I tried. I tried to be cool, and nice and amazing—I tried to be a brother. But 14 years of being one really hadn’t given me any real experience at all. I became different people: exciting, but matter-of-fact; hyperactive, but gentle; harsh, but vulnerable; a friend, but someone more.  By the end, I had forgotten who I was. And I had long-since forgotten who I had originally seen her as.

She pushed me away, with disgust and annoyance at whatever effort I made. I don’t blame her for it. Wouldn’t anybody, when some creepy kid, two years older than you, began acting strangely? I would too. In fact, I would’ve gotten a baseball bat for protection.

Desperately, I managed to excite her into an accountability “contract”. It was futile. And I knew it. But rather than sustain a dwindling friendship, I decided to break it abruptly. I broke the “contract” and gave her a cold shoulder for the rest of the school year. 

Obviously I haven’t had enough friends to know from the start, to know that this was such a bad idea.

I didn’t care what she thought, what she felt, or what she wanted. She wasn’t important; it was my thoughts and desires that were priority, that changed the storyline of my life. After all, wasn’t I the main character?

It’s thoughts like those that really reveal who you are. Unfortunately, there are relatively few things that can let you realize it. Luckily, one of them is a raging friend.

“What the hell?!” he wrote. Even though it was a chat, I cringed. I knew he was restraining himself from saying harsher and more meaningful words. Ouch. The Internet didn’t stifle the power of writing at all; with all the emoticons, I thought it made it more powerful. Especially since I had a chatbox full of symbols that eventually showed a large middle finger.  Well I had to give him points for creativity. I never thought brackets could be used like that.

Skipping all profanity, his statement was pretty much: “Stop making a jackass of yourself. Cool off.”

If I had known it was that simple, I could have saved an hour of watching chat messages expand on my monitor.

But by the time I decided to follow his advice, it was already over.

And now I wonder, which stage of loss am I in right now?

Denial, probably. After all, isn't replacement a type of denial?  

Writing Warm-ups: 7/22/2011

When I woke up today, sunlight had already burst through my windows; the excited, Ridalin-addicted wind rammed against the sides of my house, and when I open my windows, hot, humid hair slapped against my cheeks and face. Looking up, I saw a clear sky. No clouds, only sun. Birds chirped and flew, so high and so far, becoming small specks in the distance. I blinked. I could have mistaken this morning for yesterday's or the day before's. This entire week had been like this, and had been absolutely the same: hot, humid, and windy. It was predictable like a soap-opera.

I grinned to myself. The sky was just like a person. There is always a specific pattern it will follow. I roll my eyes. Everything is so simple, easy to explain. I laughed and made myself breakfast, expecting more clear skies and ruffling wind. Coarse air and blinding sunlight. Sharp shadows. This time I agreed with the weatherman; it was clear skies all today.

But at 9 it changed. I looked up; muscled clouds drew maps across the sky. Rumbles groaned in the distance.
I blinked in disbelief, but it was true.

Then, it begins.


Droplets splatter, smacking the ground. From far away, it just looks dark. But the thundering rain pounding against the window and the pavement tell me differently. The wind pushes and shoves the trees and branches, making the plummeting rain come in ebbs and flows. I watch the drops slap the grass. I see the rain draw patterns on the ground, weaving in waves and currents, thickening and thinning carelessly.

It's rain. Bouncing and leaping. Irregular beats.

A complete change of pace. The rain doesn't stop for more than an hour, unleashing more pouring, scalding rain upon the ground. And I can't help but be shocked. Not only did the weatherman lie, but I was wrong too.

Something in me makes me laugh. Of course it would rain. Just like people, the sky can only hold up a facade for so long. After the mask wears thin, the people reveal their true selves. I look at the sky again. It is dark and furious. I turn away. I don't expect the storm to end for more than a few hours.

But slowly, the pounding softened, quieting as the outside gradually brightened. The wind sighed and drifted to sleep. Then, the air was free of any rain. Dry patches colonized the road. And within moments, the sky began to clear, the sun began to shine, and the only sign there had ever been a storm were the slowly diminishing puddles, scattered on the sidewalks.

I was wrong again. Perhaps the rainy side of the sky wasn't a facade after all. Maybe it was the temporary mask. Maybe.

I don't know. I think in reality, there never was a "mask" for the sky; being sunny and rainy are both what the sky is. And yet the sky is neither all sunny nor all rainy. They're both.

But one thing's for sure: I'm definitely not cut out to be a meteorologist.

