Still Life

If I sit
silent
and still
and stare out the window sill
from the dark room
into the darker night,
mayhaps the world--too fast and bright and chaotic--
would simply
pass
me
by.

If I close my eyes
to light,
so that I see
only darkness...
Nothing
can see
in darkness,
so nothing
will see
me.

And time,
slow-
ly
trick-
ling,
tick-tocking
time,
might pass in a gust,
changing my world in a rush,
without changing me.

Write silly poems always makes me feel better.

Enough is Enough

I tried being cheerful, to look at the silver lining, and all that bullshit, but honestly, I'm tired of laughing sardonically and talking wittily. I'm sick of the natural misfortunes of life and the very human apathy I've been shown. I have not asked for pity--and I will not--but I have never thought compassion and understanding to be so small in the face of selfishness and laziness.

On my good days, I can smile and be happy. On those days, I almost believe in fate and destiny and meant-to-be's. I can appreciate that in many ways, I should be happier than most people. I am grateful for what I have in life, rather than the innumerable, unquantifiable things I've lost forever. I can see that when one door closes, another opens.

But today is not a good day. Today, I feel like I'm playing a giant Ponzi game, where everybody ends in bankruptcy by death. Everything I care for and love now will be paid for over and over again in the future. Every joy will be paid back tenfold in misery. Every happy memory overshadowed by endless despair. Until the day I die, probably young and sickly, miserable and alone.

Today, I feel like life is my bookie, with whom I made some gambles. I had thought I knew the price of losing it all, and didn't care, but found that I was wrong. I thought I'd be okay no matter how many times I would have to pick up the broken pieces of my life and rebuild it, but that is wrong, too. At first I had a marble mansion. Then I had a modest, comfortable home. Now I live in a shambling shack. And I've just realized that soon I will have no home at all, and would be small and filthy on the streets.

Life is a game, after all, like Ender's Game. Only I'm not so lucky or brilliant that I would win. The end might not be near yet, but it seems inevitable. Although I went into the game with a devil-may-care attitude, I may be coming out of it losing my planet, my entire world. Why bother, then? Why fight at all?

"The meaning of life..." Why, there is none. Or maybe there are some, but each is so transient, lasting only until the next rainfall or opera or scuba diving trip in Hawaii, as to not matter anyway. We all stumble blindly, unknowing of our handicap because none of us could ever see. Perhaps death is the eye-opener we all need.

If life were fair, I'd ask what promises it would make to me for what I have gone and am going through. If life were just, I'd ask what I have done to deserve this. But life is a just a tumble of chaos and physics.

To the few who genuinely care, I thank you. To the rest, I would not begrudge you of your Schadenfreude.

P.S. If you're the over-sensitive type, let me clarify. I'm not suicidal. I'm just angry right now. And being a drama queen.

Qualified Optimism

I consider myself a fairly optimist person. I believe in the goodness of humanity, and that everybody just wants to be loved (as an inherited social trait evolved out of necessity, if nothing else). The fact that some people are not loved, or do not know that they are loved, and therefore commit heinous acts is due to the unavoidable imperfections of reality. I also believe that if everybody did their best to do little good deeds, the world would be a better place. That should be quite self-evident.

However, I don't believe that the world is a fair place. I don't think that there is anybody who cares that you get what you deserve, in this life or after. So I don't believe in karma. I don't think that you directly benefit yourself by doing something good for the world.

I believe in luck. What kind of a situation were you born into? What kind of opportunities are available to you? That's all luck. But without hard work, you won't get anywhere with just luck. You might not fall very far, if you were given a very lucky position, but you won't get anywhere either. And honestly, is life really worth living if you make no progress?

So where does this leave me? It means I am mistrustful of good fortune thrown my way, because I'm well aware that it can change at any moment. This means that I'm greedy and hold on tight to all the comforts and wonders in my life, lest they disappear. I hope for the best, of course, but I plan for the worst. If I die sad and alone, what is the legacy I would want to have left behind? (Of course this is not what I want or what I plan, but logically, this is a possible conclusion of my life.)

