I like Udon...

Emilz's Journal

Emilz

[16 Jul 2009|11:06pm]

About ten minutes into Kissinger's enthralling account of the negotiation process of the Treaty of Versailles (which sounds like a typical Housemeeting), I noticed a ginormous spider on the other side of the window. Now, if that spider had been on this side of the window, I would have screamed bloody murder, flailed around wildly, and solicited looks of concern or contempt from all the other studious folks in the reading room.

But it was not, so I named it Marty. For the next ten minutes, I watched Marty spin his equally ginormous web, wondering why it wasn't catching any of the gnats that were stupidly bashing against the window.

Then I read some more.

Then I watched Marty sleep, all eight limbs splayed out and swaying in the wind. Then I watched Marty eat his dinner.

Then I read some more.

Then I texted a bunch of people telling them about Marty. I bet none of you knew spiders slept, eh?

Then I felt bad for poor France at the end of WWI.

Then I said goodbye to Marty and went home. I hope Marty ends up being a girl so that she can go forth and bestow mini-Martys upon people who are being held hostage by their reading assignments at the library.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

The Internet/Life, a Decade Later [13 Jan 2009|07:29pm]

Sometimes I like to Google memorable old classmates from way back in elementary school, just to see where they ended up. It's a pointless and voyeuristic exercise, but sometimes my curiosity dictates how I spend those 15 minutes between coffee and class.

Just now I decided to look up someone I remember from fifth grade. I remember her because she was a mix of so many things that I couldn't understand as a fifth grader. And I guess most other people didn't either, so she was ridiculed for the entirety of the year we went to school together. We started out as friends because we were both new to the school district, and she started the school year with a broken leg. Since I was already decidedly un-athletic, we would sit together during recess and just talk. Soon I found out along with everyone else that she was a compulsive liar. She made up so many stories about her life that we all adopted the default assumption that she was lying whenever she talked about herself. She said that she was adopted and lived with her aunt. The "aunt" who came to parent teacher conferences was very much puzzled by our questions and told us, in fact, that she was the girl's mother. When Warheads were the candy of choice among elementary school children, she brought a jar to school and told everyone that her uncle worked in a Warheads factory and could thus provide her with unlimited quantities. Once, she brought a picture ripped out from a magazine to school and told everyone that it was a picture of her and someone else in the class when they were younger, though anyone with any sense could see that there was no resemblance.

She was not a good student. But there was a brilliance to her that didn't strike me until much later. Her narratives were so outlandish that there had to be some sort of spark in her. Her favorite show was South Park. We once got into a heated argument in the cafeteria during lunch because she announced that she had college-level reading abilities. I scoffed because, well, I was supposed to be the smart one in the group.

"Oh yeah? Well what does EX-qui-site mean?" I challenged. She gave me a smug look.

"It's ex-QUI-site. And it means something fancy." Not knowing any better, my other friends at the table immediately pooh-poohed her response. But I sat there in silence, embarassed, because I knew she was right.

The next year, we went our separate ways, and I never saw her again.

Just now, when I looked up her name, it came up with a couple of pages listing her as a missing person. I recognize her from the picture. She's been missing since November, last seen with a dubious character nicknamed "G Money".

It's almost unreal, and yet in some ways it's more real than the life that I'm leading now. I spend my days weaving narratives and trying to create a persona that will convince employers, scholarship committees, professors, whomever, that I'm worthy of their attention. What should I wear? What should I say? How long should I wait before I email them again? I try to create a facade of success and perfection.

But she's somewhere out there, and nobody even knows if she's dead or alive.

I don't know how to finish this thought. It always trips me up to see shared histories diverging into such unfathomably different paths.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

NYT On ICU Trauma Recovery [12 Jan 2009|08:59pm]

Apparently hospital stays in the ICU could have unintended, long term consequences:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/12/health/12icu.html?pagewanted=1&em

I thought about this a lot when my grandmother was in the hospital. The whole experience was incredibly...invasive. I'm not sure a healthy person could do well in that sort of setting. Even if they were fine before, the hospital stay would have surely debilitated them. Bedridden, drugged up, with a variety of IVs and catheter bags...there's just something crippling about it.

