FINA-FUCKING-LLY.

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it is OUT. if you haven't seen it go to moviefone and do so NOW.








shi hi hi hi it.
pretty fucking excited.




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5.6? 5.8? earthquake today. i was home alone, sitting downstairs. everything shook and i heard this crash and fall down upstairs. moments of fear tend to tell you things. you want to know what i hate most about earthquakes? the sound of the earth moving. i hate it. i hate it.
it started in chino. henry and i were there on saturday.
that earthquake was all us. yep.



my philosophy class was cancelled because of the earthquake too. which was great, except for the fact that i spent the earlier part of the day writing my argumentative essay in a rush -_-





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you were always the surface of an entirely new reason to fear.

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right now it's 1207am, and i've spent the entire day home alone doing basically nothing except thinking and writing. my journal's feeling pretty worn out, i bet. as for me, my eyes hurt, my right breast is uncomfortable and my cunt is still sore.
pretty fucking bummed out. nicotine withdrawal is a mother fucking bitch.
i watched hotel chevalier again, and then natalie portman's episode of inside the actor's studio.
that woman makes me want to be lesbian, i swear. she's fucking amazing.
i also measured my bra size today, 32B, and wrote a letter to lily.

it's just been one of those days, you know? where you're just like fuck everything but most of all fuck me.

i need a fucking cigarette, that's my problem. and i need someone to just take my mind off things. don't you hate it when you sink into these moods that can't be removed unless you sleep deeply, dreamlessly? but what the fuck do you do if you're an insomniac that doesn't dream.


you want to know a secret? i'm a massive liar with an affinity for old clothes. everyone thinks that i work best when alone, and that i'm fine with being by myself, but honestly, who likes being lonely, hm? i wish i had a brother and i wish that my hands weren't cold all the time. i wish i could scream right now, but my parents and my sisters are sleeping.

i wish i lived a alone. i wish i lived with all my friends.














c: are you going to say anything, or should i just turn around and act like this didn't happen.
a: i don't know what to say. i haven't seen you in a year. i haven't spoken to you in two years.
c: and that's your fucking fault.
a: i know.
c: at least we've reached an understanding.
a: you look great. you lost a lot of weight, though.
c: i told you i would.
a: i'm sorry.
c: are you.
a: yes. and please don't ask me why. you know why.
c: why?
a: because i didn't mean it. because if i could, i would fix it.
c: you can't.
a: i know.
c: but you didn't even try.
a: i never meant for it to--
c: i don't really care what you meant.
a: i thought that we could go back. and that we could be friends.
c: at that point i was never going to be your friend. never. i would never even want to be your friend.
a: okay.
c: okay.
a: can i at least know how you're doing? i didn't think you would be here. i thought you stopped messing with all this. didn't you tell me that you were goign to try and remove yourself from it all.
c: i told you a lot of things. just like you told me a lot of things.
a: i know that.
c: and the result is that this is the last time we will speak to each other. i'm going to leave now.
a: don't.
c: i will.





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you are killer this and killer that

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yesterday:

slept through sat practice
went to chang's and grumbled through the repurcussions of sleeping through the test
met henry. met henry. met henry.

it was wonderful. we played truth or truth for an incredibly long time and we went to barnes and nobles to purchase some books. we talked about japan and how he likes okinawa. we talked about squirrels and we talked about marriage.
we also ran into domo and elliot.

it sort of hit me, in the middle of it all, that we have been friends for five years of so. five years is a long time. when i first met him i didn't really think that it would last this long; we've only really seen each other, what, 6 or 7 times? he lives too far away. but he's still around. we still talk and care for each other in our separate ways...
jeez, confusing. jeez, i don't know anything.
i'm going to miss him and his odd, immature self.

i came home at 4 in the morning and sat in my bed for the longest time, thinking about nothings that thrill and thinking about somethings that hurt.



today: skipped church, got up and watched persuasion again before working a bit and eating some odd curry/salsa/naan brunch. i didn't sleep enough and my coffee was too weak.

now i'm going to watch the new episode of a drama i've been meaning to catch up on, and then i'm going to finish my letter to lily...

lily dear, if you read this, please e-mail me or respond to my comment on your blog: i don't know if i should send my letter to rhode island or la...










