Most important meal of the day.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal this morning for breakfast. I turned around to put the milk in the fridge and knocked down the entire bowl.

Cereal went everywhere.

So I cleaned it up, made myself another bowl, and continued with my day.

I always thought they came pre-trained.

It’s been a while since I blogged. It just doesn’t provide the therapy it used to. I’m looking at more effective methods now. I also considered making this blog private because uncouth readers are cause of uncouth comments.

Speaking of uncouth, are first impressions really not that important anymore? Some argue that first impressions don’t provide adequate evidence to judge a person. But when it’s a bad first impression, what makes people want to stay around to find out anyway? I often forget that I’m not just me anymore. I’m part of another, he’s a part of me, and the image comes as a whole. The looks that he got, and then the subsequent looks that I got made me feel like the fool that he was portraying.

I also forgot that he doesn’t know what my choice friends are like because I wasn’t allowed to have friends until now. I guess it’s understandable that he just thought he can talk to them like his own friends. He told me he was never taught manners, and that he was only taught to succeed. Manners aren’t what fork to use on what dish; it’s knowing how to act, when and where. Apparently that’s not something of common sense. So the resolution is that I have to prime/ cue him ahead of time. Tell him specifically how to act. I had to accept this as a solution, but I woke up this morning feeling depressingly disappointed. Since when did I have to train a 20 year old man?

2 broken chairs and 9-2 burnt bodies

I realized that people really do have complete opposites of each other. Real mirror images. The genders are switched. He's more like me, she's more like him. I want him to be nicer for us to work, she wants him meaner to work. And now, we're all working, I guess. Weird.

I've always loved da beach. I was in waves almost every weekend as a kid. The cool ocean breeze made me breathe better. But Padre...Too humid. Sand of not the ideal texture. Smelly. I've never been sun burnt before either. It's an interesting feeling.

Still, I truly had a good time. I was told that I seem very patient and tolerant. I never actually thought about how 'tolerant' I am with a particular group of people. I still don't know if I'd call it a tolerance. What would we be without our "eccentricities"?

If it's not Baroque, don't fix it.

It was that night. Poof. Epiphany. It took one simple sentence.

Of course, whenever I say something, it's "nagging," but if it comes from anyone else at all, it's constructive. What's up with that? Someone please explain why girlfriends can't get through to their significant others about fundamental issues, but anyone else can. I find that kind of backwards. If you care about your girlfriend, why not listen to what she has to say and take it to heart as much as, if not more than, what other people have to say? Either way, it happened, and I didn't exactly know what to make of it.

It's different. I know he needs time to be this new person. I know it's a whole reconstruction. That's why I felt terrible when I snapped. I never felt more like a cliche bitch. I hated that person, and I was her before I knew it.

Baby steps. I need them too. I'm not used to it, so when he slips, my mind automatically jumps to how he used to think. I don't believe his sincerity, because it was so rare to come by before. I think he reverts, so I again try to fix it. A new view is needed. Open minds on both parts.

But it's remarkable. It's like, he finally got it. He finally appreciates what he has, and put an honest effort into making it ideal. And I finally appreciate his true efforts.

I think I'm in love, but it makes me kinda nervous to say so.

The secret to women

Guys seem to complain about the how complicated women are. They seem to think that there's nothing you can do to suffice a woman. If you score well in one area, there's still another void to fill. There are many theories and/or myths of how to make a girl happy, but let me put forth my theory of men first. From my own observations and various outrageously objective accounts (from both males and females), men have a few primary interests. These are things that have been boiled down to the least common denominator; Sex, food, and video games (I'll include sports of equal importance with videogames). With that gently put, keep an open mind to my proposal. I understand it is the sheer nature of man to put emphasis on procreation and survival. It's an evolutionary trait. And I propose the third because it is also a primal need to keep the mind working, entertained, and excercised.

So what exactly do people think the wants of women are? Sometimes people say "women want men to buy them things." Relationships with women become something of a monetary investment, but we can bring that down to nature's evolution also. A ring isn't just a piece of ice on her left hand. It is more of a reassurance that the man has the financial stability to take care of her, the bearer of his children, as well as the said children.

That is the observation and the qualification, but this assertion can be viewed in different and simpler facets. When men say "buy them things," the mind goes to a dozen roses, jewelry, fancy dinners. That's cliche, unoriginal, and too often a copout. You can pick up her favorite ice cream on your way home for after dinner dessert and have a better effect than flowers on Valentines day. $2.50? That's it? She's not going to see any significance in that. Au contraire. Remembering her favorite ice cream, candy bar, etc., shows that you cared enough to listen and notice. The little things do matter. I know I've blogged about the need for 'little things' before.

Another observation is that women want gentlemen, but subconciously need abuse. This is inconvenient because they're such strong contradictions. Abuse is too harsh of a word. I shamelessly speak from experience, and I apologize to all the 'nice guys' out there. I know you too often get screwed over for the douchebag. Women want gentlemen, but also someone with balls and can take control. This again reiterates the inherent need of women to have a man who is supportive. I know that with the turn of time, women have become more empowered and independent, but if there's a man in her life, shouldn't he be the man?

Women don't want sex enough. Well that's just too bad. That is the holy grail that no one can seem to find. I'm sure that it's not a matter of enjoyment. It's just less hardwired into our nature as compared to men; a matter of testosterone. We have agendas other than men's basic 3. Well then what are your agendas? That is up to the woman, and everyone, including men, have their own aspirations, personalities, etc.

With all of the above, please consider the following.

I think most women can agree on 3 basics in a man; strong supporter, attentive to detail, and courteous. There it is spelled out. This is my own simple theory that again reduces things to the least common denominator, but I believe it encompasses most of the complaints that may arise in a relationship. By adhering to the 3, there can be a healthy exchange of wants. With courtesy, she can respect that you respect her refusal for sex. Being a strong supporter will most likely keep the relationship going on longer. With attention to detail, you can enjoy her expression of appreciation (in the form of sex, a good meal, whatever). So I guess that the secret to women is that there is no "secret to women" and there's nothing to "figure out." The secret to making a woman happy isn't in the woman as much as it is in the relationship. The need of woman is man, and man woman. Needs should be catered to each other.

I guess there are those rare finds, too. The gal that is frequently kinky, makes a good meal, and can trade Pokemon anytime. But there's no lie, men will eventually find something lacking in her after the initial chase or in the long run. Therefore, I can conclude that men can be more complicated and needy than we are.

I believe I blogged about that before also.

Beauty in simplicity

One day at the beach, I felt like an intruder observing the interactions of a family nearby. I couldn't help but admire how cinematic the scene was. I forgot that such embodiment of happiness actually happened in real life. You can tell that the kid was having the time of his life getting as close to the "lava" as possible, and then running away from each incoming wave. His dad came running at him, picked him up, and ran into the water.

