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.