Writing Warm-ups: 7/21/2011

A sudden shriek and then the following ripples of sobbing. Most heads turn, most people walk towards the sound. But three kids don't. Three boys grinning and talking nonchalantly. I hurry.

"What happened?" I spill out. But it's self-explanatory. Small hands cradling a small bruise over his right, tear-soaked eye. More tears leave snail-tracks on his rosy cheeks. His mouth firmly sticks as a black arch. I roll my eyes. A fight.

"Who hit you?" I ask. He points to a boy, flinching as he does. Before the kid can run, I grab him by the shoulder and whip him around.

"Why did you do it?" I demand. He doesn't bother feigning innocence. But he doesn't answer. I shake him again. "Why did you punch him?"

"I didn't punch him." He says to the floor.

I pull his chin up and look him in the eye. "So why did you hit him?"

He says nothing. His eyes try to look away, but I won't break eye contact. Other people try to intervene, but I brush them off with a wave of the hand. This is between me and him.

Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Now thirty. Everything restarts around him, and savagely, I won't let him be join in. And then  he cracks.  His eyes begin to bubble up. A short sniffle. And then more tears.

Groaning inside, I tell him some words how it's not his fault and how everything is OK, even though he was the kid who punched the other one. Something irks me though. I tell him to sit next to his victim, side by side, and then I leave. Before I'm finished turning, I hear someone whisper "sorry", and the other say "It's OK." They make up. They laugh. And everything's back to normal, as if nothing had occurred in the first place.

And I'm not satisfied.

At its simplest, this is the story of a bully forcing his will upon a younger child, savoring the fact that he can make the kid cry without hitting him. Screw justice and reconciliation. I did it because I wanted to. And I'm not ashamed. There were thousands of ways to do it without making him cry. I knew this the instant the situation occurred. But I wanted him to cry. And I would not be satisfied if there were no tears. How could I let a kid go who punched someone and within a few moments afterward, is talking with his friends without a conscience? But maybe that's my falsely righteous side rationalizing. After all, I am such a hypocrite.

Moments after I'm done with the two kids, I sit down, lean back, and begin a nonchalant conversation with another Teacher's Assistant. I crack a joke. We grin. We laugh. And everything is forgotten between us.

But when I look to the side, I see a few pair of eyes on us; no, it's me they're staring at in shock. Those eyes aren't from the kids who were crying, nor their friends. They aren't even from the teachers. They are from the other children, with a look that is a mixture of anger and horror and fear and disgust. And its only because of their looks that I can remember this instant now.

And I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Because I can't tell: is my life a comedy or a tragedy? One thing's for certain though: it's definitely a drama. But I sincerely hope it's not a tragedy because I would really hate for my life to be a copy of Hamlet. Not because everyone dies in the end, but more because Shakespeare has at least twenty different swears that I've never heard of. What the hell is a 'huggermugger' supposed to be? Am I a Fustiliarian? I give up.

Writing Warm-ups: 7/21/2011

A sudden shriek and then the following ripples of sobbing. Most heads turn, most people walk towards the sound. But three kids don't. Three boys grinning and talking nonchalantly. I hurry.

"What happened?" I spill out. But it's self-explanatory. Small hands cradling a small bruise over his right, tear-soaked eye. More tears leave snail-tracks on his rosy cheeks. His mouth firmly sticks as a black arch. I roll my eyes. A fight.

"Who hit you?" I ask. He points to a boy, flinching as he does. Before the kid can run, I grab him by the shoulder and whip him around.

"Why did you do it?" I demand. He doesn't bother feigning innocence. But he doesn't answer. I shake him again. "Why did you punch him?"

"I didn't punch him." He says to the floor.

I pull his chin up and look him in the eye. "So why did you hit him?"

He says nothing. His eyes try to look away, but I won't break eye contact. Other people try to intervene, but I brush them off with a wave of the hand. This is between me and him.

Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Now thirty. Everything restarts around him, and savagely, I won't let him be join in. And then  he cracks.  His eyes begin to bubble up. A short sniffle. And then more tears.

Groaning inside, I tell him some words how it's not his fault and how everything is OK, even though he was the kid who punched the other one. Something irks me though. I tell him to sit next to his victim, side by side, and then I leave. Before I'm finished turning, I hear someone whisper "sorry", and the other say "It's OK." They make up. They laugh. And everything's back to normal, as if nothing had occurred in the first place.

And I'm not satisfied.