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Instant Coffee [09 Dec 2008|01:21pm]

There are those coffee elitists who say they would never let their lips touch instant coffee. But I think there's a certain appeal in it.
For one, instant coffee doesn't deteriorate in taste as it cools, unlike its freshly brewed counterpart. The first sip is as constant as the last. There is something endearing about that.
With instant coffee, you can measure out your desired experience in teaspoons. It's so perfectly accommodating. Gives you what you need every time, exactly when you need it. There's a degree of uncertainty when brewing fresh coffee. How much water did you really put in there? Will the coffee be too strong? Too weak? One never knows until the last drops drip into the pot and one eagerly pours oneself a mugful. But then one realizes that one has to wait at least 5 more minutes before it is potable.

In some ways instant coffee is like that friend you'd never think to call until you're in a bind. The not-quite-so-cool friend that you're ashamed to admit to enjoy hanging out with once in a while.

7 Fortunes| Tell my fortune

No Words Quite Suffice [22 Nov 2008|09:56pm]

Those of you who were in my 8th grade English class may remember this (but probably not):

One day, we read "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. The teacher asked the class what they thought the poem meant. I thought about it for a moment, then raised my hand.

"Yes, Emily?"

"I think he's thinking about going into the woods to kill himself, but then he realizes that he has 'promises to keep' so he decides not to."

"...Interesting." The entire class erupts in laughter.

"Actually," the teacher continues with a knowing smile, "this poem is about Santa Claus." Oohs and ahhs resound from my classmates. But of course! How clever!

After class, Cathy caught up to me and said, "I really liked your interpretation of the poem."

I liked my interpretation too, and preferred it to the version taught in class.

And so that memory was filed away in the back of my mind as the one time when I said something completely absurd (at least according to everyone else) and yet still believed in it wholly.

Well guess what?

Today I found out I was right all along. Indeed, it's quite commonly accepted that Frost had intended to infuse his poem with themes of life and death.

On a hilarious side note, here is someone who had a completely opposite experience with this particular poem:
http://juniorcollege.blogspot.com/2005/12/robert-frost-is-santa-clause-and-more.html

6 Fortunes| Tell my fortune

Putting more thought into feelings... [01 Nov 2008|12:03am]

People always use gardening metaphors to talk about interpersonal relationships. Cultivating them...letting them blossom, reaping their fruits. Indeed, the idea of cultivating relationships is an appealing one for me. It's such a methodical, controlled, slow process. Unfortunately my relationships are akin to operating a spaceship with no instruction manual.

With cultivation necessarily comes pruning. You prune the relationships that are not productive, that don't contribute anything to your life. And yet short of some sort of disaster, people usually don't. There is this overwhelming inertia when it comes to relationships that people are simply not willing to put up with in other aspects of their lives. And why? I've been asking myself more and more lately. Wouldn't it make so much more sense for me to focus my time exclusively on those whose company I enjoy the most? But I find that my days are filled with people who are simply there because they're there. Even when I gain no satisfaction from a particular relationship, I don't seek change.

Here's to a little more change and a little more focus.

3 Fortunes| Tell my fortune

History [24 Aug 2008|12:10am]

The backspace key on my computer is degenerating piece by piece, until I will have no second chances and with only patience to save me. First it was the plastic covering, and then the rubber knob under it went away too. Now there's only this diminutive dot in the middle of where the key would have been. I poke at it lightly and it listens, sometimes. I'm sure I'm wearing out my welcome, though, literally.

(Aside: If only I had a good dose of patience in these next few days!)

I find it awfully strange, the inter-connectedness of it all. Looking back on what I wrote just a few weeks ago about life unleashing something unbearably heavy on me.

In the first few days after coming home, we took a walk together. It was probably one of the more memorable walks we've taken together, simply because of the stories she told. I found that in the months I was away, she had learned where all the dogs in the neighborhood resided so that she could purposely avoid them on her daily walks in the evening. But why this irrational fear of dogs, I asked? Her mouth tightened and a steely look came into her eyes. You don't know the half of it.

