La cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point numéro deux


	December 31, 2005

"Marching Bands of Manhattan" - DCFC

My house is very special to me because it was contracted and built by my own family. The floorplan and all the materials in the house was selected and personalized by my family. Needless to say, it was hell to live through the process. For about an entire year we practically lived in the Home Depot just browsing through five different carpets (which my mother swore were all different). We learned the names of all of the employees. We were on a first name basis with the managers.

We were completely losing our minds, and my parents were damn near about to lose their marriage over which marble to use on the kitchen countertop.

But, like the contractors say: If your marriage can survive through a house, it can survive through anything.

In any case, I thought I'd take a few pictures of the house while the Christmas tree was still up.

An outside view of our house. The product of all of our torment. God, I don't even want to remember how goddamn long it took to choose the brick for this house.

Our foyer that is now sporting mom's latest faux oil painting venture. Can't say that I'm fond of the painting but in this house, mom is Jesus and we worship whatever she says because otherwise she will make our lives seem as if it were hell.

The family room with the ultra large television that no one can watch but Jesus (mom) and occassionally random leper guy who is kicked around by Jesus (dad). The first one is from the first floor and the second photo is from the the second floor since the ceiling of the room spans two floors. A bitch to find curtains for.

The living room where we never entertain guests in. This is not only because we are unpopular and no one loves us, but because we are unpopular and no one loves us.

The dining room which we also hardly ever use. However, when we do manage to use it, you can be sure that there will be lots of fine liquor involved. See that china cabinet? That's where we keep all our moonshine. Shush, though. Don't tell the authorities.

The almighty kitchen where the womenfolk (minus Jesus) slave away day and night to feed the man of the house. Actually dad is a lot more willing to cook then most men are, but his curious scientific nature has resulted in eternal banning from the groceries. Seriously. Mom has been known to cry and throw a hissy fit when dad touches the produce.

Speaking of dad's inquisitive nature, he has turned a good half of the basement into his own personal laboratory. This used to be the workout room where we all came together to decided not physically exert ourselves.

Our pool table. We also don't play pool very much. Well, dad does, but us womenfolk don't. A startling number of friends have commented that they would very much like to have sex ontop of the pool table, though, so I've been devising a means of profiting from my friends' overwrought and kinky libidos.

We turned our storage room into a storage room for the pingpong table. I feel very uncomfortable being in the room because the walls are still pure unadulterated cement. A very...concentration camp gas chamber 'please preoccupy yourself with a stimulating game of pingpong before we kill you' feel.

I think that my father has a television fetish. Perhaps it was because when he was little his family was so poor that he was forced to actually build one with his own two hands. In any case, when we were building the house, my father absolutely insisted that we have a projection-style television in our basement (the type that you have in movie theatres only a smaller version for the home). Dad won't let us touch it. It's his baby.

Now going upstairs to the second floor, we have dad working on disproving the Universe while mom takes a post-breakfast nap. I like how they're huddled around the fireplace that they've only used once. The result was a room smelling of natural gas and the fear that we were all going to spontaneously combust.

Dad's television fetish again. We have 10 television sets in our house total. None of which, are located in my room.

My sister's room. I've got nothing to say other than that I spend more time in this room than my sister actually does. First of all, she stole everything that was in my room prior to my leaving for college. Second of all, she has a room downstairs equipped with a karaoke machine, television, and plasma-screen computer. I feel deprived.

My room. It's the smallest room in the entire house. And the coldest. No, my parents don't abuse me nor do they only feed me onion skins. I chose this room because it is the only one in the house that has a vaulted ceiling. Because of that, I frequently sit around and don't look at the ceiling and then complain about how small and cold my room is.

This is my baby, a 2003 two-door Honda Civic with our boat in the background. It's been through one accident in which the other car was totalled (due to age, not due to damage). The driver of that car was also a classmate of mine. He had to drive his mom's feminazi van for months.

Mom's van. It's about about 8 years old and it's starting to show. For example, the locks are wonky and the kids who are sitting in the back always end up being the last to get out of the freezing sleet and rain (of course, mom could have done that on purpose, she is a bit sadistic). I'm waiting for this thing to age properly so that it can earn a makeover on Pimp My Ride. I'd love to see my mom meet Xhibit.

