A letter to the one I thought ruined my life forever

(Note: This letter was written in a moment of pure catharsis yesterday that my friend encouraged me to write in order to finally obtain closure over this one stupid boy that I’m sure I’ve mentioned countless times on this blog. I think it worked. Maybe one of you will take more away from it that I can. Oh, and I’m too lazy to change names, locations, etc., so there is a frighteningly realistic chance that the one to whom this letter is addressed may one day come across it.)

So. Today is Valentine’s Day.

I remember bumping into you in the main stairwell at BHS on Valentine’s Day. That was six years ago. At the time, things had cooled off between us since that night at the park and I realized there was no way in hell my dad would let me date you, and we hadn’t really talked in a while. But we greeted each other. I remember wishing we were Valentines that day.

I remember bumping into you at a frat party Valentine’s Day weekend during our freshman year at U of I. That was five years ago. Things got steamy on that couch. Then somehow you got into a fight with one of my friends, and her cousin threatened to beat the shit out of you. I called you at 3 in the morning to see if you were OK and you said it wasn’t a big deal. But I was concerned. I cared. Thinking about it now, I should’ve stopped myself then. Stopped that caring before it ever started.

Read more…


Let’s see…I got out of my history class early today. Came home around 3:30. Immediately checked on White Sox season opener; at the time, Sox were up 14-0. Also ate some leftover pinto I made last night.

So really, I gave myself about a half hour to wind down from the day. Meant to jump back into studying around 4:30…but for a good 2.5 hours, I either laid in bed daydreaming or avoiding my homework. I managed to start studying for my sociology exam Monday at around 7:20…and am now taking a break from it.

Rather upset with myself now. I was doing SO good this week. Not only did I manage to survive my first week of schedule hell (as previously mentioned, I am now burdened with a 19-hour courseload, work, and a new internship), I got all my homework in on time. And it was all quality work, too. Then yesterday I hit a bit of a snafu. I passed out immediately when I got home from my last class at 4, and didn’t wake up until 8:30ish. Figured I’d relax for an hour before hitting the books again.

Then, lo and behold, my friends started blowing up my phone around 10, 10:30. I ended up going out with them to a couple bars. One thing here I should mention: when I thought I wasn’t going out, I took an Advil around 10pm to relieve a headache I’d been having all day. I inconveniently forgot all about this, naturally, as an hour later I began taking shots, double fisting, and accepting free drinks from others. Needless to say, I was very very close to vomiting my brains out. My body is still reeling from the effects of last night, lol.

And now it’s almost 8pm on this Friday night. Whilst I had no plans of going out (was hoping to go to a gymnastics meet with my roommate since I can’t go tomorrow, but oh well), I am feeling rather lonely. It’s 8pm and neither of my roommates are home yet. I don’t quite like this, I don’t like feeling alone!! And what is it they can be doing without me?!

Spring break!

“Anak…please, don’t be tanga tanga!!” (Anak = child, tanga = dumb)

Ah, the parting words of wisdom my mother offered me tonight on Skype. I’m set to leave tomorrow afternoon with my roommates for our spring break trip. The plan is to drive to St. Louis to meet with our friend, who lives in the area and went home there earlier tonight. Then it’s off to Daytona Beach for the weekend, and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando on Monday! Then I’ll be back in Champaign Wednesday, and home in the suburbs Thursday,


Get, me, outta here!

The story goes like this:

My roommate and I are in line to enter the bar, our third for the night. We’re in the door and my roommate proceeds to hand the guy behind the cash register money. I watch nonchalantly as he hands her change, and then out of nowhere these two blondes cut in front of us, telling the guys working that they’d already paid cover earlier. Immediately the guys demand to see their stamps, because in order to re-enter the bar without paying cover again you had to have had your hand stamped before leaving. Meanwhile, my roommate and I are standing behind these girls, waiting for them to get through so that she can get through and I can pay my cover.

The blondes go in, and my roommate follows after them. Well lo and behold, the guy at the cash register immediately stops her and demands payment. Flabbergasted, my roommate says she literally just paid him, seconds before the girls had rudely interrupted. The guy doesn’t believe her and asks to see a stamp. Again, my roommate insists that she had literally just paid the cover and never moved an inch. This guy, whom I shall dub D.A. (for Dumb. Ass.), says she can’t go in without a stamp, and if she doesn’t have a stamp then she’s gotta pay up.

This is when I explode. I start telling the guy that we’ve been standing there the whole time and that I saw him hand her change just minutes ago. Things get a little hazy, mostly because of the adrenaline and alcohol that rushes through me at this point. I’m arguing with D.A., and he eventually stands up and starts intimidating me and gets into my face. For a moment I think about retaliating, but I restrain myself from doing something physical. The other guy working behind the door, handing out raffle tickets, sides with D.A. and even the boys behind us in line say they don’t remember her paying either. I am livid, furious, beyond pissed off at this point and try really hard not to start busting shit up around the place (I know I’m a “short little Asian girl” but don’t fucking mess with me like that). D.A. proceeds to try and kick us out, shouting, “Get these bitches out of here.”

Finally I go back outside to where the bouncers are. I go to the one who gave me my wristband and ask him, “We just got here, right? We literally just got our wristbands!” I explain, somewhat, the situation and they point me to a guy dressed in a black peacoat, who goes inside to fix the problem. He tells D.A. to let us in; D.A. eventually agrees to let my roommate in but not me. The guy in the coat basically asks me to placate D.A. and just apologize for “yelling” at him. I flat out refuse at first, then give him a halfhearted “Whatever, sorry” before shoving money in his face and storming into the bar.

I hate the male species. I hate this town. I have never been more ready to get the fuck out of college.

Nothing lasts forever

Lately I’ve been listening to a lot of music from my adolescent years. Replaying all my old CDs (Avril Lavigne’s Let Go and Hoobastank’s The Reason in particular), YouTubing “classics” from when I was an angst-ridden 14-year-old just trying to figure out what was going on with my life… And you know what I realized? I’m not just reliving memories and moods from my younger years — I think I’m actually living them again. Is this how life’s going to be? Cycles of emotion, change, experience, everything that goes along with the territory of being a human being over and over again?

The past 3 or 4 days have felt like a vacation for some reason. I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to another week of classes and homework and living day to day as if a bomb was ticking off somewhere. My internship interview last Friday went really well. I totally wasn’t expecting it to be a breeze, especially considering my low self-esteem and history of rejection. But I hit it off with my two interviewers (at least, that’s what I thought), and hopefully something good will come out of it in the coming week or so.

Life seems to have steadied itself for the time being. Being at home this weekend was refreshingly and surprisingly therapeutic. It was one of those ordinary, plain kind of weekends at home that you know you should cherish because they come so sparingly nowadays. I bought my brother Final Fantasy XIII for his birthday, and it looks so wicked but at the same time made me feel super nostalgic for the more classic PS/2 games (VII-X). Which gives me an idea. I have VIII with me here at school…

When I got back last night, I found out my roommates had bought a bottle of Bacardi 151. I was sincerely shocked.

They wanted to make a certain drink that Amanda found out about recently, and the 151 was one of the ingredients. That was OK with me, but apparently they didn’t realize that that particular Bacardi was FLAMMABLE with an alcohol content of 75.5%! I don’t know how we’re ever going to finish it. I can’t even fathom the idea of taking a shot of it straight up.