Seals. But not really seals.

I realise it's been a long time since I wrote. It's not like I've been too busy to write either, I just wasn't bothered. But I feel like I should document my life and blog better. So here is my adventure with William a month ago:

William and I went swimming, to a sea lion's cave at La Jolla cove. It was one of the most terrifying, yet exhilarating experiences of my life. I felt so vulnerable to the waves of the sea, pushed around and dunked, but I had nothing to hold onto. William looked perfectly at ease, and I can just imagine him being very amused watching the girl next to him freak out in the water. It was surreal, as I've always been comfortable in the pool, and I suddenly felt like I forgot how to swim. The sea lions smelled horrible, or so I was told, for my nose was blocked, and thankfully, couldn't smell the stench. In the cave, the beasts lounged on jagged rocks and some loitered in the shallow water. Due to the shape of the cave, the sea was sucked in and out with a formidable force, and it knocked William and me into hard rocks. He woke a sea lion up with a splash, and it started barking and flapping its fins (hands? what are they) at William. It is amazingly, strangely beautiful inside the cave. It was unexplored land that we two just discovered, and marveled at the way the waves echoed and the barks of the seals resonated off the cave walls. After we rested, we both retreated and made our way back out the cave, but were caught in the long seaweed. They wound around my legs and arms, unwilling to let me leave the cave. To be really honest, it was scary as fuck. The sea looked black from the surface, and I couldn't even see the strands of seaweed that kept looping itself around my limbs.

William kept himself a few metres in front of me, but stayed close enough to check how I was doing. I yelled numerous death threats at him: "William, if I get eaten by a seal, I'm going to kill you.", "Oh my god, if I die, I'm going to come back for you.". He said, "You'd be eaten by a sea lion. Not a seal." Like I really gave a damn what exactly is going to eat me. I was half serious when I yelled at William and scrambled about in the water. It was truly terrifying, and I never thought I'd be this afraid to die.

We eventually made it back to shore. The crazy thing is, as soon as we hit the small strip of sand where we left our stuff, I immediately thought: "Heck, I could totally do that again." I honestly don't understand this human instinct of invincibility for something I've only (barely) accomplished once. We made it just in time to watch the neon orange sun set slowly below the surface of the sea. The sky was illuminated pink, then faded into blue, and suddenly it was night.

The Blank

There is a period after crying when everything ceases to exist and any memory remaining is either fabricated or forgotten. It is as if all the sadness and anguish drain out your consciousness, letting the subconscious take over, and a dream starts and ends before you can even begin to remember it.
The dream can last a moment and forever.

It's strange, but when you're not thinking of anything, all the senses seem to grow stronger, and you become aware of the little things around you. The ticking of the clock becomes louder. The dripping tap joins the hand of the clock, an imbalanced rhythm. The wall is a dim orange, lit up by the dying light bulb, a stuck sunset. The tears that are still left on your face, too tired to be removed, pinching your cheeks as they dry.

The only thing I can't remember are my thoughts. What was I thinking of? Was I even thinking anything? I feel like my memories are just stolen from me, scooped out, leaving little dents in my train of thought. I'm left playing fill-in-the-blanks by myself.

Sometimes, when I regain my consciousness, I become scared. It's like some godly figure just pressed the pause button on my life, and when it starts playing again, I become disorientated and realise nothing and everything just happened, but I can't remember what. Only that I was staring at a wall, which was as blank as my mind.

Happy Womb Escaping Day

Liebe Pusteblume,

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag!

I found the most hilarious birthday song in German. We should've sung this to Mr. Carney!

Wie schön, dass du geboren bist,

Wir hätten dich sonst sehr vermisst,

Wie schön, dass wir beisammen sind,

Wir gratulieren dir, Geburtstagskind.

I'm real rusty now, but I think  you'd be able to understand it. 

It's a bit weird not seeing you for more than a year, but talking to you still feels the same, which is the greatest comfort. I wish I could go over there and give you a big hug, but for now, that's a bit hard. 

I miss you making fun of my dick-face shirts. I don't wear them anymore, but I would buy more just so you can make fun of them.

Tank topping around. Bussing to places. Drinking coffee. I don't really remember what we were doing, just that it was after school one day. But that's okay because at least I remember that I was with you and Serena, and that you guys make me happy. Still do, even though we're all separated.

Sometimes I forget how light you are. The next time I see you, I might send you flying away with a super flying tackle hug. 

Remember you said how family is important? Well, you guys are my family, and you'll forever be part of the extreme crew. Jason and I are kinda dysfunctional and sucky parents, but you'll be there to put us right, and I'll be there to be your rock. Don't know about Jason. He's just a cranky butt. 

I wish you an amazing year, and I hope you finish off your first year of college enjoying yourself as much as possible. I give the same advice every year, but it's genuine: Stop worrying so much. Things will work out even if you don't stress your butt out about them. Plus, you have many people to talk to for help or just to let loose. Happy 19th, my dear friend.

From San Diego to New York

You know what?

I’m going to miss you. Who am I going to share hot cocoa/oatmeal/almond milk with in the middle of the night? Who will I serenade on a rooftop with cheesecake and birthday celebrations? Who is going to call me at 2am asking me to pick her up because she was scared her tipsy self wouldn’t make it back home? Who can I turn to for the best advice ever given to me in life?

One night, I walked around with music blasting in my ears, with nowhere to go. I called you, and even though you were busy and stressed, you paused and heard me out with my petty woes. You reassured me that things will work out, and I believed you.

Who can I turn to to talk about old friends and home, when now I’m left alone in a foreign land? And you know what? I’m going to miss you.

Our story is kind of unusual, even funny, if you think about it. We hardly ever hang out, occasionally bumping into each other in public places, making empty promises to meet each more often. We have catch up sessions, like highschool friends over summer break, because that’s how little we got together. But at least we did that. Thank you.

We were never that close, yet I feel a connection to you that didn’t need the strong intimacy of close friendship. It’s the strength of sharing where we grew up, and the ties we still have to our home and families on the other side of the world. We were never that close, but sometimes that was an advantage. We were fresh eyes to old problems of each other, and I can say for my part, you gave me insight to the issue that would have been invisible to those standing too close.

Today, 22/8/14, I told you a story from my childhood that made you laugh so hard you disappeared below the table. Your laugh is still ranked in my top three of most hilarious laughs. I could practically feel my ears burn as other people turned their heads to look at my friend, who was expelling high pitch squeaks and breathing harder than a 100m sprinter. Today marks the last day I will see you in a long, long time.