This also means, don't get me involved in pity-parties. I am sympathetic with others' misfortunes, and am willing to help in any reasonable fashion. But if you're going to start talking about how you deserve more because you've gone through this and this and that, then leave me out of it. The world is not fair... and hence you never deserve anything for your previous plights. And anyway, unless you grew up orphaned in a war-torn country without enough medical supplies, I'm pretty sure I can match you tale for tale. But I don't. Because it's not the tragedies in my life that made me who I am, but the fact that I've lived through them.

I don't like drama. Life is what it is. You can either be happy or upset with it. It wouldn't change how the world turns. Learn to appreciate what you have, and you'll be much happier than if you complain endlessly about what "should be."

Shyness and She, a rant of two parts and one more

Let me preface this by saying that I'm not a writer. I don't write with a goal or with some great moral imperative. I write because I'm frustrated, and it makes me feel better to put words to my frustration rather than seethe silently.

First part of the rant... "I'm shy until you get to know me." I was checking around FetLife the other day, following random posters' links to their profiles (because I'm always curious what kind of a person would say what) and so many profiles said something to that effect.

But you know what I really see when I see a profile like that? I read, "I don't think I'm very interesting, but please ask me questions so that I can feel interesting." Why? Because those people who are confident--the "not shy" ones--have stories to tell. They're happy to tell their own stories and ask insightful questions about what you say to them. They know that what they're saying is worthwhile to listen to. So if you're quiet at first, and not just because you think humanity is pointless in general, then it just means you don't have enough confidence in conversing with others.

And yes, conversation, especially with strangers, is a learned skill. However, if you're never willing to take the first step, then you'll never learn it. So don't be shy. Everybody's interesting because everybody has his or her own unique life experience. And if you really are that boring, then the second part of your statement doesn't apply, because I will never "get to know you better."

Part two of today's rant: "She" as the default pronoun.

Now, I'm doing my homework, which refers to a person as an example, and this person is referred to as a she. Or I'm learning algorithms, and the example is explained by two groups of men and women--with a whole string of qualifiers. Seriously, this is not necessary.

I'm all for girl-power and gender-equality and what-not. I believe that women and men are equally smart (though of course there are variations with the individuals). I go to regular meetings about women in computer science and engineering in general. And yes, I've gotten into heated arguments with obstinate, chauvinist men who insist that a woman would be automatically less suited for certain positions.

Still, sometimes, people take it too far. The plentiful "she"s on my homework assignments is one such example. I see a female politician, a female scientist, a female doctor. Where are the men? How can it possibly be sexist to refer to them all as "he," but not as "she"?

The extra: Pity parties. I can't stand them. I'll probably write another post about that.

That I Should Write Poetry

Poetry is the cloudless, azure sky.
It is the lazy, lapping waters on the lake.
Or the perfect, pale peak of Mount Rainier.
The silence of the whirling laptop fan and cars passing on the street.
Poetry is when I take of my contacts and see fuzzy patches of white and coral and cream,

as I lay still and listless under my covers.

Poetry is when I'm with you,

and everything seems right.

Or at least, nothing can go wrong.

It is that sense of endless adventure and impenetrable security.

It is how holding your hand makes me feel loved,

and kissing you makes me feel beautiful.

There is no poetry for now, when you are gone.

There is no stabbing pain in my heart, though the tears continue to fall.

Just a numbness,

and a silence in my mind,

the whole world is quiet, as if waiting for your return to me before resuming its wonders and joys.

Be back soon.

Be back safe.

No Love Letter

I won't write you a love letter because I haven't practiced calligraphy since 5th grade. And I can't say I love you anyway. It's too soon, too sudden, our chemistry too dazzling. Would you trust me even if I did say that? (Not that I am, because I don't. But I might one day.)

And I wouldn't know what to say in a love letter anyway. Would I mention how I long for your gaze, that feeling that you're looking only at me? Would I mention your voice, both smooth and lulling, when you're talking and you're singing? Would I mention your stories and your observations? Or that I love the feeling of your arm around me or when your hand is stroking my hair or when your lips are on mine? And each of those is but a minute part of you, almost insignificant compared to the rest. For me to eulogize a fraction of you would be an insult to the rest of you. So I wouldn't write a love letter.

