Orange Chicken and Thom Yorke

I'm sick.

I'm trying with great difficulty to keep awake during open mic night at It's a Grind in La Mirada. Nobody wants to perform. What I really need right now is to eat some cheap Chinese food and listen to Radiohead.

I think I enjoy being sick. It makes me less accountable for my actions. Like I was some sort of social-awkardness super hero. I'm my own alter ego. 

Hyounjun says that I have multiple personalities that hate each other. Maybe that's it. I could see that. I often hide my keys from myself, or sabotage my own efforts to be a successful writer. Once, I even set my water glass on top of the refrigerator so that I could reach inside the refrigerator to get some ice, thus forcing myself to spill water on my own head.

Hmmm.

I don't have to think about this right now. 

I'm sick.

... To The Death

I can't find my phone.

It's been missing since Sunday, and I can't find it. It's not at Genie's house, it's not in between the cushions of the couch, it's not in my room. WHERE IS IT?

What could I have done to deserve this? I think I know.

I don't have time to deal with this right now. I have to make phone calls for work, and today is Deborah's birthday. I've got to call her, and tell her happy birthday, and that I love her, or she's gonna kill me!

That doesn't sound like her.

I went into  my car to see if my phone was in there. I got a parking ticket. I know already what I did to deserve that.

I feel this pressure inside of me all the time. I don't even know if it's real or not, but... I'm just tired of this constant fight. I'm tired of desperately searching for work, so that I can pay the bills I have racked up because I wanted to sleep in a bed and eat food. I'm tired of turning my apartment upside down to find something I'm just going to lose again. Today it was my phone, tomorrow it will be my keys, or my wallet. And the worst part is that in all this fighting , and searching, and hustling that I've been doing, I don't ever stop to ask myself if the fight I'm putting up is really worth the life that I live. I have to work THIS hard to barely make it. I mean, I'm so unbelievably poor, and alone, and inefficient. I can't be the things that people want me to be. I have friends that I haven't called because I'm afraid they don't want to be my friends anymore. I'm worried that my roommates hate me, that my father is disappointed with me, that my pastor talks about me behind my back, and that to everyone else, I'm a joke. Entertaining, short lived, fictional. My guilt keeps piling up, like a sink full of dirty dishes, and I can't do anything to make it feel better.

Shit. I forgot to do the dishes.

God doesn't make mistakes, they say. Secretly, I wish he did. If I were a mistake, that would explain how I manage to destroy everything I touch, or how I can't even manage to do a simple thing, like remember where I put my phone, or call my friends, or find a full time job after my parents paid for me to go to college, and I graduated with a degree. If I was a mistake, I could be fixed.

I've been fighting my whole life, so that I can maintain a mediocre existence. No one asked me if I wanted to fight either. We are born, we are slapped around, cleaned up, and then turned loose on the world, so that we can prove that we deserve to be here.

But what if I don't?

A January Exhale

Okay.

Christmas is over.

At long last, this season of frivolous consumption and unabashed consumerism is at a close.I am breathing once more. I can celebrate now. I can say it.

"For unto us a child is born. To us, a Son is given. And the government will be upon his shoulders. And his name shall be called 'Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.' And of the increase of his government and peace, there will be no end."

(Isaiah 9: 6-7)

This is not a statement of the current condition of the world, but a promise of what is to come. I will have to wait.

It will be worth it.

P.S.: I've been keeping this blog for a year now. I thought it would make me seem deep and introspective. All it's ever done for me is let me know how well I've been taken care of. So, to all who have read my crazy ramblings this past year, I thank you. And to the One upon whose shoulders the government rests, I thank you for still finding room to carry me.

SuffoChristmas

I'm spinning around in circles. I've lost my Mom. I can't find her, and I've walked up and down every aisle. I'm not five years old and this is not a flashback. I'm 23 years old and I've lost my mommy. I'm in that place... that place surrounded by christmas music, where everything is red and green. That place where everyone goes to celebrate Christmas.

Where am I? Oh yeah. Target.

I'm shopping for Christmas presents, even though I have no money. Even though I know that presents are not what it's about. Even though I have no good ideas for anyone, and I have no desire to pretend that I know these people any more than I do. I have a sister in law, a brother in law and a new aunt this year. Can't even remember the Aunt's name. How am I supposed to buy her a gift? My uncle buys the entire family a tub of popcorn every year. We wanted to do that for him this year, but mom said that wasn't funny.

Mom. Where is my mom?

I feel more and more like I don't understand anything about life. How did Christmas become about...this? The worst part is, this isn't a new thought. Someone else always says something like this every year. How Christmas is a hollow shell. How no one really "feels" in the spirit of Christmas anymore. How we spend ten times the amount it would take to solve world hunger every year on shit we don't need. But nothing. We don't ever do more than complain. It almost seems like it's a part of the Christmas ritual to question the validity of this Christmas season and then do nothing about your convictions. I guess I just need to keep my head down, walk straight, and do my best to just survive this season. I'm dizzy.

I just need to get my mom and get out of here.

It's unfair. This numbness, this inability to think of anything but familial duty and my checking account balance, when I'm supposed to be remembering the only truly selfless action ever witnessed in the entire history of humanity.

It must be lame to have so many people who don't even acgnowlege you on your birthday.

He was born in a manger, you know? He was born in a feeding trough, and one of the wise men gave him embalming fluid. And we don't even remember. Happy birthday.

Mom found me. I'm getting out of here. Thank God (first time I've thought of Him all day). Me and Timmy are going to Dorithy's Place to throw a Christmas party for the homeless ladies he knows. We pray before we start. Timmy says that if we learn how to love people enough, somehow they will know where it comes from. Who taught him that? I certainly didn't. He and Karolina are at Dorithy's Place every Monday. Only missed three in the last two years.