There are many more things I want to know about you, and I know in the future I will have many things I want to tell you. I want to hear that ridiculous laugh and voice, telling me that you are real. And you know what? I’m already missing you. I wish you all the best for your fresh new start, and to let me know if you ever need anyone to talk to. Because I sure know who I’m calling if my roommate is annoying me.

                                                                                                                                       J

p.s. I know how much you love quotes, and I don’t think I will be able to find a quote you don’t already know, so I’m going to share a little song with you:

“Just because we're growing up, it doesn't mean we've had enough

When times are hard we'll smile and say we're not afraid of anything.”
- Wild, Royal Teeth

Turn A Page

When I got home, I was met with those cold, angry eyes. I was yelled at, but I patted my dog and smiled like it didn’t bother me. I steeled myself, and returned the most unconcerned look I could muster. The angry yelling and accusations continued.

I stalked away in the middle of the rant, into the bathroom, and stuffed the right sleeve of my shirt into my mouth and screamed. A silent, hollow scream. I bit hard on the shirt, but let go and cupped my hands over my face instead. I paced over the tiles, telling myself to stop, shaking my head back and forth like an impatient lion shaking his mane. I splashed water into my face, slapping my palms hard on my eyelids, as if the impact could somehow force the tears back into my eyes.

It lasted less than a minute. I wiped my face with my shirt, flushed the unused toilet, and went out.

The piercing voice telling me how ungrateful and selfish I was continued when I was back outside, a recording stuck on repeat. Effortlessly, I glare back with the eyes she once described as “full of hatred”. I don’t deny it. I would write down exactly what was said, but truthfully, I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter to me, and enduring this is worth everything that happened today.

So Easily Replaced

When I was growing up, second chances didn’t pop up very often.

That day, when I was four, I managed to convince my father that I could fly the kite by myself, but let go of it. The kite flew higher and higher up until it was just a blue dot in the sky, like an accidental splodge on a painting. Well, that kite’s not coming back, and daddy’s not buying another one. In fact, he was probably pretty relieved that he doesn’t have to fly kites with his dumb daughter anymore.

 That day, when I was six and at the beach, where my mother bought me an ice cream but I dropped it. Well, tough, because mummy’s not going to buy another one. If I didn’t cherish that first cone, I probably would have dropped the second cone too.

 That day, when I was much older, I watched a friend cry in front of me, but didn’t know what to do, and instead just patted her back, holding back my own tears. Throughout that night, and many other similar nights, I lay in my bed and pictured countless scenarios that I could have carried out instead of just standing there, trying not to cry.

I was kind of silly as a preteen, and perhaps I still act like a twelve-year-old from time to time. Due to something that happened a while ago, I used to think what it would be like if I died. They weren’t suicidal thoughts; I was just merely curious as to how the world would continue without me. When you’re small, the world revolved around you, so obviously, if you died, that world would stop. I imagined my mother and father crying, lamenting that they should have never divorced. I imagined my teachers crying, saying they’ll never meet such a student like me ever again. I imagined my friends crying, reading out nice eulogies they wrote for me at my funeral. I imagined myself seeing all this, as a ghost just floating above everyone’s heads. Strangely enough, I felt chuffed. I really should have felt loved, but as an egotistical child, I didn’t really appreciate that. I just felt that weird sense of pride that I had power over such a number of individuals.  

As I got older, I laughed at my own younger self’s thoughts. So naïve and innocent back then, when the world still orbited around me. I re-evaluated my heroic death scenario that left scores grieving, and came up with something that I didn’t expect at all.

No one’s going to give a fuck.

I was watching a psychology lecture online, and the professor described an experiment on happiness. He said that some scientists conducted a survey, asking the subjects how happy they are currently in life. Then, after significant events such as accidents leading to paraplegia/quadriplegia, or winning the lottery, they conducted the survey again. In a span of roughly three or four years, or even less, the subjects’ happiness level returns to what it was before the event. I was pretty doubtful, because happiness is not a very quantifiable matter, and it is purely subjective, but the results are still astounding. A positive experience, such as winning the lottery might make you happier for some time, but that happiness doesn’t last. A negative experience, such as a crippling accident might make you depressed, but that depression doesn’t last either. We humans are just that adaptable and accepting of our fates.

So let’s go back to dying that imaginary tragic death. There is an initial impact that will hit like an earthquake, shattering those who are close to me. Everyone deals with being hurt differently, but I would expect some tears and sobs for possibly a few days. As the minutes, days, weeks go by, that pain will ebb, as those who are grieving accepts that I’m simply not there anymore, and nothing will change that. Speaking of dying, I’ve always wanted to die while saving someone. Too many movies on my part, but it’s better than Bryce’s preference of dying by running into a giant, spinning fan. Anyway.

In less than a year, life will resume as normal for everyone who knew me, because the world revolves around everyone. And like a fond memory, I might fleet across your minds one day, out of the blue. But just like that, I’m gone again as quickly as I came into your mind.

So I guess it’s not entirely true that no one would give a fuck. It’d be very upsetting if that was the case, which would only happened if I was an orphan and everyone hated me. Sure, people would throw out a few fucks, and depending on how close our relationships were, some would throw more than others. However, everything comes to an end, and the memory of me would be replaced by more pressing issues going on in other people’s lives.

Wow, I’m tired, and I forgot why I was writing and what I was trying to get across. If you read this far, kudos to you because there is no conclusion. I can say something generic such as “Cherish every moment.” “Love people.” “Live life to the fullest.” Blah blah blah, but seriously, I’m empty. 

Distortion

There are two classes of year four children. They are due for a routine medical checkup conducted in the school every year, and that included an injection. The nurse performing the procedure told the first class that the injection wouldn't hurt one bit. Well, she lied. It was a domino effect; the kids started crying one after the other, due to the pain of the injection as well as the fear induced into their minds when they watched the others cry.

The second class was a different story. The nurse told them that the injection would be like a small ant bite, but the pain would disappear almost immediately. No one cried in that class after the medical was over. The teacher asked the children of the second class: "Wow, none of you cried? Wasn't the injection painful?"

A little girl replied: "Crying wouldn't make it hurt any less."