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when it's the food on your lips with which he's in love

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today:

realized (again?) that some times some people just don't want me around. i'm not necessarily a fun person whom you would call to hang out with. everyone calls me when they need to bitch about something or, as was the case today, needs advice on the correct usage of idiomatic expressions.

watched beauty and the beast with my baby sister; we ate naan and organic toaster pastries while sitting on the couch and sharing a blanket. you wouldn't believe how good it feels to watch a disney classic on days like this. go on a hiatus from all disney movies produced before 1995 for few years, then pick what you think might be your favorite three and watch them in a row. it feels marvelous.
i think tomorrow, if i have time, i'll watch lion king and pocahontas.
nothing beats lion king and beauty and the beast and pocahontas. they kick major ass.

went to the getty center; got lost in cezanne's eternal feminine, again. i can't believe how much that painting affects me every time i see it; it grabs you with an arresting motivation to lend insight and awareness. makes me shiver. makes me sigh, but not necessarily in a good way. it's not necessarily a painting that is pleasant to look at. it's not even a well known painting, although i can't really understand why his repetitive still lifes of fruits and bottles are more appealing than the eternal feminine. perhaps it was the subject matter. perhaps its the size. or perhaps its the title.
there was also an exhibition of sander's portraits of people from the twentieth century; i stared at old photographs of archetypal individuals for an hour or so. among the portraits--hindemith, dix, and victims of ant-semitic persecution.







tomorrow i'm seeing henry. it's been nearly two years.
i don't think i'm going to sleep tonight. and i have no idea what i'm going to wear.




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i fear that you'll never look back and regret this. what will i do then?

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"i'm thinking of seeing a therapist."
"give that guy three months to quit--i give up! i can't fix her!"












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d'Orgueil et Préjugés

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how is everybody?


so, i saw the dark knight yesterday. i think i'm going to be spurting out joker monologues for about a month. "why so serious?"

yesterday: went to moca, saw some demonstrators protesting for the japan/dokdo island issue, talked to some guy on the street that seemed way too cracked up on heroine to be safe


i'm not good at detailing my life on my blog. my thoughts exacpe me too quickly; if i don't write it down right afterwards, i forget; either that or i feel as if i'm living vicariously.



today: worked on my sculpture bit, cut my hands about three times with the damn glass; said goodbye to my aunt before going for another practice test... i'm going to miss her so much.











poll time: monster or nocturnal? not enough money for both because money is a bitch-assed little cuntfuck. so i must choose, monster or nocturnal.


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bottom feeders

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i stayed up with my aunt and my mother until around 130am last night/this morning, talking about shrimp salad, white men, homosexuality, christians and college. we laughed so hard that i felt as if i had just gone through a 15 minute, intensive ab workout. i researched hospitals, mimicked george bush and played out what i thought would be the highlighted aria of the opera that's being made of "an inconvenient truth." it was fun watching my mother and my aunt banter, and it was even more fun to banter with them. i would be seriously discussing something with my mother about colleges and recommendation letters, and my aunt would put down her magazine with a start and say "hey there's a shrimp sale going on at costco"; she started laughing before she even finished the sentence, having realized how ridiculous the sudden comment was, and how inopportune. but even though it was abrupt, we segued into shrimp salad and going senile.
"what's in shrimp salad?"
"...shrimp"
















You are the end of time
and the burden I adduce
for this spilt glass
and strange wind;
but I live as if
the trickling sand
is ceaseless
and as if the downward fall
is laced
with a white clemency.

But forgiveness itself seeks;

you are the exodus.

I am encumbered
by the nuances
I wish I did not know;
all the slight warmths
and shifts
of energy in the wind
and the lurking softness
of grass
divests me of time.






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youthless and pretending with their bare hands holding nothing

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this wednesday, i was studying late; it was around four in the morning and my aunt came down to keep me company-- she browsed through the cookbooks that she bought at barnes and nobles earlier during the day while i pored over my study packets, drinking a mixture of black coffee and bacchus that she smacked me upside the head for even thinking of.
later on, at around 530 she made my favorite midnight snack for me-- eggs and soy sauce over rice, and heated up pita bread and brought out the hummus my mother got at trader joes. we laughed and talked about how she fell while walking down the produce aisle; we talked about french films and talent.


and earlier this week, before my aunt came, i cried. and cried and cried, hyperventilated and wrote about three pages worth of teenage angst and vindication. not because my computer broke down or because i was on the phone with a dell representative for three fucking hours only to conclude that i needed to reinstall windows entirely, and therefore reboot the entire system, losing everything; not because i was frustrated or because i had to take apart my entire monitor with some passive aggressive lady on the phone, instructing me, but because at the end of it all, when my father asked me why it all happened and i said that i don't know, he got angry and said "how could you not know." and that moved on to me thinking that he was blaming me, and him getting angrier because i seemed what, weak? too sensitive? too feminine?
well i am sensitive. i'm a female and yes, what my father says when he's angry does have an effect on me, especially when he blames me on basis of assumption and judgment. i choked out to my mother that he expects to much, that he assumes too much, and she said that she knows, but to be forgiving because that's his nature-- unable to express his feelings, rash with his words.
i hate it. i hate it so much that i'm about to cry again right now out of pure frustration.

what bothers me most is the fact that he doesn't know.
he doesn't know anything about what i've done or what i've been through, and if those who did know saw me crying, i think they'd wonder why i was bawling like an infant over something that didn't even measure up to a tenth of the other things that have happened thus far to me, because of me. i feel like he underestimates me, like he has no right to expect or judge me, even if he is my father.