Then perhaps I would write that I want to be with you, that I miss you and think of you whenever my mind wanders, which is often. But you know that, because I tell you on the phone, and when we chat, and when we text. And anyway, I have no way to describe how much I miss you, because I have never missed anyone like this before. I cannot tell you how much I want to be with you, because I have never wanted to be with anyone like this. To say that 'words cannot describe it' would only be another useless, flat cliché, like Pachelbel's Canon.

So then what is there left to say? Those things have all been said before. And I'm sure you have heard them all before.

Though I might be willing to sit down and hold a fountain pen to pretty paper, there is nothing to write. I just want to be with you, rather than thinking of you. But I'm sure you know that already. So I won't write you a love letter.

Twister

I want to play twister.

I got together with some high school friends, and it's made me nostalgic. It made me start thinking about all those people I don't keep in touch with anymore and the things I no longer do for fun. One of them is Twister.

I'm not particularly flexible, but that's half the fun, right?

Cheap Drunk

I decided to go out with Amy tonight, since I haven't seen her in a while, and I've discovered that I'm an extremely cheap drunk. I had one sex on the beach (and some lemonades and water) and was stumbling around for 3 hours. I finally almost felt entirely sober after that and was able to drive home safely.

One drink...

And I don't even like being drunk. It's disorienting. To me, it feels like I'm floating and falling at the same time, that the lights are all too bright, and that it's either too loud or eeriely silent. Besides, even when I was pretty sloshed, I still couldn't bring myself to dance (read: dry hump) with strangers. And it's still not okay for guys to grope my butt. And a "no" means a "no." (After all, there had been no prior agreement.) ;) Maybe if somebody I trusted was there to watch out for me... But definitely not when I have to fend for myself.

Amy yelled at me for turning down offers to buy me drinks, of course. But I did need to drive home. And besides, she's a tank. Anyway, she still got pretty "inebriated" herself. ("Inebriated" is in quotes because that's what her [boy]friend said.)

In short, I think drinking is a failed experiment for me.

And um... what's up with old, fat guys asking me to buy them drinks? Also, jager is not the drink to seduce a woman with.

Oh, and in the end Amy tried to tongue me. I was so surprised (since she considers herself completely straight). And besides, she's my best friend. Just... no.

Anyway, it's just a failed experiment. I enjoy bars and clubbing much better when I'm entirely sober (which I've done while in Switzerland). And the bartenders are still happy with me because I usually tip them the same for virgin drinks. :)

Munch

I went to the local munch today and met some fun and interesting people, who are surprisingly un-self-centered. The café had a very nice pink punch, and I gave my cherry to another girl there. (Erm, that's a literal cherry, the one that came with my drink.) The conversations were good, and nobody seemed belligerent toward the world (the kind of people I have the most difficult time dealing with), but perhaps I didn't stay long enough and they come out of the woodwork later in the night.

Yes, I'm skeptical of a group of people are are entirely affable. Statistically, there has to be a bad apple somewhere. Or it's likely one of the people I met and liked is an ice-cold sociopath.

I was given great advice to "be open to what comes" and was told that there was no pun intended. (Which only made it better.)

And it seems that there's some play thing third Tuesday of every month. Not sure if I'm ready to go out and play yet (or will be by the 20th). But hey, the first two hours are free anyway.

A Doctor's Appointment

First item on the agenda today was a doctor's appointment for my regular physical. I met my doctor for the first time today, a nice, slightly stern looking, no-nonsense sort of woman. She's in her late thirties or early forties, and would've been pretty if she hadn't looked so severe. She had pretty dangling topaz earrings that matched her shirt.

We met under the best of circumstances. I am healthy, energetic, and still overspilling with optimism from when I was living abroad. Besides, I had an interview later in the day, so I had brought my designer bag, cute purple heels, and everything else to match the outfit. Of course, when I met her, I was fully clothed as well.