I love watching kids amuse themselves with nothing. Things as simple as peek-a-boo or shadows on the wall. My mom used to yell at me for using the laundry basket as a toboggan, and the stairs as my snowy hill. She also didn't like how the dog was a pony.

It takes too much to amuse us now. We complain of boredom too often. I believe that our imagination has been replaced by logic and rigidness. Imagination is now called a "hypothetical situation." Of course, it'd be silly to see a fully grown adult hide under a laundry basket pretending to be a turtle or sit on a magic carpet towel.

I'm waiting for impending doom, but it can't be on my mind right now.

January 11

I hate to be Benjamin Franklin, but I'd like to think that I am a good person to talk to. I can offer my advice in sincereity or simply just lend an ear. I enjoy being that person. It lets me excerise the values of trust and insight.

That's probably why my ex-boyfriends (and their family members) still keep in contact with me. Even the ones that broke my heart. A lot of people tell me how strange it is to still talk with them, but I don't really mind. Well, I lied. Sometimes I do mind.

Last night, I was in a situation that could be posted on a combination of FML and Texts from Last Night, but this blog would suffice. He started out with small talk, but being as "snappy" as I am with him, I just cut to the chase.

"So what's the occasion for the text?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to check up on an old buddy. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"I'm still with John. How's the place and the girlfriend?

"Wow you guy's have dated a long time. Girlfriend's good. We got married. Oh yea! And having a baby due on your birthday. I thought that was amusing."

"Well I usually don't just date around. Well I'm glad you think you can take care of the kid. Don't fuck it up. It doesn't deserve it."

I still think I'm a good person to talk to. I've been harsher with him, yet he still talks to me, right? The last time we talked was after his admittance into the psychiatric ward due to a suicide attempt. I told him that it obviously failed and to try and try again.

I said that I offer sincere advice and I delivered. Oh wow! On my birthday!? We should have a dual celebration or something! How fucking amusing!

Hey! Idiot down in front!

Test anxiety again. It's a real problem for me. I guess it plays into how I'm borderline masochistic with stress and worry. But summer session goes so fast. We covered a story a day, and there are only 2 exams. Not much chance for recovery.

Today was the TA led review session, and they started by telling us the structure of the test, study strategy, and grading. Yet people still asked silly sundry questions. It wasted the chance we had to discuss the stories, interpretations, and analysis.

A lot of people were getting frustrated, but boy in front, who apparently thought he was da shit, got a little fussy and out right rude to the TAs.

Look.

Dude.

This is college, not grade school. The reviews only go as deep as the questions asked. The TAs aren't going to give you everything on a lunch tray next to your juice box. Instead of bitching at the TAs in front of the class, acting obnoxiously exasperated, and then storming off, why don't you ask your own damn questions? Don't bitch at people smarter than you and not take initiative.

Idiot down in front, your demeanor, lack of courtesy, and hyprocrisy really pissed me off.

No patience for realism.

I've concluded that men are so much needier than they seem. They require more attention than many women can handle. Maybe it's a change in times, and a slow occurrence of role reversals. Or maybe not. Maybe everyone has just grown to be more selfish, and the self-interests clash. How inconvenient.

It's sad to say, but I really crave romance. I mean the everyday little things rather than presents and a dinner for Christmas or my birthday. There's just not enough of that going around anymore. I'm not exactly old fashioned, but I always am impressed when a man opens a door or gets my bags for me. But it's the same old argument.


Humans are too hard to depict, but I tried. I consulted a friend who loves drawing people and is amazing at capturing emotion. His artwork is barely distinguishable from photographs. He said he goes excruciatingly slow, and draws minute detail. Every strand of eyebrow hair. Every wrinkle of the lips. Well I got as far as the wrinkly lips. It's not exactly a photograph, but it's a picture.

Not at all discrediting him, but I figured that if you want a picture that looks exactly like a photograph, why not just have the photograph? It's like when people say that frog legs taste like chicken. Why not just eat chicken?

Casting shadows.

I'm sorry you're having to deal with so much hassle with them, but I had to go through the same, just in different ways. You just gotta deal.

There's always a catch-22 with both the older and younger child. And it's even worse for a girl and boy. I was pressured to set high standards for you to follow, but they've come to learn it's not just the tangible standards. It's more than test scores and school activity. It's character, etiquette, integrity....You'll learn that's what it takes to be a stable human being. I know I never had to do what they're making you do, but I was pro-active at that age. I never waited for a "go out and..." line from them. I just did. And now they're expecting you to do the same.

Don't forget that the first child is also the experimental dummy. You now have more privileges compared to me. New car, more out time, no curfew. Their mistakes were one me, and they saw how I rebelled those few years, before the better years. Maybe that could have had a bearing on who I am today. I get phone calls frequently requesting advice on how to push you to where I am, but here's not much I can say. I went through this myself. Growing up and living your life has nothing to do with me.

No shame.

It can be a lot like stage fright. They expect so much of me. If I mess up, it'll mean I didn't deliver. What will people think?

It's hard asking for help. It's like you're admitting weakness. Helplessness. But I've come to admire humbleness. I don't see it as weakness, but rather a strength of integrity. It's admitting that there are people more knowledgeable than you, not that you're weak. Pretending to be someone you're not justified to be will surely eventually crumble. I'm proud of him.


I finally went to Hobby Lobby for some paintbrushes, and stumbled upon a book about scratchboard art. I remember I had gotten a sample from the Co-op before, and was inspired to go home and try it out. It was bizarre and opposite. I had to leave the dark and shadows alone where I usually would lay on paint.

I'm wasting so much time with what I enjoy doing, I forget that I'm supposed to be doing something worthwhile.

Cheezy rain.

Tonight's heavy rain made me reminisce.

A friend's mom did a gig at Dunn Bros. that night and we came to support her. We stayed until the coffee shop kicked us out but still didn't want to go our separate ways just yet. Time was dwindling and we'd be thrown out of the comforts of Saginaw too soon. So we decided to go to the park and sit on the swings to complain about life some more. We sat around daring the rain to come, and when it did, we didn't even rush back to the shelter of my car. It poured by the time we got back to his house and we ended up spending hours on his front porch because it was 'unsafe to drive in this heavy rain.' It was mostly me complaining and him with, "oh come on... You'll be fine...It's going to be no problem..."

"But you're full of confidence and I...I...reek of estrogen."