today we went to arcadia to din tai fung for some dumplings. my great aunt bought me dior show mascara from sephora after i helped her pick out her lip liner, and we walked around westfield exhausting ourselves.

my mother makes me so angry sometimes, like when she shares the chocolate i got for christmas with my great aunt, and i say, jokingly, "hey, that's mine." and she thinks i'm serious, glares at me as if i'm the most selfish being she's ever seen, and when i say that i'm joking, she says something spiteful about how i'm not. i never am joking whenever someone touches me things.
what am i, a petulant child?
regardless of what i am, both my parents seem to think that they know enough to make assumptions that slice through that thin layer of affection i keep around my relationship with them; it really stings when the people you expect to know the most about you, the people you expect to at least try and understand you, say things and judge you in a manner that is entirely opposite of how you view yourself. they say that you are everything that you don't want to be, and all you want to do is go to your room and fall asleep as quickly as possible.


i'm going to be so sad when my aunt has to leave for korea.
my great aunt is falling asleep on the couch as she watching korean dramas, my aunt is in the massage chair, lounging it for what it's worth.
and for tonight i don't think i'll need to write anymore.















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every little piece of you

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What? I downloaded Beck's new album that's not supposed to be out until Tuesday? Huh?
Ahem...

Current Listen: Beck-- Modern Guilt





From my father stems my beliefs not only of men but of God. I paint images according to the sights I see in association with the man who helped conceive me. I am rendered weak in this respect.


"What you have to understand, is your father was your model for God. If you're male and you're Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. And if you never know your father, if your father bails out and dies or is never at home, what do you believe about God?

"What you end up doing is you spend your life searching for your father and God.

"What you have to consider is the possibility that God doesn't like you. Could be, God hates us. This is not the worst thing that could happen."

--Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club


Therefore... how do I see God? My father is... human. Atheist. Very much a man, not only in his vices but also in his virtues, and he is half of me, but he does not believe in God.
I think it would be better if the universal opinion of the Lord designated him female. Then people would associate Christ with their mothers and not their fathers. I'm not saying that the latter is frequently unworthy of being so thought of, but rarely are men models of the all-loving, merciful deity of Christianity. Mothers are, of course, just as human and granted they make terrible mistakes and sin for the same reasons that men do. But all of us are children, and for children, the mother holds a significance that is different than that of a father. The universal opinion of mothers gives tendency towards Christian ideals. Mercy and forgiveness and love seem, emotionally, in the woman's domain. My mother is an avid Christian and I know she struggles tremendously because my father is not. I know my mother is the best representative in my life of what being a good Christian means; but still, because of that troublesome thing called gender, my association of Christ is with my father. But also, like I said, he's an atheist.
Where does that leave me?


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i want somebody who's too sad to give a fuck

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Current Listen: Stress (Auto Remix) -- Justice















I went to lunch with my great-aunt at a kalguksu house in Anaheim, decided to risk a cig and smoked three in the back after saying that I needed to piss.
Then I came home and painted while listening to Justice.







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orgasms are laced with self-acceptance, trust and joy--and that's too much for me.

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Current Listen: Sigur Rós--Inní mér syngur vitleysingur

Rather big post.



I've never liked fireworks.
They are beautiful, yes, and for a while they dazzle your thoughts with brilliant colors and lights, confusing you and warming you.
But the sound.
I hate the sound.
It reminds me of guns, earthquakes, violence and chaos. It might seem a little pessimistic, but I've never liked--I've always hated--the sounds of fireworks.
They're pretty. But not pretty enough for me to tolerate the noises they make.







I need someone whose brain synapses will fire at least as often as mine do, someone who will first see, second understand, third have patience, fourth touch, and fifth love.
I need someone who won't mind me trying to live forever even if I leave him behind, someone who would do the same if I was held back. I need someone who will calm the flows of thought enough so that when he kisses me, that's all I feel. I need someone who will let me paint when I want to paint, someone who will paint when he wants to paint, then he'll need me as I need him because both of us can't understand or be satisfied with what we've created. Then we'll create together, still critical and half alone, but entirely and inextricably intertwined. We'll be each other's paroxysms and each other's anchors, contradicting and unable to explain. Who would do that with me, though; be with me, shake with me, lose control with me, atone with me.




"You expect too much from them."
"Just because they have such low standards doesn't mean that I should change mine."











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but now that I know that's not what I need at all; it's not like what happened before when we said goodbye with words, only words

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i fell asleep at 530 in the morning last night/this morning. then i woke up in time for school, but more from a dream and less from my mother yelling at me to wake up. i dreamed weird, pleasant things; the kind of reverie that you earnestly wish you could remember, yet you can't becuase something else is in the forefront of your mind, something you can't decipher or tolerate at that exact moment because you're still thinking about that dream.
everyday starts like this.





small hopes:
-good scores on ap tests
-monster madness with lily (and windward people?)
-improve sat score
-lost 20 lbs by the end of summer

big hopes... still working on them.







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