Dad's car. I hate it. I begged him not to buy it. On two knees. Ergh. It's so ugly.

The old playground that we built a few years ago for my little sister. I hope that no one plays on it any time soon because it's certainly considered a liability at this point in time.

And in final parting, a shot of our hillbilly wasteland. Ah Virginia. How grand and barren you are from tobacco overproduction.

God it's good to be home.


	11

December 31, 2005

"Kotodama" - Kagrra

One thing that I have never understood in the realm of personal webpages is this need for 'visitor content.' I mean, just what is this 'visitor content' anyway? Usually it's just a bunch of brushes named 'vintage' and 'grunge' slapped together with some LJ icons along with a few textures and wallpapers. If you get really lucky, you might run across a tutorial on how to 'oh-em-gee photoshop as great ~~or as poorly~~ as the webmaster.' Usually 'visitor content' is also the same as every other site that is linked in its links out page and usually there will be at least one blog entry centred on how everyone and their mothers is out to steal their 'work' (loosely defined as chicken scratch produced on a ripped version of photoshop).

Sometimes the term 'visitor's content' will even be shortened to just 'content' depending on the width of the sidebar on the standard div twin-textarea layout featured on the site. Occassionally (and this is if you're really lucky), people will even try to be 'artistic' (loosely defined as a mild aneurysm in which all sense of originality disappears) and use rare and advanced words like 'emo' or 'bleed' or 'suffer' or 'craptastic shit' to denote 'visitor's content.'

Frankly, in my humble opinion, 'visitor's content' on a blog is a waste of time. I don't agree with it and I don't see the point of it. It does absolutely nothing to pull you and your visitor's closer, and, if visitor's content is the only reason why people are visiting your site, then you must be gun-to-the-forehead boring. Plus, excuse me, but personal sites are supposed to be a shrine of narcissism to yourself. Why would you even want to be 'considerate' (loosely defined as blatantly two-faced and artificial) toward others on your site?

Repeat after me: Personal site.

Did you catch that? No? Okay, again:

Personal site.

Meaning: personal (meaningful to you) and site (shithole in some obscure corner of the Internet).

How, in any way, do brushes and LJ icons and wallpapers make your site more personal? If you are seriously so in need of returning visitors that you need to offer them 'goodies' (a synonym of 'visitor's content') as a pat on the ass for visiting, then I think you have serious life issues.

Meaning: you need to get one.

5

December 30, 2005

"Crooked Teeth" - Death Cab for Cutie

I find philosophy to be ultimately agitating and a complete and utter waste of time. I think that it probably ranks rather high in my list of worthless shit that happens to exist in this world today.

Now, let me clarify that I also think that people who don't have philosophical thoughts from time to time might as well drown themselves now to save themselves from the humiliation that is their own existence. I think that it is appalling that some people don't even stop to be interested in the state of the Universe whatever that state might be. This is not to say that everyone must carry a thesis of personal philosophy in their back pocket just waiting to be whipped out and compared, but it is to say that if you don't even wonder, then you might as well just die.

But philosophy as an occupation, or, in modern speech, also known as 'a bum's way to seem educated but is really a stupid cunt who has no potential in life other than to be a stupid cunt who pretends to be educated,' is meaningless, unproductive, and ultimately useless. Will someone tell me the last time a philosopher, a pure philosopher who absolutely does not deal with anything other than philosophy, ever made a difference in the course of history?

And whatsmore, have you ever met a so-called 'philosopher' in our own time that hasn't been completely useless in contributing anything other than philosophy books that no one buys to society?

Philosophy cannot be proved. If it can be proved, then it is called science.

Do you see the difference?

Philosophy: a way for dimwits to appear educated.

Science: a way for actually educated people to appear educated.

Metaphysics: a treehugger's way to secretly lobby for the rainforest.

But what I hate even more than just philosophers are teenagers trying to act 'deep' when they have absolutely no idea what they are talking about.

If you want to argue against Christianity, go read the Bible, the Apologetics, Ambrose, Augustine, and Aquinas (wow they all start with 'a,' I've never noticed that) before trying to pick a fight about it. Want to argue communism? Read Kant, Engels, and Marx before even thinking you know the first thing about it. And while you're at it, pick up a copy of Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, and Spinoza just for good measure.