I'm at that state of panic yet again. It feels like time is moving too slow, but the years are going too fast. Last week I was asked what year of college I was in. I replied, "Oh, I'm second...uh,..er..third year." I'm supposed to be graduating next year. I really rather be back under a porch during a downpour. It was more comfortable and fun pretending to be living behind a waterfall with a good friend.

Melons

"You volunteer in NICU? I'm headed there right now to baptize one of the babies." He showed me a nifty shortcut to the NICU ward, scanned us in, and went off to one of the bays.

Bay 4 in the back right corner was a baby with the most severe case of cleft palette this NICU has seen. But this was not the underlying cause for concern. Upon laying down, the baby's head would not retain it's round shape but would slightly flatten with surface contact. The nurse had described the softness of its head like an over-ripe cantaloupe. The baby had been constantly streamed with pain medication for internal bleeding in its brain.

Just one incubation over was just another Preemie like the majority of newborns in NICU. Until her MRIs came in. Turns out she only developed her brain stem and a small portion of her cerebellum. The rest of her cranium is fluid. I was able to talk to the mother. She seemed okay, and I didn't understand how she was still able to give me a smile. Her baby was baptized today and will be transported to hospice on Wednesday to die.

I thought about how these babies 'need' the anesthetics and hospice provisions. What can they feel or know as a newborn? It was like this principle of ethics hit me square in the face and I decided you don't need to put a memory or thought to pain to suffer.

Get him fired and deported.

She was my age, bleached blonde, about 34B, wearing a Texas State shirt with short shorts and preoccupied with texting on her phone. She had no idea what was going on with her car and probably was only there because Daddy told her she needs to maintain her new Mitsubitchy. We were all standing in the shade and she was about 2 feet from us. "Penzoil, okay?"

"Um...yea, whatever's fine. I wouldn't know," she replied without looking up from her phone.

He dropped his voice, "I'd like to give you a discount today, also."

"Oh thank you!" and she flashed him a smile.

"You are very welcome. Sign here for me." I don't think they knew we heard their transaction.

We were up next. He checked the pin number on my car and such, and came back with his little digital thingymabob. In a haughty voice, my dad goes, "So what discount to I get today?!"

"Aww no, I can't just give discounts."

"Oh, no? Why not?"

"Well, I'm not a manager."

I did not hear him wrong. Absolutely disgusting.

He just doesn't get it.

"We're you bored?"

I shrugged. "They're your friends and I'm not allowed to drink, so I dunno."

"Oh, you could've drank with them."

"Oh really? I remember your words before as 'if you had even one beer, I'd break up with you in a heartbeat.'"

"Well these were my friends. I know them."

I could drink with his friends but not mine. I only have friends who are his friends. I pointed this out and he convoluted it to at least 3 completely different irrelevant arguments. "It seems like all the times you drank, it ends up bad...I thought you grew up from this...What's the point anyway?"

"It's not about drinking. It's about not being able to have friends who aren't your friends." It bounced back and forth a few more times and he brought up her again. The past again. Priorities again.

Later that night, still both grumpy, he shoved me off the bed into my desk/ chair to get to the bathroom. I snapped. "When I try to get around you, you don't have the fucking courtesy to make an effort to move or make it easier for me! But you shove me off my own damn bed?!" He realized what happened and apologized immediately in a small awkward voice. I wasn't sure what to do next, so I left the room and made some food.

I've never had so many complications with a boyfriend, and never to these magnitudes, but we're still together. We talked about how we've been together for a year and 7 months and how it's going on to 2 years. After deliberation, I still love him. It's strange, and I confuse myself about this many a times. I've heard before that arguments build strong relationships, but...they're so....tiresome.

Worst week evarrr.

One hot summer when I was about 8, my dad put some soda on ice cream and offered it to me while I was jumping on the trampoline. It looked frothy and weird, but was really really good and refreshing. That was my first ice cream float, and I thought he was a genius. I wonder if the original guy that poured soda on ice cream did that on accident. He probably had a good day afterwards.

We had a strange circular argument about luck and things "happening for a reason." I know that it's common in religion to believe that a divine figure has set and laid out everything in our life, and an accident only looked like so to human eyes. But to a guy in the sky, your broken leg was next up on your life schedule. Then that means there are no "wrong/right place at the wrong/ right time" scenarios. No "coincidences." That can't be right.

Putting religion aside, if you find a Jefferson on the floor during a walk in the park, a lot of people would say it's your good luck, someone else's bad luck. But he blamed it on that person's ignorance/ stupidity. Not luck. Same with car 'accidents'. Some will say that it was terrible luck that you happened to be the car nearby, but you can still blame it on someone else's stupidity. But isn't it bad coincidence that you were at the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time?

It's been somewhat bothering me. Everything makes sense, but the argument is circular.

Anyway, people have been complaining of a terrible week, whether it be bad luck, stupidity, Karma, or the hand of God(s). Well....I know at least one thing can clearly be blamed on stupidity. It's been really bumming him out. He's been completely bummed since the result of his test, and it's strange to see him like that. He started worrying about the future and probable failure, etc. I told him perhaps it's a slice of humble pie, but he wouldn't have any of it. Oh well. I can only try, I suppose. Am I terrible to think he deserved this last week?

I could've done that

I never really did art for anything or anyone but myself. Not for money, not even to give as gifts. Well, that's not completely true.

When my dad got laid off about a year ago, he had a small mid-life crisis episode. He bought a new car and ran away to France. When he came back, he was a little sad that he wasn't able to get pretty souvenirs for us or himself because everything was so expensive. So for Father's Day, I made him a black and white and gold nightscape of Paris. I wrapped it up with a card, and gave it to him at breakfast.

"You can use this in your new place in San Antonio!"

"Oh, thank you, honey! It's very well done! It must've been very meticulous." He put it on the shelf behind the breakfast table for the time being. It's still there.

I finished my project, and am a little disappointed. It's nothing special and nothing talented. There's this one area that I can't seem to get right. It's not the right shade. Not even after the 4 shades I put on it. And it's just water, just friggin' water. It happens with every piece of work, and when you point it out to someone else to get an opinion, they say "I think it looks fine. I don't see anything wrong with it." Of course not, but to my eyes, my painting looks all wrong. You just gotta accept it. I guess I do, and the imperfections make it mine.

I don't think I'd ever be able to call myself an artist. I don't work out of inspiration or appreciation of beauty. I draw sometimes to feel the grainy resistance of paper against my pencil. And I paint for the therapeutic silence of concentration. I hope that is some kind of beauty in itself.

What are you, dumb?