However, my doctor did not see me alone. She had an Intern. (Resident? Understudy? I'm actually not sure about the terminology.) Diana is a young, plumb woman, personable in a refreshing way. The Intern was learning, of course, and so did everything my doctor did.

This was well and good when they checked my eyes, ears, and mouth. It was okay, even, when they listened to my heart through my smock. However, it quickly became very... awkward when my doctor checked my breasts for lumps. Then the Intern--who had cold fingers--checked them too.

And of course I had been talked into getting a pap smear. Which meant my doctor got to put my feet in some holders. She then lubricated a clear, plastic device which she stuck in my vagina to stretch it out so she could see my cervix (and so the Intern could see it too). Then, after she was done with that and took it out, she stuck her fingers in my vagina to feel for it's healthiness (as she also pressed around my tummy, including on top of my bladder).

The Intern, of course, wanted to feel my vagina, too. It didn't really bother me, except being exceedingly awkward and embarrassing. But her fingers were cold.

Well, anyway, my doctor said that my "vagina looks very healthy."

So, this happened today. And four days ago, I was given a thorough search at the airport (long story not worth retelling). If I had a dirty mind...

Boots

Want: http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/3034004 Except the pair I want is even cuter, with pointier toes.

http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/3054120/0~2376778~2372808~6007659~6007701?mediumthumbnail=Y&origin=category&searchtype=&pbo=6007701&P=1 Probably wouldn't fit my legs though, since my feet are small and my legs are thick. :(

http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/2989449/0~2376778~2372808~6007659~6020780?mediumthumbnail=Y&origin=category&searchtype=&pbo=6020780&P=5

... so many cute boots!

And that means I should also buy more skirts if I plan to wear knee highs. :)

Labels

I see people labeling themselves and each other all the time. I'm a girl, or I'm a computer science major, or I'm a Chinese American, or I've studied abroad, or I'm cultured, or I'm outdoorsy, or I'm introverted. This is okay when I'm first meeting someone, because they are all true and it gives a good starting point for conversations.

But why perpetuate the labels afterward?

Here's the thing: if I see a post out there that says, "I am a geek and this is why... blah blah blah" the first thing I think of is that you are nothing else. I do get why people like labels: it creates a sense of community. This is especially true for those who have had bad experiences. I've met so many people who want to be friends with me on the basis that they're also an Asian girl in computer science, or they're also studying abroad in Europe, or they've also enjoyed some anime, or something or other. But let's be real: Unless the person's shallow, they're not going to like you for what you are instead of who you are, and you're just going to be let down even more.

When I was in high school, there was a girl who just transfered from China. She didn't really speak English, and since I was one of the few people in my class who spoke Chinese, I was asked to show her around and make sure she got along okay. Well, that's fine. But I still have my own friends, and I wasn't going to abandon them--those with whom I'd already forged friendships--for a mere acquaintance based on our shared knowledge. And when she decided to make fun of my Chinese (for not being very authentic... well, duh, because I've been speaking English), I decided to stop hanging out with her. She then became upset at me for abandoning her. Um, well, sorry, but speaking the same language as me does not give you an automatic friendship.

True story.

The point being, when you're soooooo proud of some label you've put on yourself, not only are you reducing your personality to a very two-dimensional thing, you're also setting yourself up for rejection. Because friendship is not based on sameness, but on trust and willingness to be there for each other. Expecting someone to always be there for you just because you're in the same "category" is not the right way to make friends.

At the end of the day, I understand the willingness to do whatever it takes to have a friend. But let's face it: most people are lonely. Most people think they do not have enough friends, or not enough close friends. Most people are adrift out there in the big, scary world and it's okay!

Just know that most people are just as desperate for love and friendship as you are, and that they feel just as lonely and deprived as you. So when you meet someone, be nice, and find out who they really are and if they're worth befriending. Don't make a decision based on something superficial--such as a person's hobbies or how they were born.

Tattoo~~

No, I don't have a tattoo (though I did briefly consider getting a 'tramp stamp'). And I don't plan on getting a tattoo either. I mean, it's painful (and I'm not a masochist), and permanent, which goes against my personal philosophy about the world. However, there are some really nice tattoos (though most of them are quite awful).