Both the lies and the truths hurt. In this case, the lie seems to hurt more, because when the truth was uncovered, tears fell. When confronted with the truth from the very beginning, one can at least prepare for the pain that was to come. But look harder. Both the lie and the truth hurt equally, and crying wouldn't make it hurt any less.

I’m not going to deny anything. I love lying. It’s a defense mechanism. I can hide behind that wall, and cartwheel and dance all I want behind it. Do you ever feel that sense of rage when you realize that you've been lied to? Or when you've been deliberately mislead? I certainly know it. It’s hypocritical of me to say it, but I hate being lied to. But at least I understand why. There is always a reason why.

You don’t tell that one friend that she is fat. Firstly, because it’s not nice. Secondly, although it’s the truth, you don’t want to hurt her. Unless, of course, you’re just joking, but even then don’t joke about fatness with fat people. It’s like pouring gasoline on something that’s already on fire. I’m going off topic, sorry. But really, don't compare that one fluffy friend to a bear preparing for hibernation.

And you know, I’m usually pretty good at handling these kinds of things, but lately I feel like I’ve been losing my touch. There are a lot of things that can’t be lied about, but it can at least be expressed in a different way. Usually, if I had something negative to say, I would just express disinterest, hoping the conversation would just move on. For example:

“Do you like this song?”
“Wow, if this song had a face, it would be the ugliest face I have ever seen.”

Is what I would like to say, but I would maintain the peace by saying:

“It’s alright.” Or “Hey, I’m hungry, let’s go eat.”

No harm done. The wall is set, and I can think what I like behind it without hurting anyone’s opinions or feelings. Sometimes it’s hard to maintain this wall. There are too many bricks in it, and if I forget, the brick falls and the wall crumbles. But if I protect that wall, no one gets hurt.

I'm not saying it's necessary to lie all the time. Just on sensitive subjects. 

Like I’ve said, I’ve gotten pretty bad at handling these lies. You want the truth? Okay, I guess a little dose of reality wouldn’t hurt you that much… Tears. Sadness. Bitterness. No, I was wrong. Suddenly honesty isn’t the best virtue anymore. Wait, is that how the saying goes? Wisdom is the best virtue? I can’t remember, whatever. Suddenly, telling the truth is a fully loaded gun, whereas telling a lie is a game of Russian roulette. I should’ve just lied instead of dealing with you dealing with the truth. Why do you want the truth so badly when I could so easily protect you from that? There is a reason to why I lie. To why anyone lies.

That reason, ironically enough, is not wanting to cause pain. If the lie is not protected, it would create the sharpest shrapnel of glass in the heart.

It’s an art. Lying is an art. To perfectly disguise it as the truth, and to maintain that disguise for as long as necessary. The fabrications also have to be believable, and it's the whole game not to reveal what's under the layers of deceit.

So I’m sorry. I apologize for not being the most trustworthy person when you want me to be the one to rely on. I’m sorry for not always saying all the right things when I drop my guard. All I ask is for you to trust me on your own terms. Because lying is an art, and I'm going to try my damnedest to perfect that trade.

But who knows, I could be lying about all this. 

Food

Dedicated to William, who is hungry.

On Tuesday, I've invited some friends over to bake. We baked a white chocolate cheesecake. Well, when I say "we", I really meant the two boys, because us girls were just chatting and watching them do all the work. Talk about role reversal. The cake was really easy to bake though, and we didn't make nearly as big of a mess as we did last time! Success.

We were meant to celebrate Sheng's birthday with the cake, but we only remembered after we ate half the cake. Or rather, a quarter of the cake.

 (Jason trying to be seductive)

Err... Happy Birthday, Sheng!

The cake was delicious.

See, William's favourite cake is a cheesecake, so I'm going to attempt to bake this thing at his house. I can almost guarantee a failed cake, seeing as separating eggs is the only thing I'm good at in baking a cake. Mum says I can't even whisk things properly in a bowl. Sigh.

Going along with the theme of food, this burger is one of the three best burgers I've had in my life. The perfectly toasted buns with sesame seeds scattered uniformly across the top. The chicken was juicy and tender and seasoned beautifully. Light, lemony sauce slathered across the skin of the chicken, with just a hint of mustard. There is a crisp piece of lettuce in between the bun and the chicken that just added a fantastic texture to the tongue. The presentation of the burger was perfected with a giant knife holding all the amazing components together. Finally, a nice cup of ice lemon tea to wash it all down. 

They should get me to write the descriptions for their food on the menu.

I've run out of food stuff. Here's the last one. Phil's BBQ! The best ribs I've ever tasted. Every morsel of meat was doused with barbeque sauce, and the pork just melts in the mouth. A side salad only slightly lightening the feeling of guilt for my cholesterol levels and clogged arteries. A large serving of fries loaded all the guilt back on. Focus was nice enough to share his beer with me, which complimented the meal tremendously. 

I'm hungry now. Thanks, William.

Expectations

I've decided that I don't like expectations very much. It may seem a pretty random idea to contemplate, but it just wandered into my mind like a lost puppy looking for shelter.

It started when I was small, in primary school. I expected my classes to be easy, which they were. I had pretty much cruised through those few years, with good grades, practicing music, and playing sports. I felt on top of the world, that I had everything. I expected life to be this easy.

Needless to say, I was wrong.

As I got older, my expectations grew taller. These expectations turned into pressure and stress, which eventually morphed into defeat. 

Now let me retell the story of expectations.

It started at the end of last academic year, when it became very apparent that I wasn't going to get very good grades. I was going to get average and mediocre grades. Which, in my history of grades, is a disappointment to my mother. From constant A's, to suddenly get a C in my most important year before college is just not acceptable. It made my family, or rather, my mother very very disappointed, and that disappointment often turned into anger. 

She often yelled at me, went on moody rampages and rages of silence. Things started looking pretty bleak when I realised the aspect of academics, which I had always maintained a tight grip on, was beginning to slip out of the creases of my fists. It was the first time I found anything to be "difficult". 

New things have always been... Reachable. Within my grasp. Learning the piano. Playing football. Doing maths. Although not the best, I can do these things without too much trouble, at a level acceptable to myself and my mother, so I never tried to be the best. That was too much effort. It was enough for me to stick my fingers in all the different flavoured jars, not bothering to savour each individual taste properly. When I started facing IB, I expected the new things I'm learning to be the same. Reachable. But it wasn't. I stood on my toes, jumped, freakin' parkoured off a wall to bound even higher, but I still couldn't reach. 