I spent kindergarten and first grade at Quartz Hill Elementary, but then went to Rancho Vista the next year because of some fight between my mom and my friend's mom. My friend's mom thought I was too "aggressive" on the playground, and almost always overruled her precious daughter. Well that was a bunch of bull, because on the playground, her angel was terribly vicious to other kids. Of course my mom defended me, and the other mom stayed by her daughter, but when mom's fight, it gets ugly. When we all had a sit down, I noticed my friend was prim and proper, sugary and sickly sweet. I was confused as to why she turned so rude to me during that hour with our mom's in the room. Wasn't she my friend?

I quickly learned that people are just dirty cameleons. They blend according to who they're with and it's a little disappointing. You don't really know if they're "real" with you or just trying to gain your approval for the time being. Doesn't that make everything false? You think you've made a true friendship and are able to share quality thoughts with each other, but when there's another person's influence around, your friend turns out to be a completely different person. Sometimes meaner, sometimes quieter, and sometimes more cheerful....So which side is truly how your friend feels about you? The sincere I'm-here-to-listen one, or the I-actually-think-you're-poo friend?

Of course, that makes me self reflect and self-conscious about my multiple faces also. It makes me sad. Oh well. I guess that's how our nature is meant to be. Although I think she was just jealous that I always got to be Pocahontas and she was stuck playing my sister.

Onions, ogres, and parfaits.

I started a project today. It reminded me how many layers there are to complete one picture.

Lots of "How well do you know_____" quizzes on Facebook nowadays, and it's obviously hard to get a good score for anyone. This started because people want trick others into thinking they know them well. And people take the quiz to try and prove themselves as good friends. Everyone wants to know how deep their friendships really are, and it's pretty impossible to prove anything of the sort. Especially by a 10 question quiz.

I think even shallow people have many layers. They obviously do because they cover themselves by superficiality. I can't decide whether making friends and figuring them out makes things interesting or irksome. Or if it is even necessary.

I sometimes question how well people know me, and I know its always "not very well." But I don't mind too much. I don't like talking about myself very much, and people never really ask anyway. I don't know how I can help that.

Oh, how artsy. NOT!

When we started moving around so much, I left behind so many of my interests and talents. I never came back to band, and I also stopped painting. It's a shame that I was only able to continue what my parents forced me to do, but not what I enjoyed doing.

I learned to appreciate painting when I was about 10. I was already a pianist and my mom could tell that that route was hopeless for my brother. So she put him in art classes instead. The first piece he brought home was an acrylic landscape of mountains with a log cabin in the foreground at one third. It actually looked good for his first time. In fact, it looked like an adult helped him, because he was only 6 at the time. But my parents gushed, praised, and showed off that log cabin to anyone with eyes. One day, we came to pick him up and went into the studio to see his progress. I found the chubby teacher painting for him while talking to him in a high pitched cooey voice. When we approached her, she told my mom that "learning how to paint is like learning how to drive a car". No it isn't. So we stopped going there.

My piano teacher referred us to a beautiful little Indian lady that painted masterpieces in the pool house behind her mansion. Her name was Mrs. Sri. Just remembering the place gives me the feeling of euphoria. Everything was slow and silent in her studio and it always smelled like art. I marveled at what she can do and asked my mom if I can have just one class with her.

That day, we did pastels and my first piece was pandas in a bamboo jungle. Art was so delicate and slight. Every movement of your hand was evidence on canvas. Every shade had to be blended according to your eyes. I was hooked. I came back for acrylics, and then she said that my hand was steady enough to try watercolors. I learned how to "float" watercolor and thought it was the coolest thing.

My brother stopped taking lessons at some point in all this, but I didn't notice.

Dancing Nancies

It's sad to think about who you are, who you are not, and what you're pretending to be. Maybe it's the weight of finals right now, but when I sit at my desk and think about how fake I am, it brings me close to tears. Where I'm going is an okay plan, but man it's such a long and horrid way to live. You won't meet anyone who is there or was there that will tell you they didn't tear their hair out or beat their heads against books.

What's even sadder is not being able to decide anymore. The decision was made 2 years ago. It's a waste of time and effort to do anything but. I'm such a damn average Jane, and they're not looking for average Janes to save lives. I'll probably happy in the end, but I'll be suffering on the way. I'll just be waiting for that gratitude and appreciation for what I do, mingled with faces of despair. Something will make everything worth it, right?

I realize I'm not in my Kimberly suit anymore. I don't even remember what color it was.

This roadmap is in no correlation with the geography!

Things have changed, I think. For the better, but it confuses me even more. When I think in the long scheme of things, I think where I am now is the best way. I can never tell if the good out weighs the bad, and sometimes the bad really really is heavy.

I haven't been physically feeling well either. I don't know what it is, but I feel weaker and less energetic. I can tell my strength isn't what it used to be. Like right now, as I type, my fingers hardly press the keys, and my carpals ache. Sauce is weak.

I applied for a lot of jobs last week and really wanted one to start during summer. The first one I applied to was for a medical assistant position at a gynecologist's office. It was a great opportunity to boost my resume for med school. I got a phone call the day after I sent in my resume, but didn't get the job. I then applied to work as a peer advisor at the College of Natural Sciences office and got an interview that Friday. It went well, and I'll hear from them Monday or Tuesday. But they're all staffed for summer. I really need summer money. I really didn't want to go there, but I might end up being a gymnastics coach. Again. It's my best bet. I'm more than qualified, and they're really in need for people, but it is a little far and the pay isn't fantastic for all the energy and pseudo-enthusiasm I have to put in. I also sent my resume to a botox, skin, lipo, whatever doctor's office but haven't heard back.

I also realize more and more that I need an estrogenous friend. Someone who will go shopping with me in the girls section without complaining. And someone I can confide in without hesitance. My mom complains about it all the time. "Why are all your friends guys? Doesn't John get mad?" I don't even know, man.

Raindrops are falling on my head...

About 4 years ago, I dated my first "real" boyfriend. None of that silly middle school stuff that I don't even want to think about. It was very strange and random. I had received text messages that was just small talk, until about the 3rd or 4th one. I thought it was a joke. Someone likes me? He likes me? I thought. But as usual, my defensive wall went up. Instead of risking gullibility or sounding like a ridiculous girly girl, I texted back "this could be a mean joke. How do I know this is really you?" So I saw him tomorrow.

Turned out it really was him. I was pretty much baffled. I didn't realize I was crush-worthy. But he was waiting for an answer. I didn't really have one. He was a nice guy, but I never thought of him as a boyfriend. Oh well. So we ended up holding hands. Maybe I'll develop feelings for him as we go along. And I did. We dated for 2 and a half years. With one of those years only seeing each other twice. That takes a lot of effort.

Today was an interesting day. It felt like taking a nice big breath.
Rain isn't so miserable with an umbrella and some rain booties.