It was during the Japanese occupation, back when everyone still lived together and her family all lived together then, in misery for lack of basic necessities. A distant relative of her grandmother's (an uncle, of sorts) lived at her house, and went out to beg for food each day. One day, he went to beg at a fairly well-to-do family's house, and was promptly attacked by the family's dog. After what must've been a struggle, the dog ended up claiming a substantial piece of his calf, tearing tendon and muscle alike. The rich folks were so shaken up by the gruesome scene that they sent him home with a big bowl of white rice. It was the last meal he managed to obtain himself. After he got home, he took to his bed, and never got out again. Occasionally, her grandmother would feed him some rice porridge, change his bandages (no more than rags, I'm sure), but there was nothing else anyone could do. Since the Japanese had put a halt on the transport of food and other supplies, there was not even salt to eat, let alone to sterilize the wound. And of course, no alcohol anywhere. But he held on for a few months before the infection finally claimed him.

Such a long time, I exclaimed, trying not to think too much about what it must've been like to wither away slowly on that cot and wishing only for the delirium of fever to take away the pain. She closed her eyes and nodded knowingly, mildly savoring the reaction her story has garnered.

The thing she remembers the most, she said, is the smell. The smell that, by the end, had wiggled its way throughout the entire house. So you see, that is why I have never liked dogs. As if it all made perfect logical sense, and she was simply explaining it to a child. I remember thinking in that moment, that it was what made her worthwhile, even after all these years. Especially after all these years.

How was I to know that, only a day or two later, I would come home to find her in the kitchen, babbling nonsense about some recipe she couldn't read? The recipe that she herself had copied by hand only the night before? That was before the weakness set in. Fast forward through four hours, many frantic phone calls, three health care facilities, and altogether too many people who are supposed to know what's going on but don't, the doctors tell us it's called a "hemorrhagic stroke".

Suddenly finding myself sitting for hours and hours on end in the hospital, I picked up two books to read. And how strange it is that incidentally, one book tries to encapsulate an entire narrative of human history into 400 pages, while the other is a diatribe against the human tendency to rely on narratives rather than empirical evidence, to establish causality where there is none, and in general, to oversimplify important historical events and fail at using them to predict the future. In between feeding her multicolored goop (the preferred diet of "level one dysphagia patients") and adjusting her pillows, I found an intellectual war waging on in my head.

On one hand, it would be wonderful to look back on the entirety of human civilization's growth and development (or perhaps on a more micro level, one's life) through a tunnel and see everything in a neat, linear fashion. A cascade of telescoping events. On the other hand, what if all of what we tell ourselves is really just a way to organize things in our weak little minds so that they don't implode from all the randomness that actually exists in the world? Could we ever own up to it?

She has never had high blood pressure in her life. No major health problems. Healthy diet and probably walked at least a mile a day. No major surgeries, history of previous strokes. No falls in the days leading up to that fateful day. The doctors say that it could simply be the effects of aging, but I have a feeling that's what they call everything they can't quite explain.

She spent today lounging and napping on the couch, and dropping food on herself at mealtimes. I laugh at her and jokingly tell her she's cheating when she puts her mouth to the bowl instead of using her spoon, but inwardly I just want to scream. She humors me and laughs along. I wonder how long before this game gets old.

Next week it'll just be the two of us during the day. No bustling nurses, annoying "sitters", dieticians, physical therapists, Dr. X, Dr. Y, Dr. Z, discharge planners, social workers, or patient technicians.

I'll need a revelation to keep my sanity, to be sure.

3 Fortunes| Tell my fortune

Wishbone [11 Aug 2008|12:13pm]

I'll break you first, before you break me.
Before you realize that I'm a paper doll, and you say
that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

Tell my fortune

Oh mah gah... [10 Aug 2008|07:18pm]

If you have never read the book "Love in the Time of Cholera", I'd recommend it.

If you have never seen the movie "Love in the Time of Cholera", I'd say go ahead and skip it. Especially if you take my advice and read the book.

I didn't have high expectations for the movie, to be sure, because I've never seen a movie that has effectively crammed half a century into two hours. Also, I was mildly curious to see what Javier Bardem had up his sleeve in his role as Florentino Ariza, since establishing himself as that psycho Anton Chigur from "No Country for Old Men".

The acting is bad. None of the subtle eccentricities of the various characters were captured. Instead of the gruff, protective father he was supposed to be, Fermina Daza's father was portrayed instead as some sort of glorified pimp who was too eager to sell his daughter off to Juvenal Urbino, who was portrayed as a mild pervert. Young Florentino was nothing like the melancholy, lanky youth described in Marquez's novel; he was this handsome, bright-eyed, eager-looking boy that, when replaced by Javier Bardem, simply got a lot uglier. None of Fermina Daza's headstrong nature came through either; she spends much of the movie peering into places and peering out from them.

