You know those days when nothing goes right? Perhaps you overslept and had to rush out the door looking like a complete baboon, or maybe you spilled coffee on your favorite shirt. Then you forget there's a test and breeze through not because the content is manageable, but because the words all look like crumpled jargon in the disoriented galaxy of your brain. The bad news just keeps layering on; it is the perfectionist's nightmare.
Sometimes, when days like this approach me, it is difficult not to instill a sense of hatred in my heart. A hate for all times complex, a hate for a certain class, a certain teacher, or maybe even a hate for the fellow classmate who stole your idea or asked too many questions.
Maybe the word "hate" is much too heavy to be used in the regular context of life, but its head uproots, if only briefly, when all the annoyances of the day meld together. It is only in that instant that we recognize its power.
History tells us that hate is an obscene concept created by man. But history doesn't happen until it happens to you. Only recently did I realize that hate for someone or something is the most despicable, and most uncomfortable feeling that has ever existed. It rises from its shriveled form and expands, inhaling all matters of emotion until one feels empty, the mere shell of the person present just moments before. My conscience is not clear, thus, I feel this acute pain afterward, and I question how much of a decent human I am.
We like to think of ourselves as good and kind and as normal as possible, but that brief moment when hate erupts makes us think otherwise. Will we ever have a time when that hate consumes our every positive trait? I feel as if there's an evil element embedded in everyone of us, only intruding on our dominant mental capacity for short spans of time. But it lies dormant, yet still present. And I think that foreign element of myself scares me the most.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Review: High School Attitude
Not to sound pretentious, but surely I am not the only one who thinks high school is just a little bit overrated, a little bit immature, and a little bit annoying? Well actually, increase the magnitude about 1000X and that's my interpretation.
Of course, the learning atmosphere is satisfactory...but am I the only one who thinks sex jokes, incessant gossip, beyond animated, to the point to annoyance, characters are sickening? It's senior year, which means time to grow up.
The beauty of high school is that it offers us time to grow, to discover insecurities, reawaken flaws and combat negativity. But there's a certain limit to which the school can take before it's clouded with teenage angst and stinging remarks.
High school does end (thankfully very soon for me). Mind you, a majority of classmates are decent and courteous, but I have no intentions of embracing, or being dragged by the coattail, any attachment or emotion to any person. I guess I won't be attending the high school reunion.
Now, I'm not expecting college to be my savior, but I feel it's a more liberal setting, with more interaction and less side-talk. It's a place with definitely more air-flow.
Here's to tomorrow, yet another day to survive.
Of course, the learning atmosphere is satisfactory...but am I the only one who thinks sex jokes, incessant gossip, beyond animated, to the point to annoyance, characters are sickening? It's senior year, which means time to grow up.
The beauty of high school is that it offers us time to grow, to discover insecurities, reawaken flaws and combat negativity. But there's a certain limit to which the school can take before it's clouded with teenage angst and stinging remarks.
High school does end (thankfully very soon for me). Mind you, a majority of classmates are decent and courteous, but I have no intentions of embracing, or being dragged by the coattail, any attachment or emotion to any person. I guess I won't be attending the high school reunion.
Now, I'm not expecting college to be my savior, but I feel it's a more liberal setting, with more interaction and less side-talk. It's a place with definitely more air-flow.
Here's to tomorrow, yet another day to survive.
Friday, February 18, 2011
When I have a bad day...
I always make sure to go here. She is so undeniably french, and undeniably feminine. And I love it.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
SKINS
Just finished watching the first episode of the 5th season of the British version. I totally miss the accents, even if I had to turn the speakers up just a little more. Every new plot line is exciting, but i'm hoping this isn't just a bad rendition of Mean Girls. Let me just say that Frankie's style is outrageous...I wish I could pull it off.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
A Rather Unorthodox Idea
A very startling concept stormed upon me today. It actually happened during English class. My teacher passed back our essays and that's when it hit me...should a letter grade determine my happiness?
You know those people who seem like they're never happy? And never will be happy, at least in front of your face (does the word "Diva" come to mind)? Well, my worst dream is not about rats chewing off the skin of my fragile facade, or losing precious articles to an angry Mother Nature. My worst fear is quite possibly the very notion that I will never be happy, and I mean over-the-top jubilant, nor be tantalized by the pure element that is excitement. And I am afraid my nightmare may be coming true.
You see, my essay wasn't bad, far from it, actually. So, I should be happy, right? That she said "You should be very proud of this effort [exclamation point]". But as I'm sifting through the paper, all I see are spacial white walls, rows of black ink, and only the occasional check mark, as if to say the page has been noted. It just makes me wonder whether my teacher actually read my essay or whether she skimmed through it, saw the length, a few good diction and give it a "hippy hi oh".
Never have I ever...saw so few corrections...and saw points being taken off for not italicizing. It's just as if the grading is based on a technical scale, not on a fluid, lucid essay.
If the idea of grading is so orthodox and medieval, then do grade-point averages matter? Do SATs matter? And lastly, and most frightening of all, do college admission letters matter? What do our grades say about us? Does the rigor show through? Or are some of us victims to a corrupt system of minute homework and free weekends?
There is no perfect world, but I wouldn't be the first one to admit it. I have to, though, understand that the time and place we navigate through is a sea of realism.
Sometimes, I'd wish we'd sail far away and efface the worries of this man-made, artificial concept called The Grading System. Do grades determine success? Or is it the simple hand of will that lifts aspirations and projects them into reality?