Happy Earth Day, Mother Nature

The sky is one of my favorite shades of blue today, it's brilliantly sunny, and I saw people lounging at the pool during my run this morning. Very pretty.

I observed birds during lunch with a friend last weekend. They're pretty dumb, but I really wonder if it's our fault. I mean, it's been proven that birds, with a brain the size of about a walnut, can learn basic tasks and communicate. But now they eat butter laden biscuits and fatty sausages. I saw a bird fighting off and bullying other birds for a plastic packet of raspberry jam. They jump into trashcans in hopes of finding scraps that have probably been rotting in the heat of day. Poor dumb birdies.

I wonder how birds used to be before humans ruined things. Why, they were raptors.

What a terrible day to be Earth.

The Wall

I think I held on to one solitary resolution this year. I told myself that I would walk, instead of bus, to all my classes. And I have. Walked everywhere. But all my other so called 'promises', like "not complain as much" and this blog, was broken long ago. It makes me sad to know that I don't have the will power or dedication to myself. When I started this blog, I figured it would be an easier way to keep my mind clear. I broke that resolution without even knowing it.

It's hard to explain myself without sounding like an high school emo prat but I have a pretty thick wall of security. A sturdy stack of bricks reinforced with concrete. I rarely tell people my feelings, and I don't express them even to myself. I have this blog and a written journal, but I still keep too many thoughts in my head. I have a few theories of why that may be.

First, I am embarrassed and sometimes ashamed of what goes on. When I write/ type them down, there is no chance of denying and changing the thoughts. It's too concrete. Too tangible. I also hate being able to go back and read what I've written. It's like a future me going back in time to see how shitty I was a few years, months or even weeks ago. I often find it depressing. Maybe that's why I haven't been able to keep a blank book long enough to call a journal. I throw them out and shred them once I reread what I wrote a few months earlier.

People can also judge me too easily. If I don't feel good about my own thoughts, others can feel even worse. It's vain, I know, but I rather keep up a wall and be disliked than be disliked for a legitimate character flaw. I know I'm not the only who feels this way. I'm scrutinized too much as is anyway.

Lastly, I don't know who reads this blog and how often. What they read can offend them or start unnecessary trouble. Things start spreading, and start to become a mess. It's like in elementary school when kids started to have "crushes" on each other rather than fear cooties. You tell your best friend that you think some boy is cute, and then she tells other people, or better yet him, because she thinks she's doing you a favor and can maybe "hook you guys up." Breach of trust.

Trust is hard to gain, so it's just easier to mistrust the general population. Yup, including myself. Easy peezy.

Time machine

I finally had a good week. Last week I saw Bill Nye the Science Guy, got elected WIM secretary, and received great peer reviews on my scientific paper. I also was able to see my best friend for Easter, who I was in desperate need of spending time with. It was all very refreshing.

I hate it when this happens, and it always does afterward. I'm happy, but I tend to think about what could be different. What could have been done about 3 years ago to change what I am and how I feel today? Wasted opportunities, wasted moments. Everything was (and is) so off set and perfectly inconvenient.

Better in the long run? I don't know, but I can barely stop thinking about it.

The school year is coming to an end. I move into the new apartment in a few weeks. Frightening.

Irk

I remember when a 99 cent only store opened up down the street around the corner, my aunt bought everything from there. I went with her one day, and she spent $45. At the dollar store! Goes to show that little things add up.

Last Thursday, I had some time to see an HPO advisor. I told her I need a kick in the butt to tell me which direction I should decide on and what seems like a realistic goal. She glanced over my transcript, says "oh my" a few times, folded her hands on the desk and said, "from what I'm seeing in your science GPA, you're not a very competitive candidate for med school."

"Well that's what I came to talk to you about. Is it so far gone that med school is a wasted effort now?"

"Well you still have 2 years left here at UT,....but I see here that you brought in a 4.0 from a community college. Here's the thing: UT is a very research driven institution. The professors teach the material, but test you above the material....[blah blah blah] maybe a 4 year university like UT is just not for you. I'm suggesting, and I know you might not like to hear this, that you attend a different university to get your degree...."

My poker face was almost as good as when I saw the tallywacky patient with the exception of wetter eyeballs.

Last Friday, I opened a bottle of Vanilla Coke at my desk. It went ballistic and sprayed everything, including my computer. So I quickly grabbed a towel and dried everything up. Thankfully, only the number 7 key was really sticky. I tried to not mind. How often do I need to use it, anyway? Oh yea, my UTEID, my password, my biostatistics project...and so it drove me crazy. I Googled "how to fix sticky keyboard" to make sure I can do it right, and followed the directions. Popped of the number 7 key, and wiped the sticky coke off with a damp Q-tip. So now I don't have a sticky number 7 key anymore. But I also now don't have a number 7 key.

I have a big test on Tuesday, and I have one good study buddy from the class. He doesn't like my study buddy however, and forbids me to hang out with him. He gets grumpy every time and I understand why, but this is about my grades.

So I didn't really give a damn. I'm applying one year later than typical to allow some time to turn my grades into gold as an offering to med school admissions.

Achey Breaky

ER was boring today. Ovarian cyst and knuckle stitches were the most exciting cases today. Woot. But Dr. Szkrybz and I have come to an understanding. He sees me as a little more intelligent than the patients that come in, and I see him as an accomplished doctor. But we "hate" each other in a respectful way.We both know that people who come in are fat, stupid, drug seekers, or all of the above. He also said 60% of them don't even pay. The hospital writes off millions a year because of worthless people.

Geez, the world is silly.

Things have been nothing above mediocre, but certainly many a times under the fact. Haven't had a good day in a while. Maybe it was because of that OChem test?

I've been restless lately. Too much unchanneled energy, and I don't know what to do with it. I want to go do something, but don't really have anyone to go with. No one wants to go anywhere anymore. Maybe restless is just the problem. I haven't been able to laze around, chill or have fun so I'm going cookoo.

I also think I miss someone. Can't tell who, but there are times when your chest aches and misses someone or something. Maybe because I haven't seen/ spent time with him in a while? Or maybe I'm lonely and homesick.

I went yard sales today.

I loved Saturdays with my dad. After my morning cartoons and lunch, we'd go biking around the neighborhood or go hunting for garage sales.

I remember we went to this house on a hill for a garage sale run by a kind old lady. We looked around at random things that were scattered about and I gravitated to the corner full of kid related toys, books, and junk. I picked up a brass piggy bank, and my dad can tell that I wanted it. "Go ask her how much it is." He always tried to get me to do things myself, build social confidence, that sort of thing. She told me it was 25 cents, and I ran back to my dad to ask for money. He gave me a quarter from his pocket, and I paid the nice lady. She crouched down so she was eye level with me, and dropped the quarter into the empty piggy with a clunk. "Here's a start to your collection. Here, have some books too. My grandson never reads these anymore." She handed me about 5 books. I looked at the book on top and the cover had what looked like a bunch of skeletons having a barbecue.

