thinking
What can I do to not think? Because that’s what gets me in trouble. I want to go through the world as a blind thoughtless fool. Maybe then, maybe, I won’t be the way I am.
Archive for Rigamarole
NeMo!
I don’t usually post these up, but this one was just too cute to pass up.
Which [Finding Nemo] characters are you?
Incidentally, I have 5 out of 8 of the finding nemo McDonald’s happy meal toys.
“toiletries”
I was at the supermarket last night getting some pads and something boggled my mind. I expected the pads to be with the other bodily needs like medicines and vitamins and stuff and as much as I looked for them, I couldn’t find them. Turns out pads and tampons and pantiliners were in the same aisle as household cleaning agents and motor oil. What the heck? Aren’t similar things supposed to be together? What do they think I’m going to do?! Get a pad, mop the floor and then fix my freakin’ car?
They need to re-think their design.
blah blah blah, cliche cliche
Need to get away. Need to have a release of some kind. A purging. And I don’t mean I need to take a shit, either. I need a katharsis of the mind. I need to break through these boundries that I’ve set for myself.
I think I tell myself that at least ten times a day. It never works.
The only time that I’ve ever been able to break away, it feels, is when I don’t even think about it. Going through boundries is such an effortless thing, yet it becomes increasingly difficult when I try.
I feel like all I write about is how much I fail at everything. How I’m worthless, how I’m useless. How I can’t be happy, even when I’m happy.
I’d like to believe that’s not true, but reading back, it seems like its hard for me to think about good things… That’s why I’m going to write one happy thing in each entry from now on.
Incidentally, I have a job interview tomorrow. I know I’ll do well.
back in the day..
Two years ago around this time
I didn’t have time to write in my blog because I was so busy enjoying life. I was busy with school, friends, preparing for college, loving everything.
One year ago around this time
I had just began medicating myself for bi-polar disorder. I was too busy trying to enjoy life that I couldn’t enjoy it.
I wrote:
I’m weirded out by the fact that I can be happy. I’m weirded out by the fact that I can be okay, not sad, not obsessed with my impending insanity — or death. It freaks me out that I feel like I’m possibly okay. That I might become my old self again. That I might be happy again.
Today I feel
Today I feel like I’m at the same place I was a year ago, yet so far away. I’ve advanced in that I have found my ability to be happy again, however, I’m in the same place because of late I’ve been getting anxiety attacks again. Now, though, I have vowed not to medicate myself because I realise that I can’t really feel happy on meds without wondering if the happiness is fabricated.
Where will I be a year from now, I wonder?
Friday May 23, 2003 at 06:33 pm
Dear Friend,
// Begin Installation #2:
So here I am in a hospital, in this weird gown that doesn’t cover my backside very well. A doctor keeps asking me questions… I keep telling her I don’t remember a thing, which is for the most part, true.
I’ve always been a really good boy. I’m a law abiding citizen, I don’t drive fast on the highway, and I don’t even like to swear. But… there’s something about drugs and some things illegal that has always been alluring to me. Maybe it’s the danger involved. Maybe it’s the complete freedom, the scintillating feel of adrenaline rushing through my veins as I do something that excites me yet sedates me at the same time.
Maybe it’s the escape.
…
It’s been a blur, really, these past few days. I wouldn’t say that I’m as crazy as Johnny Depp’s character from that one movie… What was it? Fear and Loathing in LV… No, not as crazy as that… I mean, I never saw any devils, or went out of my mind or anything. It’s not like I’m some kind of druggie or anything. I just don’t remember anything that happened.
I think my last clear memory was when I was just starting to go up when a friend at the party offered a me a few bumps.
Of course, I accepted. Who wouldn’t? It was free!
Have you ever imagined yourself in a world made of plastic? Everything is super shiny, super defined. Your arms, hard to move, your eyes — strangely spastic. And sweaty. Sticky. Everything so very slippery and hot. Yes, a world of plastic that melted into a sea of human flesh rubbing up against itself.
Claustrophobia. Somehow I found myself in open air only to be accosted by the strangly sweet and inviting smell of cigarettes, cloves and marijuana all mixed together. I must have looked pretty bad (or good, perhaps?) because next thing I knew I was sitting down and someone was offering me a puff of something.
Of course, I accepted. It would have been rude push the person away.
Now, after this is when I saw her. At this point, I don’t even remember what she looked like. All I remember was that she was beautiful beyond comprehension.
Blankness, and somehow we were at her house. It was like I was on TV and suddenly the scene changed. Who knew? Groping, grabbing, heat, and lots of snorting is what I remember. Lines. More lines. Where was I again? Another line. What was my name? Just one more time, for old time’s sake. I swear I remember her from somewhere. Oh yeah! The club.