And, there were altogether too many boob shots. If there's one thing I hate, it's a bad movie with gratuitous amounts of nudity to boot. At the end of the movie, there is this one scene where Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza, both of whom look like octogenarians by now, are alone in a boat cabin and about to do the nasty. He's lying in bed in a seductive pose, while she's in the process of disrobing. I'm thinking, "Oh crap."

Tentatively holding up her shirt, she says, "I don't think you'll like what you see."

I'm like, "DAMN RIGHT WOMAN, NO ONE WANTS TO SEE YOUR RACK." But Florentino Ariza eagerly assures her that he does, and they engage in some passionate, geriatric sex.

And, did I even mention that they omitted my favorite character? That's right. Leona Cassiani, the only woman whom Florentino Ariza doesn't stick his penis up in.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

[05 Aug 2008|09:42am]

"Why me?" He finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Because I like the feeling of waiting for you."

They both knew it wasn't good enough of a reason to proceed. But he was drawn to her brutal yet eloquent honesty, and she to his solitude.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

Envelope [03 Aug 2008|01:35am]

En-VEL-ope. EN-vel-ope. Each evoking such drastically different sentiments. One of warmth and comfort, the other, business and pomp and circumstance.

This darkness envelopes me. I hold still and let it settle like a blanket over me. I try not to fidget as it tucks me in, but in the midst of this silence I feel myself succumbing to a more infantile state.

This darkness is an envelope. I place within it thoughts that I will carefully store away in a drawer in my mind until morning. Then perhaps I will stamp it, write your address on it all perfect and everything, and send it along your way. Or maybe I will burn them and watch the words curl up into smoke and fall as ashes.

Oh, how I wish that I knew the intricacies of an old-school love letter! To harness bittersweet yearning and turn it into clever quips and gentle jabs.

I have never been one for prayers. This is as close as I'll ever come, I suppose.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

On Pain and Loss [14 Jul 2008|01:06am]

I have come to manufacture pain out of pretty-sounding words and phrases. I take the discontent in which I indulge and package it into something far deeper.
I don't think I know anything about real pain or longing. Reading something real today made me ashamed of the things I write. I felt myself on the verge of tears, because I came to the realization that perhaps I would never touch anyone with my words as deeply as I had been touched just then.

I can't remember the last time I actually cried over someone who wasn't in a movie.

Actually, I do. It was in sixth grade. My grandma had gotten into a fight with my father over something completely trivial. She laid in her bed upstairs and screamed at him, while he sat downstairs in front of the TV and stared at the news. My mother stood stupidly at the foot of my grandmother's bed, silently wiping away tears, not knowing what to say, as always. I hid under the desk in the study, wracked by dry heaves.

"I'll just go back to China by myself and down a bottle of sleeping pills. Make it easier for everyone." That was when I lost it.

But fortunately, nothing like that's happened since then.

Once, I cried myself to sleep for no reason other than to wallow in self-pity. I laid there in bed for a long time, thinking about myself. I thought about all the ways in which I fulfill the expectations of those around me. At that moment, it felt as though my life consisted of constantly weaving this net in order to keep everyone in. If I stopped weaving, then everyone would drift away and leave me. There seemed to be no such thing as unconditional love. Or at least, I never seem to have experienced it, because it seems to be reserved only for the wretched, and I had never allowed myself to fall from grace.

Thinking back on such episodes disgust me, a little.

And then I see other people's tragedies. Some of them I just dismiss as irrelevant, while I commandeer others for my own "artistic" exploration. I try to find the place where the intellectualizing ends and tendrils of emotions emerge. And then I cultivate those tendrils until I can say that I've thoroughly experienced the tragedy through my own eyes, to take away some sort of insight about the greater human experience.

But really, it seems, when the dust settles, all I have are pretty words and phrases. And I'm no less clobber-proof should the world choose to unleash something unbearably heavy on me. .