It was only just last year when I realised my achievements in primary school meant absolutely nothing. No one cares if you graduated top of your year six class. That's much too insignificant. No one really cares how well you do in secondary school either, as long as you can get into college. The only thing that matters now is how well you do in college. Future employers are not going to care how well you did in highschool, just your college degree and your GPA. 

As I said, expectations turned into stress and anger. I studied external reference material for biology. I wrote notes on chemistry. I watched video tutorials on economics. But I learnt nothing. Nothing stuck in my head. I started getting desperate. Mum didn't really help. Dad helped less. Basically, family didn't help. Eventually, I just gave up.

I started a war against my mother, and it became a terrible mess to live at home. I contemplated running away, but I have no where to run to. I asked to be put into the boarding house, but questions would be raised and it was illogical to pay so much for it when I live half an hour away from school. The most comfortable place in my house turned out to be my bathroom. I took naps curled on the floor. I read lying on the tiles. I even read in the shower, a book clipped in between the fingers of my left hand while my right hand did all the work scrubbing the body. The bathroom turned out to be the only place I could relax without being questioned. There are endless lies I could use. "I take a long time showering because my hair is long." "I had an upset stomach." "The water in the shower just shut off." "I ate something funny today." "I had a nosebleed in the shower." The last one's my favourite. 

Why didn't I just take naps and read in my bedroom, or anywhere in the house? I get questioned. I get stared at by my mother. She just stands there, looking at me, as if I've done something horrible, a look of disgust on her face. Her face said it all. My daughter the failure. The only and black sheep of the house. She shocked me out of my naps, told me to go and do something productive, when it's impossible in my sleepy state. Then she complained when I do things half-assed. She recited conversations that she expected to have with me, corrected my sentences in the way I "should have" said them. Even after I thought really hard and said something I thought was acceptable, I get shot down. The psychological burden she was burning into me became too unbearable, and I snapped. I stopped studying. I stopped listening to her. I switched off the tears she used to set off whenever we argued, which goes on a near daily basis. I've decided that studying was to make my mother happy, that I was a trophy she showed off to her friends. So I gave up.

I was planning to go back to Taiwan, back to my father. Over summer break between the two years of IB, I visited him, hoping to broach the subject of moving in with him and starting a new life. I was left alone with my stepmother for a bit when my dad went to park the car. In that ten minutes, she guilt tripped me into a state of near tears, and I had to prevent myself from blinking, to prevent the tears from spilling out of my eyes. She told me how often my dad talked about me, and how he always tells my little half brother how great and smart I was. She said jokingly that my dad favoured me more than my brother. At that point, I've decided to scratch the idea of moving back to Taiwan. The fear of being a failure yet again to my father instead of my mother this time was too much.

I came home to Malaysia and spent the first night crying myself to sleep and hugging my dog. Actually, that's not true, I released him after about five minutes, because he doesn't like people holding him too long. Insensitive lil' dog. 

Even after I got past all the hurdles of life in Malaysia, I was hit in the face with a new set of expectations in the US. Grades is a must, obviously, but I haven't really started trying. Social life started to play a big part in my life, because... I'm constantly in it. There's hardly ever a moment I can get to myself when I'm not alone or next to my suitemates or friends. Heck, I sleep with a friend in the same room. I had told myself not to get too attached to friends there, but failed myself almost instantly. Like, the day I got there. Then, I started creating my own expectations for my friends, and I got very upset when these expectations weren't met. 

I molded a vision of my friends instead of really looking at them, telling myself how infinitely wonderful and amazing they are, not realising how tired out I am when I'm with people. I felt obliged to act a certain way with certain people, and some days feel like an all-day acting class. I began to want them to act a certain way to match me, and tried to distance myself when I go into one of my "I hate people" phases. Then, I realised how hypocritical I was being. I can't just expect people, more importantly, my friends to act the way I want them to. Did they really "change" throughout the year, or are they just not fitting the profile I made for them? Are they not just being how they usually are, when I'm being cranky and fool myself into thinking they're out to destroy my life? I can't just expect them to know exactly when I want to be left alone, and then get mad at them for talking to me.

It got very depressing when I lost faith in my family, my friends and myself.

Fuck expectations.

The Sea and lots of Sand

The sea is so clear, even from the boat, the bottom of the ocean floor is visible.

We shivered with excitement, looking at the beautiful blue around us. Well, one of us shivered with sea sickness. All throughout the boat ride, I'm crossing my fingers and yelling at Thomas, telling him if he throws up on me, he might end up out of the boat and into the waves. Jason, as usual, was being an asshole, preparing his camera to capture any possibility of me being hit by vomit.

When we step off the boat and head towards the resort, it was impossible not to look around at the white sand and the turquoise water. I couldn't wait to enter the water, to wash away the heat and stickiness on my skin. The sun was throwing every ray it has towards us, and the reflection off the sand made us squint. And sneeze. Light makes us sneeze. I learnt that from my lovely friends.

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I've been stuck for a few days after writing the above, and I don't really know how to chronicle the rest. It wasn't as if I forgot the sequence of events, or that the stuff we did was boring. It may be due to the fact that I'm a terrible story teller. However, I think the most likely answer is because I simply can't put this trip into words. At least, not in a way that I would like to.

Sure, I can list down the funny, interesting things that happened:
- Yon Chau tried to kidnap us and sell us off. He even hired decoys on the bus, and disappeared for a suspiciously lengthy time before returning to the bus. He claimed he got "lost". Hmmm... But his plan failed after breaking his toenail (but scoring a goal at the same time!), receiving a bloody toe, and concluding with a bandaged digit, handsomely put together by Dr. Wong. I guess he simply doesn't have the heart to kidnap and sell off such amazing friends.

- Thomas puked into the sea when he got seasick. The fish ate his puke. A lady on the same boat kept asking the person driving the boat "what is that?". Then, Thomas jumped into the spot where he puked "after the vomit drifted away".

- Bryce wore eyeliner. And stuffed two toilet rolls into his shirt for a set of very seductive breasts. And then paraded around in public with those magnificent boobs.

- Jyen got creeped on by the diving master dude. He told her she's got a red butt, like a monkey, and that she dances around. He also invited her to go night swimming, only for her to stand him up. Tut tut, Jyen. Don't leave a guy hanging like that. It wasn't like he was creepy, or anything.

