Intense motivation.

Read.

In case the first one didn’t work.

But in any case…

READ THAT MOTHER FUCKING BOOK.

Man,

I sound like a man.

My voice goes baritone and I sound like…the Godfather.

Off to do homework.  What a fantastic way to celebrate Veteran’s Day.

Is it really clarity?

Debating whether or not to dump my midterm studying for another pseudo-insightful post to add to my collection, procrastination finally conquered what meager determination I had ever salvaged.  Sadly, it’s all true; it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.

As much as I would love this to be another rant on why procrastination ass fucked me over, I’ve decided to write about what has been incessantly and persistantly tagging along with me: Christianity.  And on another almost unrelated note, do you ever find it awkward to talk about God?  My roommate asserts this regardless, but I just find it awkward when I’m actually talking to, well, a Christian.

So we were learning about Jesus Christ, and how he says that he’s God, how he can forgive us for our sins, how he’s like, this totally amazing, compassionate, kickass, charming Terminator type of guy.  And you know, God’s love is s obeautiful and all encompassing and all.  It’s so obvious that he works in our lives, and everything eventually turns out for the best.  And you know, there was this story about how this woman got molar cancer, but then a couple months later, she’s pragnant again!  Gosh, I can just tear up at that—God really works miracles in our lives…if we don’t focus on the negatives.

But it’s hard to do that in this day and age, isn’t it?  Sure, society’s emphasis on success and happiness, and a floundered moral obligation to fulfill our happiness and achieve world peace makes it difficult to not focus on all the ugliness already in the world.

Putting that snarkology on rewind, while I was talking to my Christian teachers, I could, if only for a moment, see why Christianity was so appealing to people.  If only for a moment, it seemed ver yclear to me, why anyone would want absolute acceptance, absolute safety, absolute morality, and an everlasting life.  It’s all very enticing, this idea of someone who accepts you for who you are, who exacts justice and mercy, whose laws ultimately prevail, but most importantly, whose love for you exceeds all other kinds of love.  His love is eternal, everlasting, and sacrificial.  My God, that story about the baby.  God must exist.  He works miracles in our lives.  With that, I just looked at my teacher’s teary faces and became enthralled.  Could I get this kind of security, this kind of unconditional love, this kind of hope, too?  For most of the night I wondered over this, marveled over this.

This seemed so real, so true, so achievable—this happiness.

Was this a moment of clarity, or was a moment of temptation?  I hesitate to name it either.

If it was a moment of clarity, as in I truly believed in Christ and this moment was suppose to be my Archimedes jumping out of the shower naked and shouting “Eureka!”, then it has long since passed.  Whatever it was, I can’t help but wonder, who is God to forgive everyone of their sins?  If he has never been raped, been murdered, been forced to be witness to such terrible things, then how can he forgive those who have perpetrated these crimes?  Even if we were to assume that we are his children and that he feels things more keenly than us, is that to say this his forgiveness diminishes our own?  If the killer, rapist, or terrorist suddenly fell to his knees and repented in the name of the Lord, my sister still won’t be healed from rape, my family won’t come back from the dead, and those who were tortured or endured deliberated anguish won’t be alleviated of their suffering.  What kind of comfort is that?

And somewhere along that tense conversation segway’d into “The Problem of Evil.”  That shit deserves whole fucking encyclopedias.  I think, more than anything else, that this is the crux of the problem with Christianity.  If God was so benevolent, so loving, so compassionate, why is there such massive amounts of evil in this world?  There’s no denying it; the world as we know it today, is so full of suck.  And I’m not even looking at the negatives.  Sure, people say that you need a bad thing to feel the true extent of the good thing, but do you really need a massacre, or unjustifiable murder, or cancer, or AIDs, or holocaust, or whatever evil comes our way?  Can’t God make a world where the worst evil wasn’t as bas as the lowest evil right now?  Maybe his standards are kind of low considering we suck so much. D:

But then again, if there should be a God, I kind of want it to be someone you can sit on a park bench and just have an epistemological chat with.

Taylor Swift

Normally I’d hate her, and by hate meaning a biased and unfairly judgemental hatred that only stems from her being so naturally tall, blonde, beautiful, and a grudgingly decent singer.  Despite this deep-seated hatred against women who think they can sing but can’t, I have to admit, driving down Silver Creek and San Felipe with the windows rolled down and Taylor Swift deafeningly blasting out of the stereo system while singing—rather amazingly I might add—with a bunch of assuredly masculine guys…is definitely one of the most memorable parts of my day.

I can almost sense the hostility from wangters and old people glaring at us through their tinted windows. Don’t be jealous I have just great friends.

Well, I came home yesterday, and didn’t much except talk to people via webcam.