I raw across this today. It's geeky and cute. If I had to get a tattoo, I'd consider something like this. :P Or a mini Chinese dragon (on the right side of my lower back).

http://tech.msn.com/products/slideshow.aspx?cp-documentid=20879317&imageindex=10

For the more atrocious ones, browse through the whole gallery.

By the way, if you have flabby skin (due to fat or whatever), please do not get a tattoo there. It wouldn't make that part of your body attractive, no matter what you may think.

Pygmalion's Statue

Everybody knows of the story of Pygmalion, the sculptor who created the perfect statue and fell in love with it.

And I suppose one of my strongest kinks (if not the strongest one) is to be Pygmalion's statue. I suppose I recognize that I'm imperfect. It's even possible that I have such deep-seated insecurities that I believe I am unlovable as I am. (I don't actually feel that way--at least, I don't think I do.) Or at the very least, there is a lot of potential for growth and improvement within me.

I do not have perfect manners (for example, I still eat pasta with a fork and a spoon, while Italians use forks only). I talk obnoxiously loudly. I make jokes in poor taste. I'm not a bad person, or even worse than average, but I want to become better. I want to improve. After all, shouldn't everyone strive to improve?

Yet, it's so difficult to find the single goal to reach for. There are so many opinions pulling at me. Should I be straightforward or tactful? Should I flaunt my skills or pretend to modesty? Should I wear bright colors and walk boldly or sway in subtle shimmering hues? There is no 'perfect,' after all, so how can anyone hope to achieve it?

But though I cannot be everyone's idea of perfect, perhaps I can be one person's idea of perfect. He doesn't need to think of me always as perfect, just believe in my ability to achieve his perfection. In other words, I don't need someone to love me for who I am, but to love me for who I can be.

And I think that's where the kink part comes in. I need someone who wants to make me better, and who believes in my potential. Someone who's not willing to put up with me squandering my future. Someone who's willing to mold me and bring me to life.

In a roleplay scene, the closest to this would probably be objectification. And for a little while, I think there would be security in knowing that someone out there thinks I am beautiful for what I can be made into, even if that's not necessarily the 'me' that everybody meets in daily life.

Also, mind control and hypnosis are part of this kink because they would be molding my mind (which I consider the most important and defining part of me). Humiliation as well, for recognizing my flaws (in an admittedly overblown sort of way) and willing to take me nonetheless.

So you see it's not really about the physical restraint for me (though that can be fun), but rather the mental aspect of it.

Online Shopping is Hard!

I tried to look for some underbust corset/vest online, since I wanted to try to dress up as a beer garden girl for Halloween. But the corsets are never flirty enough. I don't like clothing that are very, very heavy handed. For me, subtle is much better.

This corset is nice. But it's very "look at me" sort of thing. I wanted something gentler and flirtier. http://shapercorset.com/Underbust-Corsets/c2/p385/LVG9796-Red-Leather-Corset/product_info.html

Anyway, I found this dress instead. I like it, but would have nothing to do with it. http://www.infectiousthreads.com/big_l_a_17_1057_dress.htm

Or I can just go with any old costume I can put together. These include policewoman, secretary, and bunny.

I kind of wanted to wear my white platform pumps (which are totally slut shoes, but awesome nonetheless). But not if I don't have an outfit to go with it.

So I think I'll just go with my secretary outfit (button down blouse, pin striped skirt, black stockings, glasses and heels). It'll be cheap and easy, and I'm sure I can dig up a clipboard somewhere. And buy really cheap red lipstick.

Moral of the Day

Moral of the Day: Do not bratty unless you know for sure to whom you're talking.

I've been emailing a person from a company, whom I thought was just a recruiter. So I've had a bit of an attitude. It turns out--now that I Googled him, which I should've done right away--that he's the president of the company.

D'oh.