I am large, I contain multitudes. And sometimes, amidst the changing of the tides of my various emotions and beliefs, a part of me attempts to crawl to the dunes of my exterior, wishing and wondering if this is the limit at which happiness stands still.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
It's all about Romance.
I think I'm too much of a romantic. And I don't mean the common usage of romantic. I'm not really someone who believes in all that lovey dovey stuff.
But I mean romantic in the sense that I'm too optimistic and contain too many high expectations. It is such a curse. Possibly because when my dreams crash and die, it's the most depressing thing in the whole world and also possibly because my vision of my life is immersed in 1,000 gallons of glitter. It's everywhere and it follows incessantly.
In a sense, I am trapped in this perfume of romance. How can I go out and see the world for what it actually is?
But I mean romantic in the sense that I'm too optimistic and contain too many high expectations. It is such a curse. Possibly because when my dreams crash and die, it's the most depressing thing in the whole world and also possibly because my vision of my life is immersed in 1,000 gallons of glitter. It's everywhere and it follows incessantly.
In a sense, I am trapped in this perfume of romance. How can I go out and see the world for what it actually is?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Life After Snowfall.
Bonjour! I'm well-rested and restored and back in black.
Last night was so frustrating in the sense that my electricity went out for more than 12 hours, thus no heating system, no microwaves, no television or internet. Of course I was irritated at first; I couldn't even study in the candlelight.
But there is this serene silence that prances in the air once all technological distractions fade away. I think this experience was a precedent. Here I was, candlesticks set on the wooden living room table (which was a little scary, I have to admit), with no concept of time. I simply dived into the introduction of the Grapes of Wrath, which was 40-something pages long. I didn't think it would take such a long time to read, but amidst the hysteria, namely my parents and the rich text, night faded into twilight.
It is here that the struggles of Steinbeck were revealed to the readers. It is here where I understood the complexity and dimensions of the novel. The introduction dissects the work into several layers, working through the author-novel connection (in which Steinbeck wanted to keep at a minimum), the plight of the migrant workers, the incredibly realistic, poetic, metaphoric writing that blends both the hardships of one family and short anecdotes.
Steinbeck zooms in on one family, yet they are a representation of the hundreds and thousands of Dust Bowl migrants, and also a symbol of exodus throughout history. Our daily concerns and worries seem so trivial compared to the trials and tribulations of such people, and really, the struggles of peoples around the world throughout history.
It is great fiction that makes us question the dimensions of fiction and urges us to apply its concerns to our own environment. Like many great novels, The Grapes of Wrath does not contain only a solution, but a lingering question that will never settle or sink or disappear unless we choose to put an end to the chaos that exists within.
Last night was so frustrating in the sense that my electricity went out for more than 12 hours, thus no heating system, no microwaves, no television or internet. Of course I was irritated at first; I couldn't even study in the candlelight.
But there is this serene silence that prances in the air once all technological distractions fade away. I think this experience was a precedent. Here I was, candlesticks set on the wooden living room table (which was a little scary, I have to admit), with no concept of time. I simply dived into the introduction of the Grapes of Wrath, which was 40-something pages long. I didn't think it would take such a long time to read, but amidst the hysteria, namely my parents and the rich text, night faded into twilight.
It is here that the struggles of Steinbeck were revealed to the readers. It is here where I understood the complexity and dimensions of the novel. The introduction dissects the work into several layers, working through the author-novel connection (in which Steinbeck wanted to keep at a minimum), the plight of the migrant workers, the incredibly realistic, poetic, metaphoric writing that blends both the hardships of one family and short anecdotes.
Steinbeck zooms in on one family, yet they are a representation of the hundreds and thousands of Dust Bowl migrants, and also a symbol of exodus throughout history. Our daily concerns and worries seem so trivial compared to the trials and tribulations of such people, and really, the struggles of peoples around the world throughout history.
It is great fiction that makes us question the dimensions of fiction and urges us to apply its concerns to our own environment. Like many great novels, The Grapes of Wrath does not contain only a solution, but a lingering question that will never settle or sink or disappear unless we choose to put an end to the chaos that exists within.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
I'm bored out of my mind. No, seriously, I'm so tired of staring into thin air. This snow storm took me completely by surprise. I can't believe there is no school tomorrow (I'm trapped in my house as we are speaking). Normally, I'd prefer relaxation and breathing, but the snow days are really starting to get on my nerves. I'm beginning to despise snow, and here's why:
1. Not only can I not venture outside and actually enjoy nature, I'm prevented from even leaving my house to go places (movie theater, mall, restaurants, etc.).
2. The snow days only bring about more stress. It just so happens that it falls on the LAST WEEK OF THE FIRST SEMESTER, the most important week of a senior's life. I will have a bajillion (two) tests on the same day, if there is school on Friday.
3. I can't even go to the fucking library. I'm stuck at home, pondering the ever important question: To study, or not to study.
4. I think my parents might use me as a slave and force me to shovel the driveway. fuck.
Whoever is doing the snow dance better stop now.
1. Not only can I not venture outside and actually enjoy nature, I'm prevented from even leaving my house to go places (movie theater, mall, restaurants, etc.).
2. The snow days only bring about more stress. It just so happens that it falls on the LAST WEEK OF THE FIRST SEMESTER, the most important week of a senior's life. I will have a bajillion (two) tests on the same day, if there is school on Friday.
3. I can't even go to the fucking library. I'm stuck at home, pondering the ever important question: To study, or not to study.
4. I think my parents might use me as a slave and force me to shovel the driveway. fuck.
Whoever is doing the snow dance better stop now.
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