- Morgan decided we should vlog. She also decided we need a catchphrase for the end of each vlog, and thus came up with the most original, totally not overused catchphrase in the history of catchphrases. "Catch you later!" *wink*

- Food is essential at 4am, when viewing the World Cup. If the silly shops aren't open at four in the morning (what kind of shops are they when they don't open at four in the morning?), we go hunt down some food. I really suck at guessing which teams will win. I mean, it's only a fifty-fifty chance, and I still got it wrong twice in a row. I'm just thanking my lucky stars I didn't wager my money with Jyen.

- Jason witnessed an epic battle between a shark and a turtle, where blood was shed and a duel of teeth and biting ensued. The battle is simply too epic for me to note down in simple words, for Jason's fantastic sound effects are not included in this insufficient blogpost. I should've recorded him. Jason is also the best goalkeeper. Ever. Those amazing reflexes, blocking the ball that is just zooming towards him. Read this whole part in the most sarcastic manner you can manage.

- I'm pretty sure this trip is also the first time I've ever willingly let myself be a tackle dummy. On the beach. On the lovely, hot, hard sand. I just watched this small girl rush at me, dig her shoulder into my stomach, hook her hand around the back of my knee, and knock me down into the ground. My centre of gravity just took off, and even though I braced myself, my breath left my lungs, and the impact left me stunned. To think I let her tackle me not once, but twice. This resulted in a bruise on my left butt cheek. Good job, Jyen! Mission accomplished.

These events didn't occur in the order that I wrote them in. Just some of the first things that popped into my head when I was writing. I had hoped I could write this all in a journal-entry style, but I just don't know how.

I cannot express how insanely happy I was to see my friends, and travel, and just to relax and be with them. I admit I felt a bit off, seeing as I was sick throughout the trip, which left me on the pessimistic side of most things, but it never got too bad with these folks around me. Who knows when we'll all be together again.

Strangely enough, my favourite part of the trip is when we took a walk to these gigantic rocks by the coast. We jumped (Yon Chau limped) onto the different rocks, making our way to the highest point, and took a group picture. Jason said something about us evolving from bunnies (or was it monkeys?) jumping from rock to rock, to mountain goats... jumping from rock to rock. I don't really know why I liked being there so much. The serene, yet gloomy weather. The water sluggishly hitting the rocks. We didn't even talk that much. It just felt... Right.

I can't be fussed to write any more. Overall, the trip was awkward and painful, but amazing and wonderful at the same time. I'm going to sorely miss these friends, but this only makes me more excited to have adventures with my new found friends. I want all my memories to be as precious as the memory of this trip.

Catch y'all later.

Happenings

I see the many things that happen here.

I see the ill, the old, the young, the paranoid, the parents, and the children.
This place is filled with people waiting. Constantly waiting.
Waiting to see a doctor, for their number to be called into the room.
Waiting for blood tests and graphs and pictures they don't understand.
Waiting for visitation hours, to see their loved ones lying in a miserable room with green floors.
Waiting for someone to wake up, not knowing if they ever will.

I skip most of the waiting. Wearing this seemingly magical badge with my name and the logo on it allows me to access the many locked rooms.

Into the doctors' offices.
The wards full of patients.
Sometimes, people even part way to let me through first.
Heck, I even get a discount buying food in this place.

I donated blood on Thursday. That was pretty fun. The needle used to draw blood out is much thicker than I thought it would be, and I freaked a little bit, not sure whether I should watch the needle poke into my skin or not. But it's not bad really, a little pinch in the crook of my elbow, and the blood flows out immediately. I showed a picture of my blood filling a little plastic pouch to my friends.
Me: Isn't blood dark?
Jason: I think your blood is just filled with poisonous toxins. Anyone who gets your blood will die.
Me: Thanks, asshole.

My friends here are lovely. I've missed them so.

Most days, I go around the wards with the doctor to see the patients. It's often depressing, but it's the most interesting part of the day. I think I just absorb sadness really well.

The first thing I notice, is that the old man was wearing oven mitts. And the oven mitts are tied to the rails on the side of the bed. And also, he does't have legs. He mumbles something, his eyes wild and darting around. He has diabetes, and had his legs amputated a while ago. He is being restrained, because he is confused. With oven mitts. He tugs, waving his mitted hands weakly.

The girl has a frown on her face, and the machine next to her shows that she has no heart beat. I didn't understand how everyone could be so calm, the nurses just shuffling along, doing nothing very much at all. Then I see that the machine isn't connected to her. She is being moved into the ICU today, because the lesion in her brain took a turn for the worse.
Her husband is sitting on a chair next to her, cupping her hand in his. They don't know if she's going to wake up again.

In the adjacent bed, lay a woman with a tube coming out of her throat. A large sack of urine is hanging on the bedside. Every breath she takes shakes the tube in her neck, and her body is tilted in an angle as if something sharp is under the right side of her back. She's been in a coma for two years.

The woman wouldn't look at me in the eye. Or rather, she couldn't look at me in the eye. She understands us, but she couldn't talk or move the way she wants to. The blanket is lifted up, and I see that she's wearing a diaper. She is wearing cute purple socks with kittens on each toe. Her toenails underneath are painted red with white hearts over them. She had a stroke, and the chances of her even partially recovering is slim, and a difficult road to endure.

A wheelchair rolls in, and the old lady sitting in it has her hat over her eyes. Her stance is withdrawn, and she doesn't look up. The doctor takes the lady's jacket off to measure her blood pressure, and she just sits there, half in her jacket. I stand up and help her slowly put her jacket back on. She tugs on it several times after I put it on her, not once looking at me. She suffered a stroke, and is depressed about not being able to recover.

The young boy rolls past me on the stretcher, wires and tubes all over. He had just had a heart operation, to mend the hole between his ventricles. A ventricular septal defect. They strip him when he entered the ICU, and I could see a giant, white gauze pad taped to his chest. He's only nine years old.

Today, I also met Nicol David's father. He is a jovial man, and didn't seem to mind the hospital's gloomy atmosphere. He smiles at me, and chats to the doctor as if they were old friends. He's the only happy patient that I've seen in a week.