And don't even get me started on feminism.

I don't care what your own fucking opinion is about religion until you've actually done some research. Me listening to kids ramble about the evils of the government and churches is like me talking to a toddler about car repair.

Fucking idiots. Just go die already.

0

December 29, 2005

"aquarian dance" - nujabes

Throughout my life I have managed to share surprisingly little with my parents. For example, they don't know what my favorite color is, what my favorite television show is, or what my favorite porno label is (believe me, there are blatant differences in quality). They refer to my friends by order of haircolor, or, if that flawless categorization system miraculously fails, by order of height. For example, I once had an albino friend whom my parents met one day in WalMart, and, ever since, he was known in the house as 'the white-haired one,' or, in the case of Chris, 'the blonde haired one with blue eyes who is also tall.'

It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and adjectivated inside whenever they refer to my friends like that.

In any case, my parents have never had a history of knowing what I do in my spare time, which, could very well be a good thing. For all they know I could be sacrificing the children of shepards to the Devil or working as a double agent for Muslim radicals hidden somewhere in the Afghani moutains when I'm 'just going out to catch a burger.'

However, one strange thing that they have managed to find out about me is that I can read tarot cards.

You know, those decks of cards with the trippy pictures on them that are fourteen too many to play a good game of strip poker with?

In any case, I picked the vocation up back in middle school when I was looking for a few good party tricks. Actually, it was for an English report on the comparitive accuracy of various forms of divination, which also worked well as a party trick (and believe me, I have used them at parties and they are quite the hit).

In any case, you know how Chinese people use feng shui? Well, it's not actually because they want fortune and prosperity and enjoy gaining them by hauling their furniture around. It's because they're actually superstitous kooks who haven't been enlightened by the wonderous glory of Jesus Christ almighty and they are heathens and they should be burned at the stake like a well-done roasted pig. With radishes of course. Jesus, you can't have a proper witch hunt without radishes.

So anyway, my parents are such superstituous people. Hell, not only my parents but everyone in my family. And, as soon as they found out that I could read tarot cards, I have since been crowned the 'wise village hag' figure of the house (you've got to have at least one within driving distance). I'm surprised they haven't tried to sacrifice me a goatling to show me their reverence for my 'incredible powers' yet.

But I really am giving myself too little credit (as I often do, ah I'm so modest).

I do have to admit that I have a rather high accuracy rate for just putting down pieces of paper and spurting a bunch of gibberish. 90% accuracy to be precise. Though, I do have a knack of miscalculating death dates rather regularly (a minor error). All of this, of course, results in scenerios like these:

The time is a few months ago and I'm just sitting around basking in the greenish afterglow of a horrendously prepared dining hall dinner when the phone rings. And my, who could it be?

Well, it turns out to be my aunt.

Second sister to my mum and the mother of the cousin who kissed me this past Christmas to be precise.

And what does she want?

Well apparently her company's been going a little loco lately and she wanted me to tell her whether or not she should leave. And this is all happening at nine in the evening over a long distance phone call above the pile of junk food wrappers also known as my desk.

Excuse me?

You want me to tell you your fortune over the phone? Now?

Now some of you might be flattered to be so trusted by relatives 20 years your senior over such an important step in life such as this, but for me, someone who is more than used to deciding matters of the family for them with my handy-dandy $25 Thoth deck bought from an S&M shop off the coast of South Carolina, I found it incredibly annoying.

If only I had a dollar for each time I was woken up at some god forbidden hour in the morning just to read my darling grandmother her fortune over a thin telephone wire travelling below the Pacific.

"No, Grandma. Your new pet fish is not going to die. It's just sleeping. What? Yes fish sleep. No, I'm absolutely sure. It says so here in the freaking cards. Yes the cards. Okay. Okay. Goodnight."

Ah. The hardships of being a gypsy. I better get someone prettier than Quasimoto for this.

7

December 27, 2005

"So Cold" - Breaking Benjamin

This past Christmas has been the best fucking Christmas. Ever.

'Best fucking' as in coming right out of Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas and not 'best fucking' as in Care Bear Powerpuff, mind you.

First of all, I got to see my aunt and uncle and cousin who never come down because they're all married to this weasel thing that they call a ferret. My personal feeling about animals in general is that we should slay them, cook them, and then make super expensive designer clothing manufactured in the sweatshops of Malaysia out of them.