At its simplest, this is the story of a bully forcing his will upon a younger child, savoring the fact that he can make the kid cry without hitting him. Screw justice and reconciliation. I did it because I wanted to. And I'm not ashamed. There were thousands of ways to do it without making him cry. I knew this the instant the situation occurred. But I wanted him to cry. And I would not be satisfied if there were no tears. How could I let a kid go who punched someone and within a few moments afterward, is talking with his friends without a conscience? But maybe that's my falsely righteous side rationalizing. After all, I am such a hypocrite.

Moments after I'm done with the two kids, I sit down, lean back, and begin a nonchalant conversation with another Teacher's Assistant. I crack a joke. We grin. We laugh. And everything is forgotten between us.

But when I look to the side, I see a few pair of eyes on us; no, it's me they're staring at in shock. Those eyes aren't from the kids who were crying, nor their friends. They aren't even from the teachers. They are from the other children, with a look that is a mixture of anger and horror and fear and disgust. And its only because of their looks that I can remember this instant now.

And I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Because I can't tell: is my life a comedy or a tragedy? One thing's for certain though: it's definitely a drama. But I sincerely hope it's not a tragedy because I would really hate for my life to be a copy of Hamlet. Not because everyone dies in the end, but more because Shakespeare has at least twenty different swears that I've never heard of. What the hell is a 'huggermugger' supposed to be? Am I a Fustiliarian? I give up.

Writing Warm-ups: 7/20/2011

"You shouldn't be mixing tea and milk. It doesn't taste too good."

I ignore her. After all, kids have the attention span of half a second, right? Wrong. Not this one at least. 

She puts a confident hand on my forearm and clearly says. "It's better if you don't. It's not as good."

I look down at this 4th grader. She has a wide forehead, stubby legs, but a toothy smile that makes you ashamed of doing what you call smiling. But her eyes radiate pure determination. It takes me a while to realize she's more than half my age, and not a high schooler like me. Such mature eyes, and a mysterious personality; she likes to talk, and is eager to impress, but is not willing to compromise any values for any reasons. 

And she is absolutely unpredictable. "You're so silly!" she says while giggling at something I hadn't known I had done. "..." is the silence she stabs into me when I actually try to make her laugh.

"Ann!" one of the other Teacher's Assistants call out. She quickly turns and runs towards the Teacher's Assistant, but gives me a last, nerve-quaking glance. Was I like this back then? I can't help but think. All my memories are too bright and happy to be true. So, in the end, I watch her skip off, excited for the afternoon.

It is computer day today. This means 15 computers are shared among 30 kids. Sometimes one kid gets a computer all to his or herself. But more commonly, groups of kids are hypnotized by a single monitor, while vagrants wander around the room.

Not more than five minutes into the room, kids start arguing and shouting. Among the cacophony, I hear a shrill voice cry out:
"Don't be so stupid! It's not your turn anymore!"

It's Ann. She's telling her sister off for trying to play the computer all by herself. At the word stupid, her sister was already leaking tears. By the time Ann was finished, her sister had already begun crying.

Hurriedly, I pulled Ann's sister over to the side, quickly telling her some meaningless, but comforting sounding words. Soon, she was only sniffling. Then I pulled Ann to side.

"Was that necessary?" I asked. To her it wasn't a rhetorical question. She nodded, annoyed, and got ready to take off again.

"Not so fast." I said, grabbing her arm. "Did you really have to call your sister 'stupid' in front of everyone? Did you really have to be so loud?"

She glared at me, but my grip was firm. Finally she sighed and said, "She doesn't care what I say. She'll still do it. She's doing it right now!" She pointed at the computer her sister was at. Sure enough, her sister was once again trying to take someone else's turn. I rolled my eyes. 1st graders. Such a handful.

But that didn't excuse Ann at all. Saying that her sister didn't take her seriously was an obvious lie, only she didn't know it yet. I opened my mouth to rebuke her, to say that it wasn't so much about her sister, or others, than about herself. Then I stopped.

If it wasn't how I was in the past, it most certainly was how I am today. I am exactly the same. It's not that others don't take me seriously; it's that I don't care what they think. And so, I'll do whatever I feel, whenever I want.

"Apologize to her." I ordered. Giving me a filthy look for a few seconds, she stalked off to her sister, glanced at me a few times, and then mumbled something. Before the minute was up, her sister was smiling with her, and they were both laughing and grinning and giggling, rocking on their chairs, while avidly clicking with the computer mouse. I sighed. All they needed was one apology and everything was fixed. They were so lucky.