I get ridiculously long lunch breaks, so I wander around the hospital after eating. I've been to the blood donation lab, and pestered them several times to take my blood, succeeding only on my third try. Lucky three. My blood pressure was too low for them the first two times. I've been to the top of the building to look at the view on the full length glass windows. I often go and look at the newborn babies in the nursery, their faces so small, wrapped in thick, warm blankets. Attached to the crib is a piece of paper, blue for boys, and pink for girls, indicating their name, blood type, and when they were born.

Overall, I've felt pretty emotionless here. The melancholy goes against the rare happy moments, which balances out. I find myself smiling at the patients a lot, but the smile doesn't quite reach my eyes. It's just an obligatory smile.

Shackled

I thought it was too good to be true. Of course, reality kicks me in the face, and my mother throws her first fit. Just about a week back home. About time I suppose.

We've already had several yelling matches, most ending with me walking away in a huff. I don't understand how this reverse psychology works. She accuses me of being rude and giving too much attitude. She claims I always want to pick a fight, and she has to pick her words really carefully with me. She doesn't even know how to talk to me any more.

It's strange, because I feel the same way. I am in awe, of how I was able to live with her for 12 years without having already killed myself. I mean, I already feel like killing myself after not even two weeks of coming home. In fact, I only ever call this place "home", because I lived here for so long. I've decided the label "home", does not apply here any more. I could care less if I'm homeless, but this is not home.

I remember talking to Tobin in San Diego, texting him that I will be home in ten minutes. He said "Whaaat? You went home?", thinking I went back to Malaysia, when I was very simply referring to returning back to the dorm. Thinking about it now, the suite felt more like home, than this house in Penang ever did.

I've never felt scared of the suite. I like coming back after a long day, just relaxing in the common room, or lounging in my room. It was comfortable, and I'm always surrounded by my friends. If I'm upset, I can leave whenever to clear my head, but I always return eventually, feeling a little better inside.

Here, I'm in a prison. I'm bounded to this area, because I can't, or rather, am not allowed to drive, and the bus system barely exists where I live. I can't walk anywhere, because there's nothing within a 10 mile radius. I can barely leave home without permission, except to go exercising within the apartment. After some fights, I can barely stand to be on the same floor with my parents, and I can only be thankful we have two floors.

I have never felt more thankful for my parents. They pay for everything that I do. I've barely worked before, and I never provide for myself. I only wish we got along better. To think I have another three months here fills me with dread. If I wasn't waiting for you to come back, I would have left. Where, I wouldn't know, but I would have left. Come back, please.

Stripped

I slowly take off my clothes and look at the little strip of cloth handed to me. The cloth felt like paper, and it was held together by a string. It resembles a fundoshi, a Japanese garment typically worn by men. It is, frankly speaking, a thong.

I look at the thong.
I slowly put my clothes back on.

Then, midway through pulling on my pants, I thought, fuck it. It's not like I can run away now.
I take off everything again, and put on the small piece of fabric. I have never felt more naked. In fact, wearing that piece of probably recycled paper made me feel more naked than wearing nothing.

I turn to the little bed that was waiting for me. I lay down, and wait, heart thudding. It is all happening too fast. I hear the sound of feet shuffling next to me, but I shut my eyes, too scared and embarrassed to keep my eyelids ajar.

You often see charts at the dentist's or the doctor's office, which ask you what level of pain you are feeling, on the scale of 1 to 10. If I could convert that chart from a chart of pain into a chart of discomfort, I would indicate a level of 17 at this moment. Level 17, because I have, what feels like, a piece of paper stuck in my ass, and I am naked other than that piece of paper stuck in my ass and barely covering my crotch.

Level 17 discomfort, because not soon after, a woman comes in, and starts rubbing warm crystals into my chest, and mind you, I have boobs. She's just doing her thing, rubbing my boobs like it's what she was paid to do.

Okay, yeah. She is paid to do that.

Today, I went to get a massage that felt more like a violation of my no-no square, which left me quite listless. I didn't realize this treatment involved a... Frontal body massage. Usually, the back is quite enough for me, or the legs. But today. Oh, today is something different.

As her hands moved across my body, all I could think was oh, not there. Noooo, don't go any further up. Okay, hands off my ass. Hands off those boobs too. Oh god. Think happy thoughts. Impossible. What happy thought could possibly run across my mind when some woman I don't know is invading my no-no square. Come to think of it, it would be even more disturbing and uncomfortable if someone I knew is invading my privates. Essentially, I would prefer people staying out of that area.

After two hours of torture, I was allowed to put my clothes back on. I felt more exhausted than before the massage. I thought massages are supposed to be relaxing. I thought massages would be a little vacation for my knotted muscles and tired body. I thought wrong. This massage was a cruel work out. It was painful. It was tiresome. I was tense and awake, feeling that level 17 discomfort for the entire period I was on that little table.

Not to say that the lady who did the massaging was doing a bad job. She loosened up the muscles on my back, which feel a lot better. But I could have gone with less contact with my privates, and possibly a little something more to wear other than a thong.

I'm often told that I am pessimistic. I suppose I could look at this massage in a more positive light. My thong virginity has been broken. My threshold for humiliation probably went up several notches. I'm out of positive thoughts.

On the bright side, I've realized how much I hate intimate, physical contact. The next time someone makes a move into my no-no zone, I will give him/her a black eye, a kick in the crotch (believe me, it'll hurt for a girl too), and I would maintain a 10m radius around that person for the rest of my life.

Home

Penang is also hot and humid, which is indifferent to Taiwan's weather. And it sucks.

I thought living on the 13th floor would make things better, because it's always windy up here, but nope. The wind is wet and hot, as if your dog is breathing on your face all the time. Stepping outside is like stepping into a sauna, or getting into a car that has been left in the sun for several hours.

Despite the need to shower several times a day, the heat is useful to me. I haven't felt hunger since I left San Diego. I don't know how the weather is doing it, but sitting in this uncomfortable warmth has given me no appetite at all. Which means I don't feel the need to eat, which is all the better for my summer diet plan.

What is not beneficial to my summer diet plan is my friend's creepy uncle, who lives in my apartment complex. I don't actually know my friend's creepy uncle's name, so I'm just going to call him Creeps. I come home for the first time in forever (I sung that last bit. It's all your fault, Anna), and I find him standing at the gate, with the guards. I have quite a history with him, and most of my friends would know this. He crashed my birthday party and started chatting to my friends and telling them what kind of food to order. No one knew who he was, and I wanted to kick him in the face and throw him into the pool.