I love how I remember these little insignificant childhood memories.

Not quite the swan either.

They did a great job with planning this year despite how unprepared it felt only a few days before the trip. Just the right amount of lunch meat, and a surplus of things that could be kept a while longer. Extra food and money in the end. Yay.

No major incidents, disasters, or mishaps in general. I had my speculations about the trip, and strangely, things worked out in opposites. There were some things I expected to be annoyed about, but turned out okay. Vice versa, there were some things that really got under my skin that I would not have expected to. Oh well.

The sands reminded me of the beach. The grains between your toes, and how it molds to the contours of your feet. That was nice.

"Where are we going?"

I was kidnapped away from my after school cartoons by my mom one day after kindergarten. We passed the turn in for our house and kept driving. We turned onto a dirt road and when I looked out the window, I saw fenced goats, sheep, ostriches, and all sorts of farm animals. My mom stopped in front of an old one story house, with a backyard orchard, and when I got out of the car, I heard the tinkling of piano keys reciting a simple but pretty melody.

My mom knocked softly and we walked in. I immediately saw 2 grand pianos; one that was old and brown, and another that was a gorgeous jet black and stretched on to the back corner of the room. The student sat at the brown one, and an old lady with a hunchback about the age of 80 sat at the concert one. When the student's lesson was over, the old lady pulled over a step stool, and gestured to me. I sat on the piano bench with my feet resting on the stool, and I was her piano student for 8 years following.

Mrs. Meltzer was very very old and ripped farts that smelled like sewage. But her sight reads were performance ready. The appearance of her fragile body did not reflect the strength that remained in her hands and fingers. In the near decade that she was my teacher, I collected certificates, ribbons, and trophies from various guilds and competitions. People started remembering my name when it would show up on rosters and programs.

Our family was very close to the Meltzers. She would give us pomagranates from her trees when they were of season. It was the first time I ever ate pomagranate. We got to know her neighbor, who would sell us fresh eggs from their farm every week. We were with Mrs. Meltzer when her husband died. She tried to teach me how to knit. I visited her at the hospital when she had her first collapse.

But I hated piano because I was forced into it and never had a choice otherwise. I always fell behind on theory work. I hated having to practice everyday. I'd warm up with the scales, chromatics, arpeggios, chords and triads. And then played the Bach inventions, the Suzuki, and performance pieces. I hated Bach. He was Baroque and needed fixing. But even after all that, only 25 minutes would've gone by, and on the 26th minute, my mom would yell at me to remind me that she had a clock and wooden spoon in front of her.

We sent Mrs. Meltzer christmas cards every year after we moved away, and and always got one back in the same handwriting that usually gave me my weekly practice assignments. I was able to be much less disciplined because of our moves, and never found a piano teacher quite like her again. In high school, I finally had the guts and persistance to tell my mom how much I hated piano, and that I'm too old for her to drag me into the car anymore anyway. And so, my piano "talents" died away since then, and our several thousand dollar upright just collects dust, but I didn't care.

My freshman year of college, my mom got a christmas card back from one of Mrs. Meltzer's sons instead. I found out that she had died in February 2007 at the age of 93, after she had arranged her Piano Scholarship Fund. On days that I didn't cry at the piano bench, I forgot that she was my piano teacher and thought of her like an old aunt.

Freshman 15 and a 2.75

I love looking back at older times. And when I say "love" I mean "cringe". Old pictures, Xanga posts, soveniers,.... It's strange how, at the moment, you look at yourself and think you're acceptable. I mean you're accepted in the niche, so you accept yourself.

My mom loves this one picture of my first day in 4th grade. I thought I was so in style. My school wear wardrobe consisted of 3 pairs of overalls (one long panted and 2 short (striped khaki and denim)), a myriad of skorts, only 1 pair of jeans, wind breaker pants, and tourist t-shirts. Toronto, Sydney, Vietnam, Key West, San Diego,...None of which I ever actually visited. Well, I had a power ranger shirt too, but the boy that stood in line behind me made fun of it, and I only wore it in the house afterward. Actually, maybe "style" never was a worry until near the end of 5th grade anyway.

I found a note from my first boyfriend and it was written in some gai azn wai dat I kan't B-leev I kuld even reed. I think I lost a chunk of my intelligence during that time. I was so stinking gasian in 8th grade. I hung out with asians that already started drinking, and doing little crimes. I threw my first egg at a house that halloween. I found a mix CD that a friend had burnt me, and it was asian rap, techno and k-pop. Ewww. Well, my dad moved us around a lot and it was really hard to be selective about friends when you went to 3 different middle schools in 2 years.

I still have some leotards in my closet from gymnastics. For high school, we moved again to a little podunk town where the only development was a Dairy Queen. Ironically, I was shunned from the asian group in high school. (Thank goodness, because they get drunk, fight, and shoot each other out there) High school was great. I made great friends that I still cherish and had the first boyfriend I don't regret.

I just untagged myself from various Facebook pictures from my first year in college. Too many frat parties, random apartments, late night outings, 6th street evidence, and toilet stops. That's what I've heard you're supposed to do as a Freshman. It was cool, fun, crazy, stupid. Alcohol was just a beverage. I remember every night, and didn't ever really get "shwasted." Just a floaty feeling, like when you're sick and on NyQuil. Kinda. It was another niche, another thing to do. It came with embarassing stories and gossipable drama.

Grow up: I hear that's what you're supposed to do eventually. We get bored a lot now, sit around, and be lame. Meh.

Explore

86, 87, 88, 89.....Male, female, female, female, male.....white eyed, wild type, wild, wild....

Days when we had to count fruit flies and then separate them into male/ female and their different mutations in genetics lab was always a drag. I found it boring, and nothing of a fascination.

Today I worked at Explore UT for CNS and showed kids Drosophila and their different mutations. "Ewww!" they'd say. "These don't have wings! They look like ants! What happened to them?!" They were so excited to see fruit flies. I explained to them that we mutated their parent's DNA with x-rays or chemicals, and now their children are different from the normal flies.

"Wow, DNA, like in X-Men?!"

"Uh, yea! Just like in X-Men. If I mutated your mom and removed the DNA for arm development, you might not have arms, just like how these flies don't have wings." They would grab their shoulders with worry in their eyes, and I'd reassure them with a smile that we don't do that for real, although we could. Even the grown ups were amazed by these simple genetic experiments.

