Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Most Improved
I happened to meet the parents of one of my close middle school friends the other day. I was in a good mood, so I waved, and they cautiously said hi.
"Oh, I guess you don't remember me anymore. I'm Ryan, I was friends with Michael."
And just like anybody who hasn't seen me since 8th grade, the first comment I got was about the voice. Fine.
Then they started launching into this commentary of how I've become more good-looking and how I look intelligent now.
Well, thanks. Glad to know that you thought I was a hideous, pimply blob with the intelligence of a cantaloupe back then.
You can take a compliment about how you've changed either one of three ways.
1) Fuck you.
2) At least I've improved, unlike you.
3) Be a normal, polite person and graciously accept the compliment.
You can guess which option I took.
That's right - the first one.
"Oh, I guess you don't remember me anymore. I'm Ryan, I was friends with Michael."
And just like anybody who hasn't seen me since 8th grade, the first comment I got was about the voice. Fine.
Then they started launching into this commentary of how I've become more good-looking and how I look intelligent now.
Well, thanks. Glad to know that you thought I was a hideous, pimply blob with the intelligence of a cantaloupe back then.
You can take a compliment about how you've changed either one of three ways.
1) Fuck you.
2) At least I've improved, unlike you.
3) Be a normal, polite person and graciously accept the compliment.
You can guess which option I took.
That's right - the first one.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Only One
"She's the only one who will listen to me" doesn't mean you have an unlimited license to bombard her with your problems.
Because she realizes that fact too.
She knows that, if she doesn't listen to you, no one else will.
How does it feel to take advantage of someone's pity?
Because she realizes that fact too.
She knows that, if she doesn't listen to you, no one else will.
How does it feel to take advantage of someone's pity?
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Matisse
Not my writing - my sister's.
when i came home two weeks ago
i saw you for the first time in two months
but it felt like i hadn't seen you in decades
you still recognized me, struggling out of my mother's grasp
to jump into my lap
and lick my face
but i knew something was different.
you, who used to race around the house like a white lightning ball of fur
lazed the days next to the glass sliding door
as the sunlight kissed your paling wet nose and stroked your fur
(i could never look at you for too long under the sun
the brilliance of white would have made me
blind)
you, who used to tumble up and down the stairs chasing my mother's footsteps
would whine at the foot of the stairs
waiting for somebody to carry you up
you, who never tired of energy during our neighborhood walks
would sit in the middle of the sidewalk, refusing to budge
until i picked you up and carried you home
i write of love so often
mainly of the romantic unrequited sort
but i think is the first time
i've cried while writing a post
you always knew when i was crying
you'd find me, wherever i was
and lick the tears off my face
as if you could absorb my pain
is it wrong for me to be crying like this
when i realized today that
you won't be there to lick my tears
the day that i cry for you
when i came home two weeks ago
i saw you for the first time in two months
but it felt like i hadn't seen you in decades
you still recognized me, struggling out of my mother's grasp
to jump into my lap
and lick my face
but i knew something was different.
you, who used to race around the house like a white lightning ball of fur
lazed the days next to the glass sliding door
as the sunlight kissed your paling wet nose and stroked your fur
(i could never look at you for too long under the sun
the brilliance of white would have made me
blind)
you, who used to tumble up and down the stairs chasing my mother's footsteps
would whine at the foot of the stairs
waiting for somebody to carry you up
you, who never tired of energy during our neighborhood walks
would sit in the middle of the sidewalk, refusing to budge
until i picked you up and carried you home
i write of love so often
mainly of the romantic unrequited sort
but i think is the first time
i've cried while writing a post
you always knew when i was crying
you'd find me, wherever i was
and lick the tears off my face
as if you could absorb my pain
is it wrong for me to be crying like this
when i realized today that
you won't be there to lick my tears
the day that i cry for you
Friday, March 23, 2012
The reason, perhaps
(For MIT)
I’m afraid of many things, some more embarrassing than others. I squeal at the sight of spiders, my heart goes into overdrive when I look down from a high elevation, and I still have occasional nightmares of getting kidnapped.
But nothing can compare to my fear of asking out girls.
Last April, when I told my mom I was going to ask someone to junior prom, I must have been broadcasting brainwaves of fright, because she abruptly exclaimed that she had no idea there was so much pressure on boys to ask. And I quote her word for word, “I thought it was really easy for guys to ask.”
My, is my mother mistaken.
I had it all planned out – my Spanish teacher would run us through the seemingly routine activity where she would say a few statements (for example, “I would run away from home for love”), and after each one, we would split into two sides of the classroom, one side in agreement and the other in disagreement. Except this time, her statement would be “(the girl’s name) will go to junior prom with Ryan.” If all went well, I would then jump up with a rose and ask her to prom.
Judgment Day arrived, and surprisingly, everything went pretty smoothly.
That is, until she changed her mind two days later.
But contrary to all common sense, that experience actually helped ameliorate my fear of asking out girls. All along, I guess the thing I was most afraid of was rejection. Now that I got a taste of it, I realized that hey, rejection isn’t so scary after all.
I’m afraid of many things, some more embarrassing than others. I squeal at the sight of spiders, my heart goes into overdrive when I look down from a high elevation, and I still have occasional nightmares of getting kidnapped.
But nothing can compare to my fear of asking out girls.
Last April, when I told my mom I was going to ask someone to junior prom, I must have been broadcasting brainwaves of fright, because she abruptly exclaimed that she had no idea there was so much pressure on boys to ask. And I quote her word for word, “I thought it was really easy for guys to ask.”
My, is my mother mistaken.
I had it all planned out – my Spanish teacher would run us through the seemingly routine activity where she would say a few statements (for example, “I would run away from home for love”), and after each one, we would split into two sides of the classroom, one side in agreement and the other in disagreement. Except this time, her statement would be “(the girl’s name) will go to junior prom with Ryan.” If all went well, I would then jump up with a rose and ask her to prom.
Judgment Day arrived, and surprisingly, everything went pretty smoothly.
That is, until she changed her mind two days later.
But contrary to all common sense, that experience actually helped ameliorate my fear of asking out girls. All along, I guess the thing I was most afraid of was rejection. Now that I got a taste of it, I realized that hey, rejection isn’t so scary after all.
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