He also stopped me while I was cycling around our apartments. Or rather, he told the guards to stop me from cycling around our apartments. What the fuck Creeps, mind your own business. He also stopped me every time he saw me downstairs so he could talk to me about the randomest crap he could think up. Once, he saw me in the little gym room we have in our apartments and knocked on the door. I got off the treadmill, opened the door, and asked what he wanted. Creeps said: "What are you doing?". I wanted to say: "I'm reading, of course. Why else would I be in the gym and on the treadmill? Gyms are for reading, duhhh", but I was respectful, and said instead: "I am running." He was about to start talking to me more when I slammed the door in his face and got back on the treadmill.
The last time he stopped me, we talked for half an hour. About the education system in Canada. Philosophy. Politics. He knows this politician guy, and he has politician guy on speed dial. Good for you. Why don't you call him up and chat to him instead of a teenage girl 3 times younger than you.
I always tried to break away from the conversation, but he just moves onto a different topic. It took me about 4 or 5 times before I realized I could pretty much tell him to fuck off if I didn't want to talk to him.

Anyway. I really really didn't want to see his face, but he's there. I will never be able to exercise in peace. I won't be able to swim in the pool knowing that Creeps might be watching. I really hoped he'd be gone, or at least different when I got back. Nup. He's still friendless. Unless you count the guards.

I used to hate home. It used to feel like somewhere I couldn't relax. Somewhere where I'm always suffocating. Now, I'm moving around this space with ease, still remembering where things are in certain cupboards, and which switches switch on which lights. I don't want to live here, and I don't think anything will change that. However, for now, this place is home.

With my parents. Creeps. Same old Penang. Friends who went to places all over the world for college will add some spice to life back here. Speaking of which, I can't wait to see those faces.

Grandparents II

I think I'd be able to write a book solely based on the conversations I have with my grandparents. It's very taxing talking to them, and at the end of most conversations, I feel a little suicidal.

Grandma: is that bowl of porridge enough?
Me: yes. I wasn't even hungry to start with. I can't actually finish this bowl.
Grandma: porridge doesn't fill you up.
Me: I'm. Not. Hungry. How would eating more suddenly make me less hungry. Plus, I don't even like porridge.
Grandma: there's more porridge in the kitchen. Go eat more.
Me: what the fuck, Grandma.


Grandpa: you went to Alaska, right?
Me: what. No. What.
Grandpa: you must have! To fly back to Taiwan, you need to fly to Alaska!
Me: Grandpa, that makes no sense. Alaska is north. To get to Taiwan, you have to fly west. I didn't go to Alaska.
Grandpa: No! You have to fly north, go to Alaska, then go to Japan before you get back!
Me: Nooooo. There is no reason to fly north, then fly back south. That is just a waste of fuel.
Grandpa: but that is the route! They have to refuel in Alaska.
Me: I took a direct flight. We didn't have to refuel anywhere.
Grandpa: no, you don't get it. Even if it's direct, you have to refuel.
Me: that means it's NOT a direct flight. If you stop, it's not direct. The word Direct literally means... Direct. You don't stop.
Grandpa: did you watch the news? A few years ago, an airplane flying back from the US was shot down over Russia.
Me: that doesn't even have anything to do with what we were talking about. I didn't fly over Russia. And why would the news report something that happened a few years ago?
Grandpa: it was six years ago.
Me: why did the news report something six years ago?
Grandpa: no. The news was six years ago.
Me: *muttering to myself* I hate my life.
Grandpa: so did you go to Alaska? And also, there was a spy in the plane. That's why they shot it down.

It's like they don't even hear what I say to them. And, because my whole family on this side is deaf or something, we yell, and it's like we're all vying to see who has the best vocal chords.

There have been more than embarrassing number of conversations I had with my Grandpa, where I had absolutely NO idea what he was talking about. I just nodded and said "ah"'in the right places and in a most understanding manner possible. It was as if he was talking in a completely different language. I think one talk was about organ smuggling. And the other was about the moon landing. But really, it could be anything.

Grandma: are there clubs in university?
Me: yeah. I'm in the Taiwanese people's association. There are other clubs.
Grandma: oh. So there are clubs in the Taiwanese people's association.
Me: No... That itself is a club. There are sports clubs, and other countries usually have their own clubs too. Like... Singaporean people or Russian people associations.
Grandma: wow. So many clubs in the Taiwanese club.
Me: gah.

On Thursday, we spent the whole day (and I MEAN the whole day) watching this old Chinese music channel, in which people cannot sing and the music is terrible. The reason we were watching this is because my Grandpa says there is a song played by a saxophone, and because I'm going to learn the sax this summer, he wants me to hear it. I told him that there are lots and lots of songs played by saxophones, and it's really not necessary to wait and find this one song. He is very adamant, and insists this is the only song ever where the saxophone plays. We found the song after 7 hours of waiting. The music video consists of a guy playing the sax in front of a green screen, with really scenic, but cheesy and blurry backgrounds. He was wearing a leopard print fedora, and the song is terrible.
Grandpa meant that this is the only song to have the sax play the solo (main melody). I wanted to throw myself off our building at the 5 hour mark of watching this stupid channel, and after finally understanding my Grandfather 2 hours later, I want to find a higher building to throw myself off it.

Two more days. Eh.

Toosday

An old lady was sweeping leaves in the park near our apartment, and her straw hat was blown off by the wind into the grass by the river in the middle of the park. The river has steep grassy banks on both sides, and it has railings to prevent people from falling into the river and cracking their heads open. I was doubtful when I looked over the edge of the railing, at the hat that was several metres below me. I can easily climb over the railing, I guess. I can also easily fall into the shallow, rocky river and break my cranium. The old lady looked so sad, so I told her I'd get her hat.

I shook off my flip flops, because I didn't want to lose them in the tall grass, and hopped over the railing. I think, to outsiders, I looked like I was... Living on the edge. That was a bad pun. Romelle would be proud of me. I spent my childhood climbing trees and falling down, so climbing over the railing wasn't that bad until I was on the other side. I was real good at falling down, but I'm not too keen on falling here.