I remember Dr. Baptiste had said he forgot how fascinating his job is until a student in the OR sees him operate on a beating heart and says "cool". "Oh yea, I forgot that it is pretty cool."

Kids are bright and still have so much to learn and be fascinated about. I hope they all get the chance.

A penny for your thoughts, a dime for mine.

When I was about 5 or 6, my parents always fought. I remember it got dangerously close to divorce, and the police visited the house a few times. They fought over everything. Little things that would escalate to a night at a hotel or weekend at my grandmother's house.

One night, my dad and was listening to his Creedence Clearwater Rivival CD, and after jumping up and down on the bed and dancing to Suzy Q, I Put a Spell on You came on. After a few minutes, my mom comes in and tells him to turn it off. Of course, he asks why, and she says that she doesn't want me listening to this trash. "What trash?" and she walks over to the player, takes out the CD and walks out. My dad called her back and said some stuff about his property, and he's tired of her bitching. There was an exchange of unkind property and property of self comments and suddenly, the entertainment console starting getting flung off the shelves. The CD player was thrown off, the surround sound was thrown, the VHS player, the karaoke... I was kinda confused about that fight.

But then I knew exactly what was going on, and exactly why they originally fought. It wasn't Creedence Clearwater. I put it together from the various things and other mini fights that occured in the house, but I was never accosted and informed about any of it. I don't know about everyone else, but I feel like my cognition was underestimated when I was younger. We never bring up that time of my life though.

Everyone has their own opinions and points of view, and things just can't work when the opposite view isn't understood or at least heard. That's how arguments begin, families fall apart, gangs form, wars rage.

My mom asks me for advice and opinions a lot now that my dad's in San Antonio, I'm in Austin, and my brother and her in Fort Worth. Family of 4, divided into 3. She told me over the summer that she believes I'm old enough to know about and have input in the family's affairs now. Well that's nice. 20 is a good age to officially know about what goes on in the family. I wasn't even informed that I'd be bleeding out my vag when I was of puberty age.

Made ya look.

It seems like aborted babies come closer and closer to my dorm room as the week progresses. I frown upon having to talk about these things, because there are strong opinions and heated arguments about it, but what obstructed my way to class obstructs my thoughts, I suppose.

What I've heard often when I pass the giant displays are "Is this for abortion? Or against?" "Is this supposed to be a pro-life protest? Or pro-choice?" I don't think it was either. It was there to force attention to an on-going issue, and being on a university campus, the display was open to universal thoughts and point of views. I appreciate both views of pro-life/choice. I think both stances are hard to argue, and I really admire the people who stick to their guns.

My rant is too long for the Free Speech Board, so here goes.

Everyone's heard about the roaring twenties, and whoop-dee-doo, there was partying, drinking, and girls started to cut their hair short. What you don't hear a lot about is the rate of pregnancies during that time. People were able to make a living off of coat hanger abortions in cheap and shady hotel rooms. Girls would get butchered or die from infections because they rather not have to care for a child they didn't mean to conceive. People do it for different reasons, and overall, it takes ignorance is bliss to its extremes. Would you rather see a child aborted, or abandoned? Is it worth bringing a child into an unnurturing home? There are stories of babies found in dumpsters; is that worse? Should a raped woman keep the resulting child and hate it throughout it's life?

And then there's the question about where does life begin. From my bioscience point of view, I believe that life begins at the cellular level. That is the essence of biology, so arguing about when does life begin is a dead conversation with a biologist. Go see a philosopher to try and find your point or read a biology textbook to see mine.

But whenever life begins, I see contradictions in the face of abortion. Just by observing the world and where it's gone, I find it novel that pro-lifers can still find abortion so egregious. If they see it as murder, why not flinch at every Sunday newspaper? Why not cringe at the evening news? I'm sure that stories of rape, homicide and suicides are still disturbing, but you don't see people bringing out their torches and pitchforks to do anything about it. Because they can't. It happens. People decide to end their spouse's life by the blade of a knife. They decide to end their own lives by the point of a gun. And surprise, surprise, we find people deciding to abort their child during pregnancy. But somehow, that's not "just another news report."

The general population still seems undecided. Around the display and Free Speech Board, there numerous "where are all the pro-lifers?" and "get the law off my body" messages. And I doubt that anyone can find a majority in such a diverse campus, let alone the nation. I guess it's unclear which side I'm on or if I even have a stance at all, but when it comes down to it, I appreciate the life and creation of a child. Scientifically, I find the growth and development of life fascinating, and truly believe that life begins even before fertilization. Socially, I think the exact same, but I've lived 2 decades, and seen what the world is. Sparing a life from the worst of it isn't so bad, is it?

Danger! Danger!

Sometimes, I think I'm filled with too much angst. I would try to calm myself, and just lay down somewhere. But then my mind starts working, and it glosses over everything that peeves me, and then I feel bad energy radiating everywhere. I frequently feel like thrashing my arms and kicking my feet, and anyone within a 3 feet radius will undoubtedly get hurt.

I lay there, and I can actually physically feel the energy build up, trickle down my arms, to my fingers, and getting ready to start the flailing. But at the moment, I tell myself stop, and it gets trapped. Instead, the energy escapes my body in the form of a few tears.

And then I get up, blog about it, and everything is back to normal.

A vicious cycle.

Petty, not pretty

I used to be the boss on the elementary school playground. I used to play basketball with the boys (before they hit puberty), kick the furthest in kickball, pound at tetherball, make them run when I sparred in Tang Su Do. So I was usually team captain when team sports came around.

We decided to play kickball one day, and my rival and I were the usual captains. I chose my closest friends first (default), and then just picked from the rest of the group. I guess in elementary school, cliques have not been something of a distinction, so everyone was friends with everyone else. Some people think they're more of a friend than you would expect, and that's when the separation begins and feelings get hurt. One of my classmates expected to be on my team, but I ended up not picking her. She was one of those friends that you would talk to in class, but not really outside the confines of the academic world. She played on the other team, and was especially set on getting me out single handedly. I thought it was almost rude because she started making bad calls and bending the rules, but it was just a game.

We didn't really talk in class anymore.

5th grade came, and I remember we actually got into a physical fight under the shade of a tree one day. I don't remember why we fought, but I remember I pulled a big ugly bug out of my hair after school because she had pushed me to the ground. We ended up hating each other over something negligible that started a year earlier.

To me, not being on the same team is just something that happens, and is nothing really personal. Too bad something so little ended a friendship. I don't know where she is, or what she's doing now, but I'm sure if we played kickball again, I'd obliterate her.

A doctor's poker face

You think doctors see it all the time. The weird things, the sad things, the things that makes the general population squirm uncomfortably. But a misconception is that seeing those things don't effect them anymore. Believe me, they will react just as a pre-med student like me would.