But that's just me.

In any case, four years of not seeing them has apparently made them a little loopy. Or alcoholic. Of course, not in the 'beat your wife and kids until your spouse cuts your penis off while you're drunk' sort of alcoholic, but the 'let's buy our beloved relatives a nifty cool barware set' sort of alcoholic.

God, I love family.

It's too bad for us that we're Asian, and, as Asians, we have nothing in our house that we could possibly make a good tasting mixed drink out of. All we had was some beer, wine coolers, sake, and rice liquor that consisted of 80% alcohol. And, while it is great and humbling to be in the presence of something so alcoholic that three shots could make you roll over and start foaming at the mouth, it does not provide us with a good opportunity to use our new barware set.

It was also too bad that it was Christmas and no store was even remotely near opening. But somehow we managed to convince a few of the legal drinkers to take us out to search Russian potato alcohol anyway. Of course, we didn't find any. But when we got out of the car, we saw a shooting star.

It must have been God's way of reassuring us that he'd find us another means to get drunk despite our horrible predicament.

So then my cousin and I thought: well, how bad could rice liquor, orange juice, club soda, and limes taste?

And our answer: very bad.

But it was late at night, we were watching this awful movie that American critics actually applauded (figures, Americans really have no taste when it comes to martial arts movies), and we were bored out of our wits.

So we stole the rice liquor from the china cabinet, mixed it up with a shitload of fruit juice, and just started downing away. Now, rice liquor is not vodka or tequila. No, rice liquor is the kind of stuff that St. Bernard dogs would carry around with them on their necks to shock frozen over humans stranded in the middle of a winter wonderland out of their stupor if it were cheap enough. Needless to say, it tasted like shit. But we just kept drinking.

It was for the sake of Baby Jesus. I swear.

So my cousin and I got totally shitfaced. In the basement. Next to my 8-year-old sister.

And then things started to get a little weird.

You see, my cousin is female, two years my junior, and my cousin.

And. She kissed me. In a not-so-friendly-cute-innocent way. All of which would be fine as I have no problems with kissing a girl.

Except. She's my cousin.

What did I do, you ask? Well. I just kept eating Belgian truffles as if nothing had happened.

Luckily, absolutely nothing came out of it, and I'm just going to blame it on the fact that she was drunk.

However, let's just say that I will never, ever think of Belgian truffles in the same light again.

12

December 24, 2005

"Lonely in Gorgeous" - Tommy February6

So yesterday I was just loitering around on the Internet when I thought that it'd be a nice thing to make a gift layout for everyone who uses journalspace since I frequently post writing there, and, surprisingly, people actually read and comment there. So in other words, journalspace is filled with wannabe writers just like me. Now, the demography of this colony of deranged and psychologically unsound bunch of wannabe writers is signficantly older than the rest of us.

How old?

Well let's just say that a few of them could rightfully use their senior citizen discount cards.

In any case, this colony of deranged and psychologically unsound and old bunch of wannabe writers are forced to use the most horrid-looking templates, because, well, they're old (okay so that's a really bad reason, but do you see your grandmother making Britney Spears layouts?). And, me, being the vain little Asian princess that I am, thought that it'd be nice to bring them the wonders of a two-columned and semi-decent looking tables layout.

Because you absolutely can't go parading your writing and personal life around in those drabby layouts. Why, don't you know, it doesn't matter how good your content is, it's all about appearance these days.

So anyhow, I posted a half-decent layout on the site up for free grabs to anyone who used journalspace. Hell, I was even super vain about it and used on it on my own journal first just to demonstrate ~~how vain and pretentious that I am~~. In any case, a lot of people liked it and a few people told me that I should charge for layouts. Of course, this amounts to the same thing as your grandparents patting you on the ass and telling you that you ought to go into the lemonade business because your stand didn't get run over by the big mean pick up truck.

But I guess someone thought that it would be a good idea, and I actually got contacted to make a layout. Now, if you've been keeping up with my blog, you would know that my mother has been bugging me recently about making some money. Or, in other words, getting some talent.

So I thought that I'd show her up one and flash my super layouting powers of doom, which, everyone can resist quite easily.

