Think

Today marks the first day I've been drunk, ever. It was a family gathering for dinner, and my aunt hauled in a barrel of German black beer (4.8% alcohol). Its taste was incomparable to the standard American golden beer, and I was in love. I planned to develop a higher alcohol tolerance in the summer before university, and this was a perfect opportunity. 

So within the two hours of the meal, I downed 5 tall glasses of that Coke-coloured black beer. Around the third or fourth, my relatives laughed at my reddening complexion. I touched my cheek with my palm, and was surprised to find it quite warm. I went to the bathroom and did a quick full body check. My eyes were a little red in addition to my flushed face, but the rest of my body felt fine. So this was the "Asian Glow". My mind was still clear, and I didn't feel any different besides my feverish face.

But slowly, I felt a little headache throbbing, not in the usual place near the sides of my head, but this headache was a deep discomfort that resonated from the very centre of my head. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable, and I forgot about it on and off throughout the evening.

As I played with my cousins--three girls aged 3, 8, and 14--I found myself laughing more often. I had more energy than usual, similar to that electricity that shoots through the body when one runs at night. I had wild desires to pick up my cousins, squeeze them tight, and spin them around in the air. I hummed tunes I hadn't thought about in years. I knew a little part of my consciousness was disapproving of my eccentricity, as I'm usually calm and quiet. I could feel her crossing her arms and shaking her head slowly, an exasperated smile on her lips. But I couldn't stop myself, or rather, I didn't want to. I made no attempt to consciously grasp my serious self, and instead, I laughed and smiled with people that I could finally call family.

But there was a fear. A fear that was like black water that pooled at my ankles, threatening to rise up and swallow me. While I was in an airy high, I could feel her watching me, peeking through her fingers, but at the same time I felt that black water. It was strange to feel three things all at once, but I didn't question it at the time. The water sloshed at my feet, creeping slowly, like falling pitch. "This lack of control over yourself," it whispered, "What if in the future you lose control at a higher intensity--then do things you'll regret? You're weak." I tried to push it away like I pushed away her, but no one can push water. My fingers just slipped through. The entire evening, the fear reminded me that there is a danger with this feeling, with alcohol. But with the future so poorly lit and unpredictable, I suppose it's for my own good to be cautious.

On the car ride home, I sat in the back seat and rolled the window all the way down. I stuck my head and fingers out and let the wind blow on my warm face. Shanghai has always been generous with lighting; every single building, high and low, was brightly decorated in lights of all colours. With quiet radio music playing in the background, I looked at the lights flashing by in silence. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the fact that I spent the whole day reading Murakami, or I was just particularly content this evening, but there was something surreal about the moment. I felt the lines between reality and fiction blur until I wasn't sure if any of it was real. "This," I told myself as the wind combed my hair back, "This moment is what you need to remember. The colour and sounds and smells of this enormous city. The city that could swallow you and never spit you out again. This feeling of blurring the line between what is real and what is all in your head."

One of the best things about dedicating yourself to a book series or television series (especially if it's fantasy) is that you completely lose sense of reality. You become disjointed from your usual life on Earth and your soul is somewhere else, across a fictional threshold. 

Feminism: noun, the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.

That's it. That's all I ask for. Equality. After decades of fighting for women's right, the disproportions between men and women are still blatantly obvious in the all of the three fields mentioned above: politics, society, and economy. Yet we don't hear much of it on the news anymore, there are no longer feminists screaming in the streets. Why? Because the media and everyone is tired of it. Women were given just enough rights to shut up, and this technique has lasted.

But it's the elephant in the room, and has been for too long. So I'd like to formally apologize for having two X chromosomes:

Sorry for being a woman because how silly was I to think I'd have a chance getting that promotion,

because it was stupid of me to think I had a chance on Wall Street,

because I'm physically weak, and therefore incompetent to do work,

because I'm not supposed to like things like football and video games,

because I live off of the desire to sexually attract men,

because I am not talented unless its related to my body,

because my role is to take care of the children and cook while my husband watches TV and I shouldn't have complained,

because I can't work as efficiently as men, so you were right not to hire me, 

because my sport is inferior to yours,

because I am vain and obsessed with material goods,

because I am pushy and bossy when I try to express my views,

because I tried to lead others but I am not a man,

because I use resources that should be preserved for men, 

because my father wanted to have another child so it'd be a son,

because I seek but deserve pity,

because I am not a man.