I always look forward to Saturday.  Always.  And today was no exception.  After the usual of lunch and eating or whatever, we went to watch A Christmas Carol, by Walk Disney.  Here’s another one of those movies by Disney where you wouldn’t want to take your kids.  Do you want a movie experience similar to Christmas Carol?  Take them to watch Paranormal Activity instead.  I’m sure there won’t be as much shit to clean from their pants.  The demon has nothing on Father Christmas growing old and laughing hysterically on the ground dying…with two crazy anthropomorphized human fallacies trying to kill/rape.  I got scared…while watching an animated children’s movie.  How sad is that?

On that note, I REALLY WANT TO WATCH TOYSTORY 3.  Buzz is gonna be a Spanish lover.

When

Today in Psychology, we talked about psychopathologies and defense mechanisms.  We talked about Gestalt Laws and cognitive dissonance, and how our ability—more appropriately a curse—to rationalize brings us out of cognitive dissonance and into a mode of harmonious unity and oneness with the universe—you know, the shit that flower children, hippies, and crazy druggies talk about.

When I start looking at things I shouldn’t be looking at.

When I start wondering that things I really shouldn’t be wondering at.

When I start being curious when that platitude of cat-killing still runs true.

When I start rationalizing  horrid, disgustingly indulgent behavior.

I know something’s wrong.

The power to rationalize is a terrible, terrible thing.

Over lunch trays

To what extent is telling the truth a necessary good thing?

To what extent should you tell the truth?

Is a fleeting moment of veracity really worth countless hours or days or weeks or months of distrust or pain?

Over emply lunch trays we discussed this.

Happiness in a boy and his tiger

Through thick and thin, through the happiest and saddest times of my life, through the mundane and bordering-neurotic days, when I need a smile and a laugh and a hug—through a book, of course, but a hug nonetheless—they’ve always accomplished what I’ve always thought to be impossible.  I dearly love Calvin and Hobbes.

Surpise! says the meerkat.

The field for the potentiality for dreams is an incredibly vast one; dreams can be of monsters or mermaids, of adventures in Neverland or of another mundane day in chemistry class.  Not that dreams are relevant to what my post is really about, but today I dreamed that Timon from the lovable meerkat and warthog duo in The Lion King renamed himself as Anmon.

Surprises are be good or bad, and I berate myself for generalizing them to such a degree, but it seems like it’s such an platitude.  And this week, I’ve had the pleasure and misfortune of experiencing both.

Social convention dictates that I elaborate on the latter first, because who wouldn’t want to be cheered up after a slap of reality?  Oh, too bad.  I’m an obnoxious bitch like that.

My cousins came up.

When I stepped into Martin’s room, he told me sleepily that I was going to get a surprise.  Curious, I asked him what it was.  “Someone’s gonna get mad at me if I tell you.  Teeheehee.”  God, my family can’t keep secrets at all.

The doorbell rang and Bao, Kevin, and Nam came up to Martin’s room.  “Saurav’s coming later,” they said.

The doorbell rang again, and though my suspicions were confirmed [Really, guys, you suck at keeping secrets] I couldn’t help but scream.

But, my thorn in the eye, my annoyingly abusive counterpart, my chauvinistic and sexist bastard, my dearly beloved…that was incredibly amazing.  Thanks for coming.  And kudos for me for winning.

Oh, and what of the bad news?  This unfortunate surprise?

It was 3:30 AM Saturday morning when I groggily trudged home to sleep, and 4:30 in the evening before I saw any of my parents.  My dad hands me a yellow letter, and tells me that I am old enough to read it.

“…hospitalization…”

“…MRI…”

“…hemorrhage…”

“…continues, admitted to ER…”

Wait, what?   A brain hemorrage?  My dad?

It’s nothing serious, he assures me.  “I didn’t want to be hospitalized, so I went home.  I’m getting better, really.”

Jokingly, he smiles and continues watching his Western cowboy movie.   Then I thought, comfort works in the oddest of ways, where the dead have to comfort the living, the dying have to wipe away their brothers’ and sisters’ and children’s and lovers’ tears, and the sick have to keep joking and smiling to ease the fear of oblivion, but not their own.  Since when did my dad have to comfort me when he was the sick one?

Over and over and over again my eyes run across those 10 letters.  Fantastical stories usurped any logic and reason I had left, and history wormed into the crevasses of my colorful imagination.  Oh god, didn’t FDR die this way?  Holy crap, I swear Bruce Wayne had it, too.  Superman?  What of Superman?  Didn’t he get a brain hemorrhage?  Hell, if anything could defeat God, it must have been a gigantic brain leak or some shit like that.