It really was a bad idea.

I labored and toiled over the layout for hours on end. It was quite excruciating. In fact, I'm sure that my mother laughed at me and my father called me a bad communist and my sister stole my grapes while I wasn't looking. The bastard.

But, anyway, I did manage to finish it. And now I will show it to the world:
Wow I feel vaguely like one of those three year olds who just dragged their mother into the bathroom to look at their poop.

"Look everyone! Look at the production of my 'hard work'!"

You know you love looking at my feces.

8

December 22, 2005

"Bug a Boo" - Destiny's Child

As an avid reader of the Narnia Chronicles as a child, I absolutely knew the second I saw Tilda Swinton's sexy middle-aged ass that I had to see the movie. I suppose you could say that Narnia Chronicles were the only classic series featuring make-believe animals that I ever finished reading. That was either because 1) it was enjoyable to read or 2) it was the only series of fantasy books that I was given by someone who felt sorry that we were too poor to buy books.

Actually, I truly did enjoy reading the Narnia books. Sure, I don't remember shit about what happened in them now (something about mice and onions, I think), but I do remember that they were absolutely confusing and impossible for a fourth grader to understand fully. I guess the fourth graders who went to Bible study might have understood it, or not understood it but saw the underlying Christian ethics of it all and thus were enlightened by it. But I do remember barely getting through the books because of the style of writing and vocabulary.

Or maybe I just have a alzheimer's and The Silver Chair was really a breeze to read.

In any case, I took my little sister out to watch the movie last night, and, I have to say that I sort of am disappointed. Oh sure, she loved it, but we take her to the cinemas rarely enough that she loves every movie that she sees that comes with popcorn and a large soda.

First of all, I loved Tilda. She was a wonderful White Witch. Her acting was great and I loved her wardrobe (no I'm not vain). She was everything and more that I envisioned the White Witch to be while reading the books. She was badass and sexy and androgynous. Point made, let's move on.

Second of all, I also loved whoever played Edmund, because he has the emo-rebel thing down. I wonder if he'll grow up to be the lead singer in an indies emo band. They can write a song that goes something like: "The big talking lion loves my brother more." In all seriousness, though, Edmund has always been my favorite because he wasn't perfect (Jesus, who gets things right the first time nowadays anyway). The freckles boy did a great job in annoying everyone and making them all want to strangle him for being a cowardly shit. Good job, Edmund!

Finally, the other kid actors were terrible. Well, not terrible, as I don't watch movies enough to be a good judge in acting, but, they were all so annoying. Now, the annoying thing works for Edmund boy because he's dark, short, and brooding. He's supposed to play like a broken record and piss everyone off. Everyone else has to make the audience fall in love with them and fear for their safety! I, on the other hand, wanted one of those birds to drop a rather large rock on all three of them.

The special effects were great, yes, but nothing makes up for the lack of endearing qualities in the characters. No, not even large, simulated, talking lions.

Oh and Tumus, your kidnapping skillz need work. Call me up and we'll work on refining your style.

3

December 21, 2005

"Stable Song" - Death Cab for Cutie

I have issues with saying the l-word when it pertains to my sister.

It's strange because using the l-word has never been particularly hard for me. For example: I l-o-v-e pretzels (even though in all reality I think they're the antichrist and should be excommunicated from the Church). And I l-o-v-e Angelina Jolie (even though I think she's a hippy slut who adopts little kids from foreign places to get on the good graces of drug lords). I l-o-v-e my parents (at least I do now that I don't have to be in direct contact with them for two thirds of the year). But I suppose I don't l-o-v-e my sister.

In fact, I feel like I'm about to choke on my own esophagus whenever I'm about to say it. Let's demonstrate:

I l-*COUGHCHOKEDIE* my sister.

It's not that she's a terrible kid or because she's got a huge wart the size of a baseball on her forehead. In fact, most of my friends use the c-word to describe her (cute not cunt, mind you). She can be sweet and thoughtful when she needs to be, and, I guess in many ways, she's as normal as the rest of her babbling peers.

So, after much thought, I've finally concluded that I can't l-o-v-e my sister because she's a captialist. Please note that capitalist here means 'greedy bourgeois pig who would sell his or her own parents to the labor camps to get an extra quarter or two' and not 'the stupid masses of Americans who are so enthralled with business propaganda that they don't even notice the throngs of slave labors suffering under their feet.'