Next, the ATM. More money. More sacks, more lines, more little pills, more fungus, more powder, more bottles. Who knows what day it is at this point. As a true supporter of capitalism, I want to consume! You can’t blame me for that, can you? I’m just working with the system that this country thrives upon!
Binge. Consume. Ingest. There aren’t enough words to express… the feeling of utter gluttony of the mind. I became fascinated with a light. It was as if I was in slow motion. I tried to catch it, this ephemeral dream of a light. And then I knew darkness.
—-
And that’s how I ended up here, in the hospital, in this weird gown that doesn’t cover my backside very well. The doctor keeps asking me questions… I keep telling her I don’t remember a thing, which is for the most part, true.
It’s all been a blur, really.
// End Installation #2
Love,
Me.
best friends
What does it mean to be “best friends” with somebody? Does it mean you hang out with them all the time, tell them everything about yourself, and share all your experiences with each other? Does it mean you have some kidn of connection with them, deeper than what others can usually comprehend?
If so, it’s hard for me to say that I’ve had a best friend for long, though many people have held this title.
I think it began in kindergarten — this is where the long line of best friends began. I forget her name, now, but I remember that she was Indian. My mom didn’t really approve, but it went on, anyways. We would hide under the bushes at recess and make that our secret house and talk to each other on our banana telephones as if we weren’t less than two feet away from each other.
First grade — Anna. My first Vietnamese friend… However, a few months after befriending her I realised that our brains just didn’t work on the same level. Middle of first grade — Alice. This one’s an interesting one, because I don’t even think she ever knew that she was my best friend. She was very popular (and much taller than me), and she is probably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. I havent seen her since middle school.
In third grade my best friend’s name was Cindy. That is, until I punched her in the stomach and she had to go to the hospital. — Hey, she squished my ladybug house, what would YOU have done?
Fourth grade was strange, because I befriended somebody who had only recently come to America. When we first met, she didn’t even speak any English. Her name was Amy. She was strangly wizened for a fourth grader, which made me sad many times. I guess that’s what happens when you live in impoverished conditions for so long. I remember she made me cry.
Sometime in middle school I met Carolyn, a neighbor who ended becoming my closest friend in high school… Though we never called each other ‘best friends’. We went everywhere together, liked the same things, we even dressed alike.
—-
Through all this, I don’t think I really learned much about friendship until I met Kim. She became my close friend in high school. Even though we go to different schools now, we don’t share as much with each other, and we see each other only a few times a year, I still think of her as my best friend. Sure there are people that I hang out with all the time, people that I tell my problems to, but somehow I can’t forget her friendship.
What does it mean to be best friends? Does it mean you hang out all the time? Have all the same interests? Talk with each other about everything in our lives?
It seems like that’s the way it should be. But that’s not the way it is…. How come, then, does Kim still feel like my best friend?
How come every time we see each other it’s like we never left for college?
I think a best friend is more of an essence, a feeling that you get when you’re with someone that makes you feel bonded with them further than just an aquaintence, further than even a friend, but something so close it’s like having another sibling.
Yeah, like a sibling. I miss you Kim, my silly close as a sister all the way in berkeley, best friend.
Friday May 23, 2003 at 11:50 pm
Dear Friend,
Here is my first installation, it’s about a friend I had in high school. What do you think?:
—-
New faces, new people, new friends. I find it funny that my parents made me transfer schools to keep me away from friends that were so-called “bad influences” on me. Now the tables have turned — I am the so-called “bad influence” at this school.
It wasn’t long before I made some friends. Though it was long before I could open up to them.
I would always get the same weak consolations time after time. They’d say I have a perfect life. I’m told I’m beautiful. They say that they wish they were me. How come, then, do I wish to be anybody but who I am? Anywhere but where I am?
It’s strange how being alone makes you think of things that you don’t think of normally. I mean, if I were with my friends right now instead of at home waiting to pick my brother up from school I wouldn’t be thinking about my life.
Why is it that a house that can be so cozy and comfortable at times feel so big and empty? Even my dog doesn’t want to be alone. I absentmindedly stroke her ears as my thoughts drift along, each one getting darker, heavier.
My eyes fall on a bottle on my dresser.
It’s amazing how easy it is to slit your wrists when your body is filled with painkillers.
—-
Always,
Me.
Friday May 23, 2003 at 11:21 pm
Dear Friend,
I have an idea, I think I’m going to use this place to write short stories [true,half-true] about events that pop into my head through my point of view. People have such interesting lives, sometimes it’s nice to step into their shoes for a little while.
Me.
