You Know Who You Are

Facebook.

Admit it you have one.

Or rather, admit that you don't really remember your life without Facebook.

Okay, maybe the latter two don't really apply to you, it was just an indirect way to state that I:

A. have a Facebook.

and

B. I don't really remember my life without Facebook.

But let's put my unreasonable obsession with social networking aside and talk about the one blackhead in the clear skin that is Facebook.

Notes.

Yes notes. Not just any notes in general, but the notes that make you cringe when you read them. The heart searching, soul wrenching, personalpersonalPERSONAL diary-esque notes.

The notes about how much you hate someone, (who tactically, also happens to have a Facebook and can read these rants) how much you're madly in love with someone, (again, the subject happens to have a Facebook) and even the poems/song lyrics about the depths of your black heart and how you're going to cry yourself to sleep if your beloved doesn't write you back on Myspace.

This is harsh, but it's the truth: NO ONE CARES.

I understand the need to write about some of this stuff, but PLEASE. Make it private? Write in a journal, a diary, open up a Word Document on your computer. Set up a blog and don't tell anyone about it!

I don't know if this is just me, but I would sort of feel embarrassed to be spilling out the entire contents of mind and heart for everyone to read and gossip about during lunch the next day.

And yes, I don't HAVE to read these things, but seriously. They're on Facebook. They're going to be read by someone, eventually.

C'mon, if you really want attention this bad, come to school wearing a Big Bird suit with Christmas lights and a leather skirt; at least then, I'll get a real laugh out of it.

...

Sorry if this seems to be a more a more angry and poorly written post than before, just needed to do a little keyboard bashing.

EW... gross!

We've all been a part of the fear fest.

Either we're floating on our backs in the pool, sitting in your desk at school, or just plain ol' standing around when we spot it. Quickly we jump out of our current positions, shriek, and try and flick the thing away from the vicinity of us using as little of our body surface to touch it.

What is this accursed, vile, hated object?

A small ball or a few strands of real... HUMAN....

hair.

That's right people, hair. You know, it's what makes us part of the mammalia class. (Well that and our mammary glands... but that's a whole nother post.)

So why are we so afraid of what basically makes us that much better than the reptiles and the bugs?

I mean honestly, pretty much all of the misplaced hair we come across originated on the top of someone's head.

Seriously, how gross can someone's head get? It's pretty high up there, unlike your feet or even your hands which come in contact with some pretty gross things if you stop to think about it. (But don't think too deeply about it, the things you come up with could scare you.)

And when taking a shower, the hair is the part that gets the most personalized washing and care. You don't see any body wash bottles with the label, Wash, Rinse, Repeat, do you? Plus, those wonderful tresses are in the direct range of the hot water.

You might think that I'm just being evasive about the real truth of how gross hair can get, but to be honest with you, I can't think of one good reason for the squeals and jumps that people tend to emit when coming in contact with one harmless hair.

... what do you think?

The Golden Gate Bridge, Mummies, and Crayfish

First off:

Thanks for all the encouraging comments, it really helped me feel better about the fact that I am only a speck of krill in an entire ocean of bloggers.

And I also want to apologize for my absence, the past week I was without the use of a computer for more than 5 minutes in Northern California. So for those of you currently sweating over the absence of reading my brilliant blogposts cold turkey, don't worry! I am back. :)

And now, back to the good stuff.

CALIFORNIA!

It's been a while since I've been to the good ol' Golden State. Silly me, I packed my new swimsuit and towel in the hopes that I could bask in the warm, white sandy beaches and finally vanquish this disgusting tan line I've acquired from swimming 4 days a week for eight months.

Nope, none of that. In fact, since I spent most of my time in Nor Cal, I was reduced to shivering in the back of the car, hugging my Korean food stained sweatshirt.

It's a pretty picture, isn't it?

But I guess it wasn't all bad. I got the chance to visit two of my top choices for college. Berkeley and Stanford. (A little early I know, but my parents are stereotypical Asian parents, what can I say?)

Wow. I know that I'm supposed to be enjoying the "best years of my life" (Aka, high school, supposedly) but I cannot wait to be old enough to spend my open hours lounging in the sun, sipping coffee from the local independent coffeshop (Boo Starbucks!) while working on my homework on my brand new MacBook.

Yeah yeah, I know I'm romanticizing the whole college thing, but there has to be some coffee sipping, sun bathing, MacBook-ing in there, right?

And of course, I couldn't be in San Francisco without checking out the ever famous, Golden Gate Bridge.