The second definition could also be shortened to 'Bush-supporters.'

In any case, my sister is, without doubt, spoiled.

My greatest regret for her is that she did not grow up suffering through the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution on a farm without medical care or plumbing. Every year, I beg my parents to temporarily lend her out to an agricultural district in some distant corner of Tibet. There, not only would she realize the value of money and hardwork, but also increase the number of blood cells her body produces from the high altitude.

It'll be like killing two birds with one stone.

Now, I wouldn't say that I h-a-t-e my sister. I suppose on some innate level, I really do l-o-v-e her.

Which is why I'm currently signing the papers for her to be deported from the country and sent into the labor camps of fascist China.

Because you only hurt the people that you love.

And, it'll only be for three years.

5

December 21, 2005

"Three Peaches" - Neutral Milk Hotel

Being with my mother is very often a trying experience.

It's not trying in the 'control the urge to strangle her' sense but it's trying in the 'control the urge to shoot myself in the head' sense. I suppose you could say that she's got an air about her that screams: 'bitch please.' Now, this usually isn't so bad since most people who bitch a lot are usually wrong or just complaining or lamenting fate or something stupid like that. But it really sucks when everything that the person bitches about is true.

You know that saying about how parents are always right?

Or wait, maybe that one was about customers.

But in any case, my parents are always right (except for when it comes to calculus homework). Now, I suppose that I wouldn't have an issue with how right they were all the time if it weren't for how they are right. It's like quartering and capital punishment, incest and premarital relations, Victoria's Secret and your mother. It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't belch out their righteousness like Christian Crusaders plundering Muslim campsites.

But I digress.

Being with my mother is trying because she's demanding. And communist. And her grandfather was a polygamist.

Wait. That doesn't have anything to do with this.

Anyway, my mom was just rambling about how I'm eighteen, talentless, and minimum wageless, which, is correct. Then I thought that I'd play crack heroine for the day and stick up for myself by telling her that I can design and code websites. Even I'd have to admit that that's pretty damn pathetic to be calling a talent~~, but I really didn't want her to know about how I'm the best Asian porn star this side of the Great Divide~~.

Then mom perked up and told me to make money off of my 'talent.' Now, lots of people do this, yes, and, I guess it wouldn't be so bad to sell layouts if it weren't for the fact that the only thing I ever wanted to do with my life was sit around and watch gay men go at it like rabbits who have just gotten back from an asexual reproduction seminar. I have little to no desire to fill orders pertaining to some teenager's emo ass obsessions.

"Oh Conor Oberst, I love you because I'm so pathetic and ugly that no one that is within a 12 kilometer radius will date me so I am reduced to masturbating to your voice while I order this super sexy and trendy layout of you from some poor Asian immigrant chick."

But that's only on a good day, I suppose.

In my current situation, with my incredible drive to be recognised by the prestigous online society of teenagers with no lives, I will probably not get any orders all.

Hasn't everyone heard? Sweatshop employment is uncool, online or offline. Don't hire this girl! With her Asian heritage and immigrant background, that's practically as bad as drinking tea and eating slave laborers with white supremicists.

Actually, it's probably just that I don't want to come to terms with the fact that I suck and no one would purchase from me.

But still, like they say: "Denial is the first step to schizophrenia."

4

December 21, 2005

"Shout (Street Respect)" - Sean Paul

The probelm with living in a house with six bathrooms is that you actually have to clean all of them. And, since I am the youngest member of my family that is able to wield the almighty toilet bowl brush without falling into the actual bowl, I am always stuck with the job.

Needless to say, bathroom duty sucks.

It's not as if anyone in my family has chronic and uncontrollable diarrhea or anything. It's just the whole process of getting down and dirty with the urine stains in the thing. The toilet itself doesn't smell that bad, but Christ, for the love of capitalistic profits, someone tell the toilet bowl cleaner companies that the scent of shit on shit is definitely not doing anything for their sales.

Luckily today I only had to clean five bathrooms, because my mom thought she'd punish my dad by demoting him from lawn mowing duty to cleaning the cold as balls bathroom in the basement.

It really says something about a family when social rank is based off of which chores you're assigned to do in the house.