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

[10 Jul 2008|12:06am]

"I'm evolving in a vacuum," she muttered to herself. But she knew it wasn't quite so dramatic. It never is. A delicate dance of words ensnaring her reality would perhaps be a more apt description. She found that she couldn't help but look at strangers with uncalled-for warmth. The man wearing the baseball tee, the roguish boy and his delicate wrists, the woman with the dark eyes...

She caught herself staring at someone's shoulder blades in the middle of the produce section at the supermarket. In the midst of her reverie, the fruits and vegetables began to take on various personalities, a noisy crowd of alter egos clamoring to make themselves known to her. The ears of corn, coyly revealing rows of kernels in a toothy grin, mocked her mercilessly. "Silly girl," they snickered. The rotund onions joined in with jocund laughter. The ripe glistening strawberries sighed in amused resignation, like proper ladies who had just been shown some vulgar trick. Bunches of asparagus stood firm like stern, scowling fathers, scrutinizing her under their disapproving glare. Only the red chili peppers in the corner cheered for her, their odd, twisted shapes sticking out like tiny fists pumping enthusiastically under the florescent light.

She shook her head and realized that her arms were covered in goosebumps. Damn air conditioning. Damn this town and its penchant for recycled air. How comforting it is to think, though, that everyone tries to escape the world outside somehow.

The night air, warm and humid, enveloped her as she exited the store with nothing but a round-bellied zucchini squash tucked away in her tote. The cashier had looked at her strangely, puzzled by her singular purchase, but she knew all too well the allure of its delightful sheen and accommodating nature.

It would be perfect in a savory fritter. Or perhaps baked into a sweet bread. She contemplated its fate all the way back, gradually forgetting the day's follies with each homeward step.

2 Fortunes| Tell my fortune

[07 Jul 2008|03:17pm]

She woke from having dreamt of his son. A precocious little child, just as he must have been, dressed in a yellow polo shirt and khaki shorts. In her dream, she realized the futility of continuing to pine for the father, and instead poured all her love into the boy. The elder would periodically walk into the room where they were playing, and she would try to sing a nonchalant little tune, but found that she could only squawk whimsically, reduced to the young girl she thought she had ceased to be by his sideways glance. So she tickled the child, and he laughed, throwing his arms around her.

Afterwards she laid in bed for a long time, alternately grinning stupidly and grimacing, all the while hating herself ever so slightly for succumbing to such bizarre and pointless fantasies. The idea of writing something painfully honest before she could regain her clarity motivated her to drag herself out of bed and pull on some socks, but when she sat before the blank computer screen, she found that she had nothing to say. The cursor's steady rhythm echoed footsteps in her mind that took him further and further away, until she realized that she could not even define what he was to her, let alone articulate what it was she yearned for.

She spent the rest of the day clinging to the irrational hope that she would somehow run into him. Once, as the train she was riding pulled into the station, she was overcome by the feeling that he was among those standing on the platform waiting to board. She held her breath as the doors opened, ready to meet his surprised face with a light smile and a casual greeting. They would get off at the same stop and take a long walk together. End up at her place and talk until the wee hours of the morning, just like they had done once. And then where would they be? She was still pondering the delicious possibilities when the doors closed and she realized that she was surrounded by bleary-eyed tourists with fanny packs and baby strollers in tow. Inwardly pinching herself for being all too transparent with her emotions in a car full of strangers, she endured the rest of the ride home by staring out the window and thinking more banal thoughts, planning meals and outfits in her head, until the routine of life numbed her tingling senses.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

A Brief Moment [25 Jun 2008|01:32pm]

After an evening excusion, I returned home feeling incredibly elated and content. I had no idea why, but suddenly all the anxieties and worries that I had been turning about in my mind for the last couple of weeks dissipated. For the time being, I was exactly where I needed to be, and I ceased to struggle. The need for approval, for love, to make connections of every kind imaginable, to grow up...all sort of just flew out the window (into the perfect night breeze...it was PERFECT, I tell you).

I was so excited about feeling this way that I couldn't sleep, and instead grinned in the dark.

This morning I got my period.

Figures.

Tell my fortune

Disconnect [15 Jun 2008|08:07pm]

I wonder how many people exist in relationships in which they reside in their own private fantasy, and all external happenings are somehow transformed and reinterpreted to fit their notion of what they would like the relationship to be. This is probably completely vague, but I can't give any specific instances.