In my final hour of being--officially--a child, it only seems appropriate to reflect upon the symbolism that is associated with coming to adulthood. I've been trying to think about what it means to step out of childhood and being legally responsible for everything I do. I've been trying to be sentimental and profound about this.

But honestly, it doesn't really hit me. I'm trying to grasp the seriousness of the situation, but it slips through my fingers. Eighteen years is a small span of time to be a kid, and I have the rest of my life to be an adult. This label of being a teenager is what I'll miss the most, I think. 

I remember reading fiction as a twelve year old, and wondering what it felt like to be sixteen. It seemed to me that everything interesting happened to sixteen-year-olds. Adventures, romance, and epiphanies--they all happen then. When my seventeenth birthday rolled around, I felt a pang of disappointment. Had I missed the "golden year" of adventure? I remember shaking it off, telling myself a lot of good things happen at seventeen too. But here I am, almost eighteen, and nothing's really changed. A familiar tinge of disappointment taints my thoughts.

Suddenly, it hits me. Age and adulthood is a number and government classification. In my head, there is no such thing as age or time. There is development and learning, nothing else. 

I am not a good person, although I always try to be. 

They say when one is stressed, one's true nature is revealed. The most pure and raw form of someone's personality is laid bare on the table, like a turkey at Thanksgiving. Exposed and naked. 

When I'm stressed, I become mean and apathetic about other people's feelings.

I say things I normally would restrict upon. I don't get papers for people, I don't give supportive smiles. I feel no need to be conscious of emotions around me. I keep my head down and everything to myself--thoughts, possessions.

The obligation to smile at acquaintances in the hall vanishes. I make no attempts to laugh at my teachers' jokes. 

Quite frankly, I stop giving two shits about anyone. 

And I realized this today. How selfish, how cruel, how cold hearted am I really? I always try to be kind, funny, and friendly on a daily basis, but when I lose control of my emotions...do I lose control of my moral perspective? Am I two different people depending on my mood, or am I essentially evil to the core, but with sprinkles on top when I'm content?

Recently, I've been seeing a different side to stress, particularly stress in school. 

Consider this for a moment: stress is just an artificial limitation.

We hear about health effects of stress in articles and videos. Our friends complain about their work loads and the stress they're having. We have grown up believing that we have a limit, a moment where we have to stop working because "we're too stressed". 

What if I said that was a load of bullshit? What if that was a prank someone came up with and its usage went out of proportion? 

Be confident in yourself. In fact, you need to believe that you are better than the ordinary human. Your brain has no stress limit. Whatever your work load is, you can handle it, because being "too stressed" doesn't even exist. Seriously, what the hell does that even mean? You can handle the world. 

Your friends are complaining? Explain to them that nothing is impossible if you space out your work and stop wasting time. And don't say "I can't stop procrastinating" because we both know that's not true.

Speaking of procrastinating, there seems to be a secret competition on who can procrastinate the longest, because there is a joy in bragging about how fast you did your assignment, or how late you stayed up. There is nothing cool or funny about that. You know what's actually cool and funny? Watching everyone around you struggle to pull their assignments last minute while you're kicking back with a tub of ice cream and a movie. Don't be afraid of people calling you a "try hard" either because forget them, you'll be the one laughing soon---after a beautiful 9 hour sleep. 

Our only limit is the one that we place on ourselves. You have to believe that or you will continue letting yourself be overwhelmed. 

Don't complain about homework or your life problems anymore. Work on it, fix it, improve yourself. Ask for advice if you need to. Grow. 

The rumble of the subway echoes underground as your seat vibrates left and right. You sway, a little nauseous and weary. The bag on your lap threatens to jump off, so you readjust yourself and hold it tighter to your chest.

Someone coughs, followed by a laugh further down the train.

You sigh, but without reason. Glancing at the advertisements, you look at the faces and words, but nothing registers. You read them twice more. The next station is announced, and a wave of familiarity takes over for a moment. Yes, you know this stop.

You consider taking out your headphones and listen to some music, but you don’t feel like listening to the same songs as you did yesterday, on this very subway. So you don’t.