Dorithy! That's my what new aunt's name is.

The women are all grateful. Timmy bought them Christmas presents. One of the women there told Timmy he was probably autistic. He thought she said "artistic", so he said thank you. We had pizza, and christmas decorations and candy. There was too much. We went out on the streets, and passed out candy and hot cocoa to the people who couldn't come inside. Tim says not to tell Mom or Dad, or Karolina's parents that we did that. They would make us stop coming if they knew we talked to people on the streets.

Life is not what i wanted it to be. One second, I am dizzy in Target, looking for my Mommy, questioning the purpose behind everything from gift giving to theology, to the breath coming out of my lungs, each consecutive cycle spending slightly more energy than it seems worth. The next moment, I am staring at my little borther, and his girlfriend, learning how to love people, learning enough that they would know why, and I am holding my breath for fear that my exhales would frighten this moment away.

So why should I care if my moments are pointless and numbing, or filled with purpose and hot cocoa? Either way, I can't breathe.

A Story

Someone once said (I think it was the British guy from Little Women) that a good writer will write what they know. I think that's good advice.

I'm writing a novel about people who declare war on the ocean and get stuck inside a city made of driftwood, under the rule of a man whom I have described as "being made from the parts of several destroyed people." There will also be a small amount of cannibalism towards the end.

I don't know very much about the ocean.

or cannibalism.

One time, I saw a chicken eat an egg. It was disturbing.

This is a time in my life where I will endlessly (and sometimes pointlessly) question the meaning behind everything, so that I can know my purpose. It's perfectly normal. I've been told this by a lot of people lately, and I fully believe it to be true.  I just can't help falling into its trap from time to time. Feeling like (maybe wishing) I'm the only person who's ever felt this way. 

I think it's stupid to do things when you're supposed to do them. I want to be brilliant when I'm young, reflective and existential in my adulthood, carefree in my middle age, and useful when I'm old. I certainly, certainly do not want to question my existence and purpose in my post college mid - twenties. Seriously, how cliche.

But really.

What am I doing here? How did I get here? Why am I here? Will the things I do with my life have any effect whatsoever? Should I be where I am?

How did I get to be so lame? Just... doing the same thing that everyone else does? Whatever happened to rebellion?

I must have gotten tired. And a little lost.

God said that I was going to tell stories. Did he mean stories about people who declare war on the ocean, and end up in a city in the belly of a giant sea monster? How does cannibalism factor into God's plan for my life? Is it possible that I misheard him? That maybe he meant something else?

I love stories. I mean, it's just how I communicate. It just seems lately that I can't make it work like I used to. It's like that scene that's in every movie, play, short story, novel, whatever. Not every one's favorite scene. The one that comes right before it. Where no one knows what's going to happen. Up against the wall. Every option has been tried. Every favor called in. Stuck. 

This is usually the part of the story that I like best. These are the parts when you scream out loud. Curse the author. Accidentally rip the page. Wonder why this story was ever even told. The conflict is at its greatest. The people are on the edge of their seats. The thing is... no matter how loudly you scream, how angrily you curse, it won't do any good. There are no words that will give you the answers you need. There is only one thing to do.

Turn the page.

See what's next. 

I have a headache right now. I don't normally get headaches, but my brain is beating against the sides of my skull right now. It's like there's some deep realization (or hidden frustration) buried under there that needs to come out. Why can't I do this? Why didn't it happen the way I thought it would? I need to let that realization out. I need to understand that even though I have been trying to tell a story, I should have been listening to the story that was being told to me.

God, you are a storyteller. You were before I was. This is my favorite part.

Stuck.

Turn the page.

Childish

Oh, my gosh, I looooove my new job! I just had my first day today. The kids are absolutely adorable, even though they can't read (or sit still). I just want to pick each of them up, and hug them to death.

But I probably shouldn't.

Actually, I don't think we're allowed to hug them.

It's okay. I can hold it in.

For now.

Why are these children so happy? I don't understand why these children are so happy. I mean, it's not like the world around them is going too well. They are the poorest kids in their school district, and also some of the lowest performing students. Now they have to stay at school an extra 2-3 hours. Why all the smiles?

Better question...

Why don't we smile more?

How do we get like this? Like adults. Like these complicated sets of fears and concerns, like the world is out to get us? Maybe it is. I don't really know, but it seems like these small children know somehow more than I do about what it takes to survive here. Where does their joy come from? Where does it go when they become old? Why do we stop enjoying playing duck duck goose, and rolling around in the sand, and spinning around in circles until gravity plays tricks on us? What in us shuts down as we become adults?

Where does child abuse come from? How could anyone be so devoid of love that a child becomes nothing more than an annoyance that can be silenced with a slap? Are we really that better off when we grow up? 

It's not really about being carefree, and devoid of responsibility. At least I don't think so. It's seeing the world for the first time. It's thinking that adults know everything and can fix everything, if you only ask. It's getting to say, in a word, what you want to be without worrying about what you are.

"I want to be a fireman."

"I want to be a movie star."

"I want to be an astronaut."

The stars aren't as far away, when you're younger, when no one tells you not to dream.

I think that children are a wonderful gift from God, and that anyone who abuses a child should be punished severely. There is one abuse, however, that cannot be punished, and that we are all a victim of. 

The worst childhood abuse is growing up.

3 reasons I'm happy today...

1. I ate all the boba in my drink before I finished my tea (very rare for me)

2. My friends are going to help with my art show. They are awesome in many ways.

3. Quickly. Brian Adams. Summer of 69. Need I say more?