The only example that remotely comes to mind is the women in Qiong Yao novels that are famous for stirring up drama with their love interests, only to find that the men remain with them despite their melodramatic episodes. Actually, Korean dramas are a perfect example of this as well. My mother tells me these books raised a whole generation of women who had these fantasies of throwing tantrums and creating drama and having their boyfriends take it all with patience and grace. Impetuously throwing themselves off bridges only to have their amorous beaus jump in after them. (Unfortunately, the men were having none of that, leaving a slew of women clutching tear-stained books in their wake.)

In the dark corners of my mind, I can begin to understand why this would be appealing. After all, what could be a greater testament to your love than going through a whole bunch of shit together? But these women, like those I'm speaking of, are missing something, it seems. It seems that they are missing the individual nature of the person with whom they are in a relationship. They're not in love with the other person; they're in love with the idea of this person, who, in their minds, will jump through hoops and dodge bullets for them.

I often find myself being attracted not to a person, but to the IDEA of this person. Perhaps that is why I am alone.

7 Fortunes| Tell my fortune

First day in DC [08 Jun 2008|08:58pm]

Arrived in DC last night after my flight was canceled. By the time we drove to the hotel, I unpacked and repacked and showered and attempted to dry my hair, it was already 1am. I laid in bed for a long time, unable to sleep.

DC is muggy and humid like they say, but I don't mind it. I finally have a way to sweat without having to exercise. I don't mind sweating most of the time. That probably makes me weird.

Work tomorrow. Excited to don a suit, etc.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

What has literature done for you? [07 Jun 2008|12:53pm]

Yes, you, my dear APE compadres, and other livejournal companions. All of our lives, we have been told that literature holds great power, that it illuminates the human condition, that it elevates the spirit, and all sorts of other amazing, wonderful things.

Do you find that it has done so, in your life?

Can you think of time when a work of fiction served as a guiding force in your life, gave you insight into your surroundings?

6 Fortunes| Tell my fortune

Hemorrhage [06 Jun 2008|01:04pm]

I had my first lucid dream this morning. It was pathetically short-lived, and came at the end of a very confusing and not lucid dream.

I was walking around a neighborhood that looked vaguely like an amalgam of every where I've ever lived. Every once in a while, I pass by a small tree whose branches are positively being crushed by the ginormous pears that are growing on them. The desire to pick one and eat it was overwhelming, but some kid told me I wasn't allowed to, and I wasn't actually positive that they were pears (they were green and spherical). Then I'm on a bus, and I'm the only one. I'm talking to the driver, trying to figure out where we're going. But she doesn't tell me. We pull up at a school that looks vaguely like East Middle School, and I ask her if I can take a bus to Discovery from there (I guess I think I'm in middle school), and she doesn't give me a straight answer. So I get off the bus and walk into the school. All of a sudden, I realize that I'm dreaming lucidly. There is an incredibly long hallway in front of me, and there are two old people sitting at the end of the hall. I look at my hands and simultaneously wish that I could get to the end of the hall faster and that the people at the end of the hall were my grandparents. Suddenly I was there, looking at my grandparents. But then I lost control of my dream again, because in my elation my mind let out a loud "WHOOOOOO!" and I woke up, paralyzed.

Have you ever woken up paralyzed? It usually happens to me after naps on the couch, when the afternoon sun is blinding my eyes and I can hear people bustling in the kitchen, talking. I'm always terrified that they would come talk to me, or worse, touch me. Those few minutes when I am fully conscious but unable to move, unable to scream if necessary, are always terrifying, even in the comfort and security of my own home. You command your body to flail, but it's as if your body is no longer your own.

1 Fortune| Tell my fortune

There Is [29 Apr 2008|11:40pm]

Staying up late for absolutely no reason at all, except an irrational conviction that something ought to be happening. Anything at all. Something that will make me cry my eyes out and puke my guts out.

That sounds awful. I think I feel like this any time I have to be home with nothing much to do for more than a couple of days. Come to think of it, it felt distinctly like this last year at this time as well. Except...

This anticipation is making me nauseous, and theren't aren't even any sweet daydreams to dull it.
I tap my toes at life. Look at it over my clipboard and proceed to write more crazy notes to myself.

Tell my fortune

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