You catch a woman’s eye, sitting across from you, and both of you turn away immediately. The man sitting beside you shifts his weight and his arm brushes against yours. The train stops, and people shuffle in and out. You close your eyes for a long moment, then look around again.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, registers in your mind. You stare blankly ahead, without emotion, thought, or consciousness. Everyone around you does the same.

Suddenly you remember a story you once heard. The author said how everyone was losing their memory to the buses and trains and soon, we’ll all be emotionless drones that walk in and out of transits.

Slowly, you drift into a state of clarity. This is what everyone has become. Robotic machines that commute each day, without thinking. We stand separately, headphones in, books in our hands. We don’t speak to each other, each of us lost in a blank, white world. We are alone, even when surrounded by others. And the worst part is, we don’t mind.

The subway stops again. People file in and out, hurriedly. You wonder why everyone is always walking fast.

The doors shut, and someone new sits down next to you. She drops a quarter, and you pick it up for her. She says thanks. You turn away.

You cross your ankles, then uncross them.

Some time passes, and you doze off, drifting. Your stop is announced, and you wobble up to the door. You think about nothing.

Stepping off the subway, you look around.

She walks this earth always as someone else. When angry, she is her body without emotion. When with others, she is a character in a bigger story. She walks in the streets, conscious of her existence as she becomes a movie scene. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she imagines that being written in a novel. She does it again, artfully this time. She sees things from a camera, a stranger, a god.

Why do parents love their children? This question is something I've pondered for years. It's not to sound cynical or ungrateful, but what makes maternal and paternal instincts so strong? Is it because they're lineage, or parents see themselves in their children? Is it the thrill of creation, bringing something--all yours--into the universe?

But then something hits me. Is loving your own creation selfishness? Is that not an indirect way of loving yourself? Loving your child is loving what you've created, a method of boasting to yourself. Your child is a part of you, both physically and figuratively, and as a result, a child is a combination of love for two parts of a whole: both man and woman in a relationship. There is a sense of possession when you make something original and intimate; like the toy maker for Pinocchio. 

I need a boy who reads.

I want to sit in a quiet room with him, some ambient soundtrack playing, but we’re not paying attention. We’re lost in our separate worlds, completely taken away into another dimension. We’re so engrossed in our books that we forget hunger and thirst. 

We lose track of the time, and we don’t stop until someone breaks away to look at the other, to check on them.

And when we finish our respective books, we look at each other, our eyes shining with what we have just experienced. We slowly sink back into reality and realize each other’s existence and everything around us.

One of us starts saying something, and suddenly, both of us are cutting each other off in a frenzy, attempting to blurt out what we just had felt and lived. We might cry, or laugh, or just sit there, breathless as we try to recapture the book’s beauty for the other to enjoy as well. We reflect upon the evening and get temporarily lost again.

Then we spend the rest of the night telling each other our respective stories, characters, themes, thoughts, and feelings over a cup of tea. 

flipping onto the last page, she takes a deep breath

anxious, excited, yet dreading the end

her eyes soak the last sentence with concentration, 

greedy and unyielding.

the final punctuation gives 

closure.

yet she is oddly unsatisfied as she flips 

page after page into the acknowledgements, 

hoping, praying, seeking more 

she comes across the final pages of the spine, 

two blank pages side by side

she stares, waiting

for words to fade into place

or rather, for understanding.

neither come

her mind is in a daze, like when first awakening

from a deep sleep

nothing seems in place, nothing 

real, like a dream

and reality marbled together,

the edge of the universe

she shuts the book, the covers kissing each other

with a definite thump, a conclusion, a death.

mindless, thoughtless, she stares out her window,

as if waiting for something to happen

realizing she'd been lost, and

not wanting ever, to be found.

she fades, like smoke

and slowly, like pitch,

seeps

Recently, there's been a lot of anger, controversy, and talk about Abercrombie & Fitch's CEO, and how he doesn't want "uncool" and "larger" people wearing his company's clothes. 

I was in downtown Toronto the other day and I trekked through 4 blocks in 40 degree weather to Brandy Melville. To my great, great disappointment, I found out that Brandy Melville's clothing only has one size.