Like when a patient comes into the ER with a cellphone charger cord in his penis for a month. I had to read the history and brief twice. "I have to get this one, Doc," I said to the ER doctor I refer to Mr. Rogers (for similarity reasons). He picked up the clipboard and read it. "Whaaaaat? Cell phone charger in his penis??" I replied with a "yea, lets go!" He rolled his eyes and we were off to Obs. 8.

We walked into the room, and Doc introduces himself with a "so I see you have quite a problem."

A throaty smoker's lung voice replied with a "yea, I've tried to wait this out long enough." I secretly chuckled at the non-intended pun. "So tell me how this all happened"

"Well, I've passed a few kidney stones before, and about 2 weeks after Christmas, I..."

"Two weeks after Christmas? This been in you for more than a month?"

"Well yea. I was just hopin' it'd come out eventually. Well, during that time, I felt a painful stone in my tallywacky..."

"Can you tell me what a tallywacky is?"

"My penis." "Uh huh...." My cheek muscles had to fight incredibly hard to fight the urge of laughter that would undoubtedly escape if I didn't have my lips pursed. I had a suspicion that Doc Rogers did that one on purpose.

"Well I figured that if I can push the stone back into my bladder, it can reorient itself and come out a little more comfortable. So I took a cell phone charger, and stripped the wire out of it.."

"So there's no wire in there."

"Naw, I'm not that stupid." The corners of my mouth twitched. "So I got myself erect, and started to put it in. I got it to hit the stone, and it was so painful that I kinda flinched and doubled over, and then I lost the damn thing! I eventually passed the stone, but the cord is still in there."

"Let me cover you up some, and feel around....Oh...yup, it's definately in there all right...Well let's get an x-ray of that, call the urologist, and we'll see where to go from there."

The x-ray came a few minutes later, and we found that the wire somehow rolled itself into a knot in the bladder. The urologist decided that it can't just be pulled out, but he will have to go in with an incision, cut it up with a laser, and then remove it. I asked how long the recovery time would be if that was the case, and he said 6 weeks. Doc Rogers said, "yea,...he'll be pissed." And we all finally erupted into laughter.

How did people get so stupid? Ahhh, good times in medicine.

I don't think there's an app for that.

It only goes to so deep. People don't really know what true modern marvels are. You've seen the commercials for the iPhone and things. It does quite a bit of stuff, and I'm not gonna lie, I wanted one too. It's pretty cool, but the things I saw in the operating room does a lot more for human life and is incredibly more amusing, if not fascinating.

At 7am, I waited for Dr. Baptiste in the cafeteria, not really knowing what to expect for the day. About 7:30, he walks in, asks me and 2 other girls if we were hungry and then took us to the viewing room to brief us on the patient. In the office, he pulled up a woman's files on the computer, and showed us some short videos of her coronary angiogram. Even at that moment, I was amazed. I saw her beating heart on the computer screen, pumping x-ray dye through vessels that split, branched and curved into little threads across the screen. "Can anyone tell me something that's abnormal here?" Upon inspection, I saw that one part of a vessel looked "too skinny" compared to the rest of the vessel. I told Dr. Baptiste that the dye is constricted on that coronary vessel and he told us that that particular vessel was only getting 1% of it's required blood through. She had 4 others like it and it reduces her life expectancy to 80%.

I changed into deep green blue scrubs, put on a hair net and booties, and scrubbed up. When it was my turn to come into the OR, I donned my surgical mask and stepped into a jazz filled room. There were several people surrounding a table that supported a middle aged brunette woman on her back with her eyes taped shut. An assistant surgeon explained to me the various tubes and contraptions that were protruding from her chest. Several of which were connected to the heart-lung machine. A heart- lung machine! Something that takes the blood out of your body, oxangenates it , and puts it back in to your body while you can't. I think that's amazing.

I peered over the table and saw her chest being held open with a clamp, exposing the most important muscle in the human body. It was strange and mesmerizing to watch a live beating heart, and a surreal feeling washed over my own. It made me wonder what my own heart looks like, if its healthy....Dr. Baptiste had already harvested the needed vessels from her femoral and mammary veins and was about was about to begin the actual bypass.

The heart was surrounded by ice, and the potassium solution was injected by the cardiac anesthesiologist. Everything on the moniter began to slow down and flat line. After her heart was arrested, Dr. Baptiste punched out three evenly spaced holes, flinging the punched out tissue over his shoulder. With experienced, steady hands, Dr. Baptiste took a blood vessel, one at a time, and threaded it onto each hole. Every needle went into tissue with precise spacing from the last threading. A sewing machine couldn't have done it better. 3 new vessels from the aorta. Her life expectancy was now even better than the average population. 105%.

I followed him out to talk to the husband of the patient. "Everything went fine. She slowed down before we were ready at one point, but we defribbed and were back on track. It'll be a few hours before you can see her, but overall the surgery was excellent." "Thank you doctor. That's great news. Thank you girls". He thought I was part of the surgical team. I smiled.

It was an interesting feeling. I felt good after he said that. Not because he gave me nonlegitimate credit for saving his wife, but he saw me and thought I was an adult. I know in some sense I am, but I've always worried that people won't take me seriously in a world like medicine. I'm a barely 5 feet girl much too petite in size. My cousin, who is taller than me by a lot, got rejected by many patients during her residency thinking that she's just an unqualified child.

My mom and other people told me I should be a surgeon because I'm good with my hands and I did well at the sight of blood. They were impressed that I was able to eat after watching a 5 hour long surgery.

I was just impressed by the sheer and simple genius of medicine.

Therapy, I guess.

It's strange how you think you'd get more privacy as you grow up. Isn't that what teenagers scream at their parents? "You don't give me enough privacy!" It seems like privacy is scarce findings right now for me. I can't quite have a room to myself to just listen to silence. I didn't have to take a roll of toilet paper in and out every time I went to the bathroom. I can't enjoy my guilty pleasures without worrying that someone else is bored by the food channel. People say it all the time: things are simpler back then, and it's not like I didn't appreciate it "back then". I just miss it a lot now.

I've decided I'm going to blog more. It's a way for me to complain about things people wouldn't really want to hear about in real life. I'll be able to do so more often now because I get at least 3 hours of quiet to myself every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It will be nice. Like right now, I steeped myself some lemongrass and spearmint tea, which did not turn out to taste very good. But it's okay. I enjoy the peace.

Not even the worst

"The shittiest girlfriend I've ever had."

Never been called that. A bit harsh, I'd say.
Me? A pushover? So I've heard in the past. I've tried to be assertive. Tried to push back.

Like every other kid...

If/ when I fail at life, I'm blaming the parents.