Stress

It's two-thirty in the morning. Although there is no ticking clock, the computer's fan whirls away quietly in the dark. Even after the severe lack of sleep, the late-night clubbing on Saturday, and a long work day today, I toss and turn in my bed instead of falling smoothly into sleep. I try hard to find a comfortable spot, but when I do settle down, my mind inevitably drifts toward a worry that cannot be dealt with at the moment anyway. I should email my professors. Or talk to my advisors. Or apply to some more jobs. I should be planning out my week in minute detail, or reading up on how to drive a manual car. I should do laundry. I should buy groceries. I should... The litany is endless, and never mind that fact that some of the things are literally impossible in the middle of the night where I am.

What I really should do is sleep and to let my over-filled brain work its way through all the information from the day. I cannot, though.

It's been a while since I've been so stressed that insomnia has kicked in. At times like this, I just want to give up. Who cares about grad school anyway when so much money can be made in industry with a job (not to mention how expensive the applications are)? In fact, who cares about jobs at all when your parent is willing to support you, at least for several months? But as much as I'm tempted to give in and give up, I know that it would not make me happy. So I must forge on.

Though, brain, not at two-thirty in the morning, 'kay? Let's forge on after some sleep.

Hover Dream (and other strange things tied in with real life)

I had another strange dream. Go figure.

In this dream, I'm working at a software company (that I actually intern for in real life right now) but all I do is play this one video game. In face, everybody sits really close together with half-hexagon shaped desks. To my right is Danny, a guy who works in the company (irl, too, and who has been trying to hook up with my friend Beth) and he keeps encroaching on my space. His leg would stretch out under my desk, or his elbow would protrude awkwardly so I can't use my mouse.

The game itself is one where I play as a character, a little boy in a family. I think he may be adopted or the foster child, because the other children bullied him. Anyway, in the game, you wandered around the house when the adults weren't there, and you tried to prevent something from happening. Or tried to fix something that went wrong. But actually, you could not win as is. You lose, and then the game time-travels you (can time-travel be a transitive verb?) into when you were younger and everybody's happy (except you, because the kids still bully you), and know what happens in the future, you have to make sure that it never happens.

In the real life in the dream (@.@ this is getting complicated), I'm renting a one-room apartment. However, I haven't filled out the necessary paperwork yet since I'm only staying there for one month. Anyway, my friend Beth is also renting a room in the same building, since I recommended her to my landlord. (In my dream, it's very difficult to get an apartment for a decent price... like it is where I currently stay in real life.)

There is a building-wide meeting in another building, so we all head out there. And the first thing the woman in charge does when she seems me is to ask what I have done with the paperwork (which is nothing). So she thrusts some paperwork at me, which I fill out about halfway, before she tells that she now has to take me to pick up some things.

Of course, not knowing what is going on at all, I follow her quite a ways. We both have backpacks. Then, she says, "Run fast!" So I run fast trying to catch up with her. Then she says, "Now hands at your sides." So I do what she's doing and keep my arms at my sides while still trying to run fast. Then she says, "Okay, lean forward." And again, I do what she's doing, and lean forward so that I almost would've fallen, except I was running so fast. Then, all of a sudden, we were both hovering at about waist high and zooming around the city (through a plaza, around a fountain/mini-park area, and through some park) until we arrived at this one house.

The house itself is very run down. It has that empty feel to it. The floors are made of dark brown tiles. The wood on the stairs are half broken and rotted away. The windows are almost opaque with the buildup of dirt and dust. And as we walk in, we hear the click-click of our shoes. The woman gathers some things--and ignores the blankets sitting there--and hands them to me. (I have no idea what they are, since they magically disappear by the next part of the dream.) Then, she says, "We're done, let's leave." And that's when I remember that it isn't actually my apartment and we just went there to get stuff, which brought me a sigh of relief.

As we are stepping out of the house, though, I realize that the floor plan is exactly like that of the game. And that's also when I can no longer hover.

It happens like this: I get distracted by the revelation. The woman ends up walking out and away. So I have to find my own way back. Since I have a terrible sense of direction (which is true in real life, too), I try to trace my way back. Of course, since I hovered part of my way over, I try to hover that way back. However, instead of being able to hover, I just fall flat on my face each time. It hurts a bit, and no damage is done, but it's embarrassing and I just can't hover!