Now this, I find ridiculous, because BM is not an unpopular store, it's quite popular and well known. So A&F get all this crap about not accepting "larger" people, but Brandy can go about selling only one size? And let me tell you, those clothes definitely cannot fit more than a certain size--petite. It's absolutely unacceptable that BM is overlooked in the black list of fashion stores that discriminate, as I think not bothering to make bigger sizes is on the same level of crime as refusing to make them. The message I'm getting from Brandy is: if you're not "our size", don't shop here. Because nothing will fit, you big boned/overweight sucker. 

Yesterday I decided to do something I've had on my bucket list for a loooong time: to bake a layered cake, purely from raw materials.

So I finally convinced my mom to let me buy some ingredients at the grocery store and I spent approximately four hours baking this, with my dad breathing down my neck and grumpily disapproving my work (he doesn't like it when I try new things, apparently).

I baked a first layer, and flipped it out of the pan onto the plate, then flipped it again on a second plate to let it be upright. Then I popped that into the fridge.

This is the golden brown surface I gushed over:

Then I made the second layer and while it was baking, I made the icing (that was the easiest part).

So here is when my life crumbles apart (pun intended). I needed to flip it out of the pan again, but this time I only had one plate. So instead of flipping, I tried to slide it out, and that caused the cake to flip and break into 3 pieces. AND THAT WAS THE PERFECT CAKE TOO. So I cried for a few minutes and pieced it back together. That was my fist mistake.

Second mistake: I spread on the icing when the top layer was still warm, and that melted the icing into puddles of sticky cream. Anyway, after stressful minutes of piecing together the melting cake, I throw it into the fridge.

An hour later, it comes out like the ugly Beast but it had a beautiful soul. It was so delicious even my mom wanted seconds, and she usually hates sweets. So kudos to me. That was yesterday.

I have three things to do this summer that I'm really excited about. 

1. Donating blood.

2. Piercing my ears again.

3. Dyeing my hair full brown again.

Arguably petty, I know.

I finally convinced my mom to let me donate--after much argument about the health risks associated (there are none)--so I made an appointment after lunch and I was giddy with excitement. I went in with my mom, registered, got a hemoglobin test with a prick of the finger, and talked to a nurse. I was pleasantly surprised to find all the donation seats filled, with people of all ages and ethnicity, which gave me a glimmer of hope in mankind. 

However, my hopes and dreams were quickly crumbled when the nurse told me I couldn't donate because I had gotten my hep B shot two weeks ago, and the minimum is four. I literally felt heartbroken because I'd been waiting for this for so long. The soonest I can try again is in two weeks, but that is going to be a really frustrating two weeks after this. Goddammit just let me save 3 lives already!!!!

My mom took me shopping around in Hillcrest, which was nice of her actually (a nice skirt and blouse from Jacob and I bought myself a stone necklace and horned earrings from Aldo). 

Anyway, that is besides the point. There was a moment of self doubt and shame that overtook me when I was discussing something with my mom.

She offered for me to get my second piercing today, but that would mean I couldn't donate blood for another 6 months. I am ashamed to say that I seriously just considered getting the piercing today and fucking the whole donation thing. As much as I initially wanted it, being so disappointed today left me craving for an instantaneous pleasure, one that required no patience and was impulsive. My mom changes her mind a lot, so I wanted to make full use of this opportunity to get those piercings. She also said that in 6 months, I couldn't be able to donate because she doesn't want me doing anything during the school year. Knowing all this full well, I felt a wave of guilt for even considering to forget the donating thing. I almost chose a couple of piercings over saving other people's lives this year. Almost. 

I pulled myself together and told her I'd donate, then get piercings, then dye my hair in August. Seemed reasonable and probably the most logical sequence. I realized that I had to wait another two weeks, and honestly, that's nothing. But I couldn't shake the fact that for a long moment, I considered such a terrible thing.

Turns out I'm not as honourable and kind as I thought myself to be. That's the thing about reality, isn't it? It never meets your expectations, especially about yourself. 

If you've made it this far down this post, thanks for reading my blabbering nonsense.

I'm just really ashamed of myself. It's all well and good in the end, but I am horrified that not only did the idea exist in my mind, I debated its possibility for a long time.

This experience said a lot about my character, and I'm not impressed. Maybe I set my bar too high, or maybe I just need reconstruction.