Suddenly, I understood so much more of her than I had before. She didn't care what others thought of her because she was selfish. She wanted attention. She wanted someone to think of her no matter what. And when she found no available candidates, she stopped caring about others. She was lonely, that's all. Just a lonely girl.

And it makes me wonder; am I really any different from a 4th grader? Besides gender of course. But it's embarrassing to think that the darkest sections of your personality can be so easily reflected in the face of a young girl whose name you can hardly remember. 

Writing Warm-ups: 7/19/2011

She looked at me with firm eyes, a pursed mouth, clenched fists. Oh no, I thought. She probably needs to go to the bathroom. I knew it irked her to ask me for permission to go to the bathroom. 

And soon enough, she came over, and through gritted teeth, narrowed eyes, she growled. "I'm going to the bathroom." And without a glance from me, she walked right through the classroom doorway.

Her name was Melissa, but I would've guessed it to be 灾难,  which means catastrophe in Chinese. I couldn't imagine such a troublesome 4th grader was anything but a ferocious tiger in the guise of a human child. I still had scratch marks. Tiger indeed.

The room was crowded, the children noisier than they had been during lunch. They were clambering over tables, climbing across backpacks. Begging for snacks and dealing out playing cards. Jumping all over the place.

"大班，洗手!"  a voice cried out. Immediately all the kids from the oldest class lined up at the door, following the teacher’s instructions. It was immediate. I didn’t have to look down to know I was being glared at. I led them to the bathroom.

“Psst,” said someone. I turned around to find Michelle, one of the older girls that I knew from volunteering here last year. She had grown older. At least now, she was nearly at my shoulder.

“What do you need?” I replied back. She was grinning. Shivers attacked my back. I had accepted that this was generally a bad omen.

She glanced around, but her eyes strayed a little at where the teachers stood. Three girls talked avidly with them. Melissa was with them. I groaned; what had I done wrong this time?

Michelle noticed I had noticed them, and quickly asked, “I need you to—one of my friends needs—she needs your email address.”

That was weird. Especially since Michelle already had my email address; she somehow stole it and had emailed me occasionally throughout the past year. I grinned. So that’s how it is. I thought.

“So, Iris wants it?” I asked. Iris was one of the girls near Melissa. I flicked my eyes over to where Melissa was. And as busy as she was talking , I knew she was listening attentively to what we were saying.

“No, its—never mind, just right it down, ok?” Michelle said, not really getting what I was asking.

I wrote down my email address, but paused, before handing her the sheet. It’s always a weird feeling when someone 7 years younger than you asks for your email address. I would know. I didn’t know whether I should feel happy that someone had actually asked for my email address, or ashamed for being so happy. There was one thing I was definitely ashamed about: I didn’t know anyone else desperate enough to actually give a 4^th grader his email address.

I handed the post-it over to her. Carefully, I watched it pass through a number of girls’ hands before finally reaching Melissa, who skillfully, folded it without glancing down, and put it into her left shorts pocket.

And that was that.

Hours later, past midnight, past the bedtime of chirping crickets and the howling wind, I lay on my bed, worrying. Had I given her the wrong email address? What if she couldn't read my handwriting? I had, after all, been told that my handwriting was worse than a drunk surgeon's. Only now did I really begin to worry that it was true.


And what if she did make contact with me? Would she still want to talk to me after she sees the "original" me?   The creepy kid who hardly knows what life is supposed to be about? Cold sweat drenches my pillow. I check the clock. It's still 4 a.m. I haven't slept at all.


I get up and take a walk outside. It's humid, and the air drags you like several weights. But its quiet. No cars, no birds, no wind, no people. It's quiet enough for me.


 And I simply don't know what to think, what to do, how to react to this situation except walk away, forward in some direction I don't know until I reach some landmark I might recognize and know where I am. Quite simply, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of making mistakes, breaking social cues, embarrassing myself in front of her. I'm afraid of what I see her as; will she be some acquaintance with whom I occasionally reminisce with? Or will she hopefully be some sort of a friend, despite the age difference?


5 a.m. passes without stopping. 6 a.m. and 7 a.m. follow suit. Before I can stop it, I hear birds chirping; the sun is up; the cars noisily stream down the road. And still I have no answer. I wish I could apologize a million times in the future for all the mistakes I would do to her, but I'm almost certain that wouldn't be enough. Especially since I've made about 100 mistakes since I first met her. 


At about 9, I finally ask myself why I care so much. Just another question I can't answer. Only this one I get to blame my parents for. 

At the very least, I'm glad I’m not a pedophile.