I don’t know how many times I can say this until it’s been internalized in me.  People die.  Well, of course people die, but who could have ever imagined—who could have a single inkling—that maybe their friends will die?  their parents?  their children?  Who really has the unimaginable capacity to bear such a ponderous truth that one of these supposedly invincible people should ever end up in a wooden box and under the ground somewhere?  Really.

My thoughts fastforward to an unimaginable future where my dad might be one of those corpses in a box—I think he preferred being cremated to ash—just going along with the circle of life.  My thoughts rewind to a time where I was still strapped to those hunky booster seats, crying to my dad and asking him why Simba’s father had to die.  He said that it was circle of life.  With such sagacity and wisdom, he said it happened to all of us, even him.  He joked, “One day I’ll become grass, too.”  I never believed him.  Still, never.

I know, with reason and logic, that no one is invincible; some of us may get sick, some of us may die naturally, and some of us may have the tragic misfortune of dying suddenly and inexplicably.  We all die.  But I haven’t accepted it yet.  This truth that has inspired so many religions and forms of beliefs and fears, has not been ingrained in me; it’s floating out there in a sea of other clutteringly truths and facts.  And now that my dad has been diagnosed, so mechanically and matter-of-factly, with a hemorrhage, a bomb just exploded.  My god, people—real people—do die.  No way.  No fucking way.

So here I am, alone in the privacy of my dorm, reflecting not on my dad’s condition—he’s recovering [at what seems too fast a speed, since he's still as obnoxiously talkative as ever]— but on what happens afterward.  The yellow letter told me more than that blood leak in his brain.  It said, while gnashing its yellow teeth, that my dad—some fobby Asian Superman—was vulnerable, was susceptible to what happens to “normal” people, was mortal, was just another old Asian man trying to get better.

My eyes glanced over the letter to make sure it wasn’t lying, then looked up.  He was intently watching the TV, his eyes sparkled as Clint Eastwood pulled out his gun.  He absentmindedly popped raisins in his mouth, and then looked up.  He smiled.

That yellow letter must be lying.

And to that, I just keep deceiving myself.  I am so sick of being comforted.

Before sleeping

I’d like to entertain you with a little dialogue my roommate and I had around 2 in the morning.  First, a little background is necessary.  Wearing retainers impedes your speech, meaning you’d either sound like a stuttering retard or a fob.  Not even kidding.

Me:  What can you say?

Her:  I dunno.  Let me see.  A…b…

Her: yello…jayello…oello…Oh my gosh!  I can’t say it!  I like eating jello though.

I don’t know the finer points of speech impediment caused by retainers, but “jello” sounded like “Othello,” that one crazy black general in Shakespeare who’s insecure with the size of his penis.

Me:  You like…eating Othello???

Her:  EWWWW.  NOOO…Groooooooooooooossssssssssssssssssss.  I don’t wanna get teabagged!

Me:…………………………WHAT?

Her:  It’s too messy!

I don’t know.  Maybe some magical chemistry happens to you at 2 in the morning that makes any stupid quasi-funny thing all the more true and hilarious.

But it was really funny because I just told her the meaning of the word a couple hours ago, and her face looked like someone stuck a vacuum in her mouth and pressed the “HI” button. :O

 

A new kind of love

Yeah, you heard—er, read— me right.  Love. Why not, right?  Already I’ve made fun of every single kind of topic imaginable; I’ve touched and discussed most topics in my traveller’s itinary of what to say and how to say it, and damn it— I’ve been handicapped by an emotional debility for a good deal of senior year because of it.  So, love, why not?

During a prayer meeting yesterday with my Christian group, and for those of you who either congratulate a sudden change of beliefs or seek to denigrate me for it, I’ll expurgate this post of anything ridiculously ludicrous I’ve heard, which is to say there really isn’t much to say other than the essentials.  Digressing, I don’t really understand a “monogamous” relationship with one more person in it.  There’s you, me, and God, smack dab in the middle.  Like a penchant or common interest for anything else — travel, philanthropy, food, spirituality of any kind, anything that hits hard at the core of your beliefs and attitude of people— God just seems to be that.  He’s a common interest that bonds people together, only they treat Him as another people in their monogamous relationship.  Of the women who spoke testimonies on love and dating, they all came to a concensus that dating was for marriage, but wouldn’t you date to experiment, to find out what it is you like or dislike in a partner?  In marriage, serving God was the primary and single goal.  What about romance?  Why can’t I find an adequate “partner” in someone else if I’m forced to treat my husband like my Christian brother, is this some sort of twisted and disgustingly incestuous spirituality in practice?  It seems that dating and marriage don’t even concern romance, and it definitely speaks against sexual impurity.  Chasity is a virtue in a partner—why?  It’s alluring to have someone who waited for you, who waited for that one special person.  But what if you’re sexually incompatible?  Given, I don’t propose shopping for boyfriends and husbands by test-sleeping with them, but at the same time, I find that not even holding hands and going out on dates with the intention of “Hey, let’s get married soon, alright?” to be a bit bat shit crazy and family-obsessive, plus that’s all sort of prude.