Anyway. I stood on the other side of the railing, and started climbing downwards. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck don't fall fuck you hat fuck fuck fuck" ran through my mind. It was difficult looking for footing, and I regretted not having done more rock climbing. I was practically climbing vertically, not realizing before how steep the sides were. There were broken pieces of glass in the grass, so I had to choose where to step really carefully. I scaled down two layers of rock, and grabbed the hat. I reached up to give the hat to the lady, but I was too far below. I climbed back up with the hat and eventually got back over the railing. The lady thanked me numerous times when I handed her the hat.

Going up was a lot faster than going down. I think I just wanted to get out. I have scratches over my legs and they itch a lot. The grass was rough; it would be more accurate to call them weeds.

Looking back on it, I don't think I will risk my safety for a hat again. Ever. There were snakes in the grass. Broken glass. Infectious stuff tainting the skin on my legs. There were so many things I didn't consider before rescuing that stupid hat. At least the old lady was happy, and my cranium is intact. All is well.

Then, that night, I walked by a dad and his daughter by their motorcycle. The daughter looked like she was about four or five years old, and while waiting for her dad to load their motorcycle with groceries, wandered into the middle of the road.  I was waiting to cross the road, thinking irresponsible parents should be guillotined, when I heard the sound of an engine. I thought the kid would have common sense to come back from the middle of the street, but noooo, fuck that shit, she goes where she wants to go (kudos to her for being badass, I guess). The dad was oblivious to where his daughter is, which means he should really be guillotined, but there was no time for that. Seriously, dude. You're on the side of the road. Watch your kid.

I dashed forward and snaked an arm around her waist just as a motorcycle was about to run her over, and rugby-carried her back to the side of the road. She didn't even scream (I swear, if she wasn't so fucking dumb, she'd be so badass, and I would take her on badass adventures). I placed her down, and she just looked at me, her face framed by the giant helmet she was wearing. No apology, no thanks, no nothing. I wish I was such a composed kid. Her dad didn't even notice all this happened. I squat down and said to the kid in Chinese: "You're a little too young to die.", and felt extremely old after saying it, so I added really quickly in English: "Wait 15 more years before you try this again, you little fucker." And I went on my merry way.


Risk-my-life Tuesday. My new Tuesday catch phrase. Not that I have mottos for everyday of the week. I should though. Taco Monday. Because Tuesday is taken.

But seriously. First I save a hat. Then I save a kid. Eugh. What is happening to me.

Grandparents

There is an unwritten, unspoken law in the house where I stay, and it's not necessarily something I agree with. However, the idea persists, and Grandma is always right. It seems that, I am always on the edge of starving to death, and thus food must be made or served every other hour for the pleasure of my stomach. The food is usually provided by Grandmother, who cooks as if she was Snow White feeding seven hungry men dwarves who spend their day digging in a mine. Other times, Uncle brings food home and BAM! there is enough food to feed twelve dwarves.

Okay, now substitute yours truly, with twelve dwarves.

I have a wager with Anna this summer, and that is to lose five kilograms before we start our second year of college. I'm just going to say, that I am off to a terrible start.

This is my typical day:
- wake up whenever (I think I'm half jet lagged. I wake up at 8:30am, which is waaaaaaaay too early. I say half jet lagged, because 8:30am means 5:30pm San Diego time, which makes no sense whatsoever. I usually go back to sleep for another couple of hours)
(After rereading this, I realised... I'm not jet lagged at all. My sleep cycle is actually normal wtf)
- Grandma gets very excited when I wake up, because that means she gets to start cooking. She makes me breakfast.
- we watch news on the telly while I eat breakfast

- an hour later, she makes lunch. Sometimes, WHILE I'm eating breakfast, she asks me what I want for lunch and proceeds to start making lunch. I tell her no, but my attempts are futile to those stubborn, Grandma ears.
- we eat lunch and watch more telly

- I need to run some errands while I'm back in Taiwan, so I go off and do that. Sometimes Grandma comes with me. On those occasions, Grandma will buy me food on the way. Guaranteed.

- come home. Grandma brings out snacks and demand they be eaten.
- we eat stuff while watching telly
- Grandma prepares dinner
- I play on PSP or iPad.

- we eat dinner while watching telly
- we might eat more late at night if Grandma is still awake

Grandma believes I'm always hungry. I don't think I've felt hunger in a long long long time. I was always forced to eat when I'm not hungry, and saying no to Grandma is impossible. Even if I don't go and get food, she will get it for me, whether I want it or not.

I've forgotten how to talk to old people.
It's very one sided, because they tend not to hear your side of the convo, so they continue talking about whatever they were talking about long after the topic has changed. Sometimes, they blurt out whatever is on their mind.

Uncle: Have you been to this theme park?
Me: erm. I know we went to one last year, but I'm not sure if it's the same one.
Grandma: You went to a theme park last year! With both your aunts.
Me: Yes, I know. I just don't know if it's the SAME theme park.
Grandma: You went to a theme park.
Me: Yes. I did. That wasn't the question. The question is whether I went to this particular park.
Grandma: You went to the theme park.
Me: Yeah, okay Grandma.

Hairdresser: Wow, I see that you resemble your Grandma.
Me: really? That's actually kinda upsetting.
Grandma: yeah, she looks as ugly as I do.
Me: thanks Grandma.

Grandpa: So what are you studying over there?
Me: (with my limited Chinese abilities, I barely know how to say my major) Cognitive Science.
Grandpa: what's that?
Me: it's kinda like psychology.
Grandpa: in Los Angeles?
Me: What? No. I'm studying something like psychology. In San Diego.
Grandpa: Is LA far from San Francisco?
Me: Erm. Yes. It's more than 5 hours away. But I live in San DIEGO. Not San Francisco.
Grandpa: what are you studying again?
Me: Gah.

Grandma: Are you hungry?
Me: No.
Grandma: I'll cook you fried rice.
Me: Grandma, I'm NOT hungry.
Grandma: what do you want in the fried rice?
Me: I don't WANT fried rice.
Grandma: okay. *cooks some anyway and gives it to me*
Me: thanks Grandma.
Grandma: Hmm. I'll cook some noodles too. Rice is too dry.
Me: please stahp.
- ends up with a bowl of chicken soup, a plate of fried rice, and a bowl of noodles. I swear, American portion sizes are kid meals compared to Grandma portions.

I think Anna and my Grandma have teamed up with an evil plan of some sort. I will soon become a ball of fat with only rolling as my mode of transport. My front profile will look like the top of a turtle, and I'd have to start waddling everywhere. Or rolling, whatever.

Thank fuck I'm only here for a week.