Last night as I was eating in silence (I always do this because it allows me to think), my mom said, “Aren’t you bored?”  She then brings the archaic laptop over and, being the technologically inept person she is, surfs the only website she knows—the Vietnamese drama site to find something for me to watch.  

After skipping over two dramas that were still in their native Korean language, she stops and clicks on this bikini soccer show, lets it play, and looks at me to see my reaction. 

UH, WHAT AM I TO DO?

“Yeah, mom, leave it on this show”? 

OR

“Uh, mom, let’s watch something else”?

The only two options I could produce at the time would either result in me being an objectifying pig or a homosexual. 

ლ(ಠ益ಠლ)

So awkward

When I get out of college, I’m going to splurge so hard on suits.

I think I’ll pick this whole blog thing up again.

Of course I only say this in lieu of a 7 page paper I need to write for sociology.

Thursdays are fun.  After my classes ended at 1, I kinda just vegged on the couch.  Then I went to a DJ battle at Porter’s Pub.  When I first walked in, only about 20 people were in the pub, and they were all just standing in front of the dj standing awkwardly.  Fortunately, the night picked up, and more enthusiastic people began to file in.  We shuffled, gloved, and raged until 10:30pm, when a dj began to play some remix of “Niggas in Paris”, and I decided to leave and go to David’s house. 

David’s friends from Granada came to visit, so they decided to follow thirsty thursdays.  We had two bottles of the worst alcohol I had ever tasted in my entire life.  Oof, that Prestige is gross.  There was a bottle of Honey flavored Jack Daniel’s though, and damn, that had such a nice, smoky taste to it.  Broke college students aren’t around decent quality alcohol too often. :[ 

Anyway, the night was great. She had a bit too much to drink, but I didn’t mind taking care of her. Tucked her in and went home to try to get sleep before my 10:00am class. meh.

So I’m required to keep a 45-minute daily journal for my writing class.

Dear Diary,

Even though I didn’t have class until 12:00 today, I still woke up tired.  Throughout spring break, I probably slept 10-12 hours a day sleeping at 4:00am and waking up at 2:00pm, so 7.5 hours of sleep is not settling well with my body.  However, coffee is always there to energize me.

I can’t go a day without coffee anymore.  Whatever happened to willpower keeping me awake?

I know this is weird, but I freak out when my class doesn’t involve math.  Poli 30 is a statistics class I need to take for my GE, and instead of math, it’s more research based.  The only consoling aspect of the class is the charismatic, caring professor. 

However, my math20F class concerns me the most.  The professor has a thick Indian accent and uses powerpoint slides to teach us the math.  Who uses slides to teach math?  That’s a sign of a lazy math teacher.  Sigh, I’m thinking of waking up at 11:00 just to attend the alternate professor’s lectures.  I’d switch into her class, but it’s totally full and waitlisted because people are fleeing my prof’s class.

Having two physics lectures in one day is rather annoying.  and it’s only 4 units!

Current status: exhausted. 

I guess I’ll write and continue short stories after I finish jotting down my thoughts of the day.  45 minutes to write is a long time!

Just in case I ever forget #2

I met Her a second time that quiet night in fall.  We were drinking with our friends, talking, making s’mores, then decide to head back to our respective dorms around 1am.  Filled with liquid courage, I stood on my board and held my hand out toward Her, and without hesitation, She took my invitation and stood on the front half of my longboard while I pedaled in the back.  I placed my left hand around the small of your back and held your hand as the ground moved beneath us. 

We were rolling down the hill and picking up speed.  My sober self would’ve braked, but he wasn’t present.  A huge crack in the pavement appeared from the darkness.  My board hit it and stopped, and inertial tendencies kept us flying.  I scraped my hand, but I’m accustomed to falling.  She scraped her hand, elbow, and ankle.  With blood dripping from the wounds, She just sat there and laughed not because it was funny, but because She didn’t know how else to handle the pain.

As my buddy Soo runs to his side of the campus to grab his bandages and whatnot, She and I just sat in her room and talked about traveling, school, and… life.  Forty-five minutes quickly passed without any awkward silences; Soo came back with the bandages; and we parted ways that night.

That night, I came home and whined to the girls in my building about how I had lost my chances with Her, and they consoled me and said, “if anything, she was concerned about looking stupid in front of you.”

Why is it that we “spend” time rather than “use” time?  Because it’s the most important blessing we’re given.  Time is money; time heals all wounds.  Life ends when time is “up.”

On that note, I need to manage my time better.  I’ve totally scrapped the 365 day project, resulting in lost recollections of events.  Sigh, there go many nights of debauchery and adventure. 

Midterms hell week is over! 

Things I’ll write about soon:  My first rave, my life, my roommate, and then some shtuff just for funsies.  As for now, I’m going to hibernate.

Quick “what’d I do” of the weekend.

Friday: class, played Amnesia with Her, David’s apartment, fell asleep at Muir, woke up at 3:45am to walk Her to get picked up for her flight to Hawaii.

Saturday: Woke up at 2:00pm, rehearsal from 4-7, small dinner, gig at the loft, lightshows at Let’s Bounce, gave a dude my number, then hung out with Marshall kids.

Sunday: Woke up at 1:00pm, rehearsal from 2-6, parents came and brought me dinner and hung out, then work, work, worked into the morning.

I offended somebody today.

I blurted, “How does the black version of “happy birthday” go?  I looked to my left, realized a black girl (who looked like she could kill me with her bare hands then eat me) was in the seat adjacent to me, thought “fuuu-“, tried to save myself by saying, “you know, how Stevie Wonder sings it!”, turned red, then shut up to a room of silent, gaping mouths.  

As I was apologizing to her at the end of the night, I asked, “what would be a better way to phrase that question?”

“How does the AFRICAN-AMERICAN version of “happy birthday” go?”

Sigh, she probably says “white people” all the time.