What I did get from it, as well as from late night advice with friends or just random spurts of epiphanies while giving said advice, is that love is suppose to be compromise.  Humble and humility—I don’t necessarily agree; although I’m blinded by a neo-feminist point of view that I shouldn’t fetch my husband’s slippers, snivel and subjugate myself to my husband’s every command, and pour his fucking tea, whenever he demands that I do.  Whether my ego likes it or not, love is all about sacrifice and forgiveness—none of which comes easily nor willingly to my boundless sense of pride and recalcitrance to the social norm that women should be soft-minded jelly bags—and it’s this sacrifice and forgiveness that makes it worth having.  An extension would be that marriage nor dating should be purely for self-gratification, unless you thrive on attention and unnecessary, incessant reaffirmation that you are loved and worth something, in which case you’re fucking crazy and needy. People should come into relationships mature, open-minded, and confident.  Because if you come in wanting, seeking, and needing attention or security in romance, you’re fucking screwed; your love debilitates and exacerbates into a dependency complex.  You shouldn’t need it to make yourself feel better.  And on this my point of view diverges.  I think you come into a relationship willing to offer what you have, not to seek what someone else may or may not afford; it’s what you contribute that’d important, not what you suck out of.  In the paraphrased words of this random girl who sits next to me during Anthropology lecture, it’d suck the happiness out of my soul.

Countering that paragraph of seemingly proselytizing substance, I’m reading this comic book and this other handbook of sorts on Buddhist how-to’s for the idiot.  Live in the moment! it says.

“Life is but a breath. Do not live in the worlds of yesterday and tomorrow.  instead, live in the world of today.  Wherever you are and whatever you are doing, experience the beautiful things around you at that moment.”

In some way shape or form, it relates to love.  No, I’m not pulling this out of my ass at all.  Be the first to say sorry.   Don’t let your pride and ego and neo-feminist or misogynistic attitude nurture and fester your grudges and arguments.  Really, life really is too short for that.   So yeah, those are on my to-do list.  After reading up on how striving to be humble isn’t really possible, since a cultivated virtue is just another word for accomplishment—and in being humble you can’t really seek to accomplish anything— trying to become humble is rather overrated for me; for now, I’ll settle on my ever caustic humiliation and abuse, with a little more awareness and thought into how I’m treating my ever beloved…er…boy toy.  Haha.  I’ll just be a little more aware next time I beat the fuck out of you. Hahaha.

Not that these are epiphanies; I’ve already known and reiterated these platitudes—they are when said over and over on cards and AOL updates—my entire life, but I guess I’ll try to put them to use now.  At least be aware of their use.  I’d like to think that I’ve matured, and that I no longer hold the same views on relationships as I did before.  Gone are perfect romances, security and stability, 100% in-sync communication, mind-reading and other weird ESP/telepathic abilities that if existed without romance would be considered creepy, and the notion that having the “perfect” guy would magically absolve all your problems and sins.  I mean, who needs someone to say “I love you,” “You are worth something,” and “You make my life complete” all the time?  Throughout the years, in trial and error and through failed relationships and lost loves, I’ve internalized those essential truths into myself.  Please, I’m not professing godly perfection here—I mean, I’m perfect all the time, right?…RIIIIIGHT?—I’m saying that I’m happy with who I am, I know that though I am flawed and imperfect and in no way immaculately clean and innocent, I’ve embraced all these qualities about myself that I can or cannot change.  I am self satisfied and snuggly comfortable in the fact that I can be mature and grow into a person without the dependence on someone else, that I don’t need to feel valuable because someone said I am.  Of course, I’m blaming this smug confidence on that fact that I’ve known such amazing and life-changing people over the past few years. Once again, I wouldn’t be who I am, and I wouldn’t be so darn arrogant and in-your-face abusive if it weren’t for you guys being the awesome way you are.  Gosh, I’m soooooo unbelivably blessed I have such great friends.

So love.

That’s my take on love.

I do have years to absorb and learn more on this subject, and to be a truly loving person…Oh, I can just hear you guys laughing over that line right now.  I can too be loving…just not too much.

On a different subject, I learned something interesting in psychology today.  Don’t be too nice to someone the first time you meet them, because if you don’t match that level of niceness again and again and again, they’d think you’re holding out/withdrawing from them.  Just a thought.

Before I leave and cram for my midterm, I just thought that it’s kind of hilarious how the things I learn in the anthropology and psychology class almost contradicts this moral code of behavior and idea of creation that Christianity advocates.