California also made reminded me that I hate living in a landlocked state, where else (other than the zoo) would I find these beautiful creatures?

Note to self: After I die, I want to come back as a seal as all they do in life is swim, eat fish, and lay on rocks. Also, they get to bark as loudly as they want, and no one will think they're impossibly insane.













Another thing we are sorely missing in the Land of 10,000 Lakes: An In-N-Out.












...

I have a confession to make, I saw The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor...
and I LIKED IT.

That's right, in spite of all the biting remarks by those uppity newspaper reviewers, I enjoyed watching dead rising from the... dead, dashing adventurers in clashing swordfights, and explosions galore.

And as long as we're on the subject of my discord with reviews that are not my own, guess what my favorite Indiana Jones movie is?

THE SECOND ONE.

C'mon you guys, you have to admit it. Evil, shirtless Indy? That has to make up for a lot. (Don't worry that's not my only reason for favoring the sequel.)

Moving on from movies... (Is that a pun? MOVing on from MOVies?...)

I helped little kids catch crayfish today.

Have you ever caught one before?

It's strangely liberating and gross at the same time.

Why??

I have a question for everyone out there, reading this blog.

Why are you reading this?

Is it because you just happened to stumble upon it? Because you pressed the "Next Blog" button at the top of your own page and I was it? Or because you're my stalker?

My dad says that I'm a good writer, that I have a "real talent." Well, I obviously can't believe him because, well, he's my dad. And if I wasn't a good writer, it would look bad on his part, as his genes played a pretty big part on how I turned out.

I'm not going to trust my teachers on this rather serious subject. They'd just grade from the technical aspect. And who says that I even want a letter grade for my writing?

And I'm not grading myself. That's too weird.

Is anyone even reading this? When I think about the millions of blogs out there, it's sort of easy to see how my own could go unnoticed.

I'm like the uncapped ballpoint pen at the very back of your desk drawer.

Do I even matter?

Passing the Slower Days Of Summer

The summer is almost over.

...

Okay, maybe I'm jumping the gun a little here. I mean, I still have a month left right?

But I can't help but feel that this last month is going to go by faster than a little kid running for candy.

Then there are those days when I'm blase, ennuied, listless, uninterested: BORED.

Those days feel endless.

For those other [insert synonym for bored here] people out there, wandering aimlessly on a hot, sunny day; I've found some websites that will keep you entertained, at least for a little while.

Of course, you've got to go outside and enjoy the weather before you have to turn the heater on.

http://www.photofunia.com/

Ever wondered what your face would like on the cover of Vogue magazine? Plastered on a wall? Or even in the Mona Lisa? This fun tool let's you upload a photo of yourself and it will very cleverly put your face on any of 50-ish situations and scenes.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Unusual_articles

For the majority of people, encyclopedias don't usually incite interest. However, we all know that Wikipedia isn't like most encyclopedias. On this page, there are are hundreds of links to the most entertaining articles on Wikipedia. Where else could you learn about Jesus' crucifixion and his raising of a family in Japan, RAS syndrome, and find a list of chemical compounds with interesting names?

http://icanhascheezburger.com/category/lolcat/

You don't have to be a cat person to laugh hysterically at the photos on this page. Characterized by the mispelled captions, the lolcats are something that could keep one infinitely interested.

Making the Most of the Summer

958 Days Left

I wonder if it is too early to be having a mid-life crisis.
I suppose that if I am already going through this stage, my days will be over at age 30.

But I can't help but feel as if I am wasting the days of my youth, the halcyon ages. I'm afraid that one day, when I'm 35 I'll look back and wish that I had enjoyed it more... the whole childhood thing.

It's a common fact that when you're a kid, you can't wait to grow up... but when you're all "grown up", you can't help but wish that you were 6 again, and free to fingerpaint and shove sand down another kid's pants.

What have I accomplished in the first 15 years of my life?

...

Nothing worth mentioning. Sure, I have moments that I'm proud of (winning the school spelling bee, getting Champ cuts in swimming) but in the grand scheme of things, my gut feeling says I've inadequately used the time I've been given to really enjoy my life.

In the US, the age of majority (the threshold of adulthood as conceptualized by law) is 18. That means that I have less than three years to really take charge of the freedom given to me the moment I got my first view of the world (most likely a hospital ceiling and a bright light.)

Of course, if I reach the age of 18 and I still do not think that I have resourcefully used my time as a young'un, I'll move to Mississippi, where the age of majority stands at 21.