You see, me, being the lowly servant-girl, I am assigned to washing dishes and cleaning toilets for an indefinite amount of time. Perhaps until my parents are sent to the nursing homes or until I have a 'coming of age' moment, in which case I would be promoted to vacuuming. Ah, the prestige.

My mother, being the matriarch of this tiny political unit I'd like to dub "Communist Asian Graduate Students who are more Fascist Immigrant Chic than you," only has to dust lightly around the house and drive the kids to spy on other capitalistic political units, otherwise known as the activity of 'soccer practise.' Silly Americans, and they think that the game was for good natured fun. How did they ever outlast the Soviet Union?

My father, finally, being the bread winner, but, being a scholar, is naturally below my mother, is sentenced to an eternity of lawn mowing, even though he's fatally allergic to nature. Serves him right for being a smart ass and for trying to disprove Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity.

Oh and my sister. We're just fattening her up so that she can haul us to work by chains attached to hooks pierced through the skin of her back.

Now why aren't Americans more like us?

1

December 20, 2005

"Until the Day I Die" - Story of the Year

So a few days back mom took my sister and me shopping for Christmas presents, mostly because I had conveniently forgotten that Christmas also meant giving presents. I've never been very big on the whole gift giving thing. It's always been full of weird pauses in which mental questions like these are asked: "I wonder if so and so already has one? I wonder if someone else got her one already? I wonder if she'll like it?"

And, of course, the ultimate question: "Would you like a gift reciept with that?"

Christmas, in general, is a hassel for me. I am not a white Chrisitian who wants to praise the inexact date of Jesus' birth. In addition to being thoroughly not-white, I am also not Jewish, African, or Muslim, which, conveniently, cuts out Hanukkah, Kwanza, and Ramadan as well. But hey, I'm not going to complain about the capitalist man's decisions about when to make big profits. That just means time off and not-needing to devote ourselves to some higher power for us atheist Asians basking in the festivities of white, Christian America.

So, we went out to the mall, which, is a feat in itself considering how far away we live from one. We started the process with me forgetting the holiday mood of generosity and charity and starting to shop for myself. A nifty handbag from a ritzy New York-based company later, mom informs me that she wants the $50 dollar purse that she keeps seeing at Belk that never goes on sale. Since mom wields the power to my bank account (which, I worked hard to fill with art scholarships meant to make me more inclined to do art but instead got spent on things like ipods), I thought that I better play along lest I end up with nothing to spend in college.

It was all downhill after that.

After I splurged on mom's purse, I then got dragged to buy my little sister a present. That, of course, led to my father's present and eventually my cousin's present. All of that piled on top of my mom failing to give me enough money for ice cream (which, she was supposed to treat us to) and thus me having to dig into my own poor college student pockets for, amounted to a rather hefty sum for the holiday season.

Damn you baby Jesus. Damn you and Mary's vagina that gave you birth.

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December 20, 2005

"Hello" - Evanescence

Three years ago I was a sophmore in high school. Shy, quiet, reserved, morbid, the type of psychotic girl would would most likely pull a semi-automatic machinegun on the algebra teacher for forgetting to add in the parenthesis bracket. I suppose 'emotionally disturbed' would be the wrong term to use for my case then, though. 'Impatient,' or 'militant' might have been better descriptions of the person that I was.

But in any case, I was a sophmore in high school.

Freshly given up on any notion of love and in love anyway with my best friend, tired and weighed down by the parents, forced to study dead white man's history, and in need of decent amounts of gay porn, needless to say, I wasn't a very happy camper. Between being stalked simultaneously by two rather unattractive men and being in love with one that wouldn't even give me the time of day was rather detrimental to my sanity.

In any case, three years ago was when I started blogging seriously. It wasn't the fluffy types of blog that recounted how I had amazingly figured out how layers worked on photoshop or about how Kyo, the vocalist of Dir en Grey, was my dream date according to Quizilla survey number 148345. At that point blogging actually became about writing down my life.

Now switch to three years later and I'm still blogging.

Thank god I'm not in love with my best friend anymore and the stalkers are tucked away in areas of the country that I don't know how to spell. I'm a freshman in college. Still in love with my exboyfriend.

But then again, ghosts have always been easier to ignore than the living.

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