Anyway, I give up eventually and walk back. There is one part where I cross a 2-lane street and go across a large plaza with giant stores and flashy billboards, and throngs of people. The stores are normal store-brands, like Esprit or Chanel or Guess, but they sell raunchy things. For example, Esprit became a lingerie shop. Chanel sold perfumes advertised as aphrodaisiacs--for the entirety of a department sized store. I don't go in any of them and eventually make it to the tail end of the apartment building wide meeting.

Then I have to finish filling out the form, part of which asks for my GPA. Since I have barely passed my last year abroad (irl, too), I put down a conservative number: 3 to 3.5. My landlord says she wants this for a comparison on how to judge potential tenants by their grades. Then she looks at my grades in shock and says, "You didn't even pass?" Because where I was studying abroad in real life, the grading scale is different and 4 is passing. So I have to explain to her that no, I'm not a "fail student" and that it's a different grading scale in the US.

Finally, the meeting is over. The forms are filled out. And we all go back to our building to our apartments. And I become really anxious about something (can't really remember what--this is when my dream became fuzzy), so I decide to go to bed. And as I went to bed in the dream, I woke up in real life.

I don't think dreams are supposed to be this long and complicated... But, anyway...

Psychoanalyze that.

Looking For...

Looking for things is almost as bad as waiting for things. Just skipping my personal life for the moment, in the next 3 months, I will be looking for:

* grad school admissions

* a full-time position in case that doesn't work out

* research opportunities during the school year

* a part-time position in case research doesn't work out

* a summer internship for next summer, in case grad school does work out

Like any normal person, I hate the thought of being rejected. But you'll never know unless you try. (And unless you do something absolutely horrible, they won't remember rejecting you at all.)

Another Weird Dream

Omg... another weird dream. I don't even know where to start with this one. But I guess I'll start with the beginning.

It's the second floor of a disco club club thing, and loud and rowdy downstairs, and I was supposed to meet with a friend of mine. However, he asks me to just wait a bit as he takes care of some business. In the meanwhile, there are a group of young girls sitting in a room--and by young, I mean about 8-14. I was sort of standing near the room (which had windows all along the wall facing the rest of the second floor of the club so you could see into it. Then, another gaggle of girls came and decided that they had reserved the room. Naturally, they got into an argument, and since I was there with nothing better to do, I tried to keep the argument from escalating. I was on the side of the first group of girls and so they stayed in the room.

Then I try to go fetch my friend, because I somehow knew that he was responsible for them. So I go over and climb down a twisty bit of rickety wooden stairs. There was a mini stage down there, and truly awful singing. (It turns out, later, that it was actually a teen-aged couple, and they had to sing for one reason or another.) Anyway, my friend's climbing up, to get back to those girls, and I was wondering what was going on by this point because he seemed quite agitated.

Of course, by the time he gets to the second floor, he sees the girls arguing about the room. He manages to scold/quell them and then rushes away to do something else. I follow him naturally, still trying to figure out exactly what was going on.

Eventually, he ends up in this tiny room. I mean, tiny. It has some (wooden) cupboards on one side and they would barely open all the way. That was how tiny the room was. There were also desks and monitors. Basically, you sit in the room and don't expect to move. Anyway, so my friend's all agitated in the room, looking around and finally, he opens a cupboard.

It turns out--as he explains to me--that he was taking the girls to see the Terracotta soldiers. The girls were wild American kids, and not the dutifully obedient (and probably repressed ones) of China. So naturally they went around and ended up touching and breaking something. In fact, they broke off the nipples of a couple of the them. (Don't ask me why nipples.) So he had to steal the handle of the cupboard. (Just... don't ask. I don't know either.)

The handle is basically a piece of metal with one end bent into a triangular shape. The other end is stuck through the wooden door, and secured with a washer. (Yes, it was a thin washer, not a bolt, even though it could screw on the metal and hold it there.) He does this, I anxiously help him, and hold the four metal pieces in my left hand. He's done, he closes the cupboards... and that's when the mad scientist whose room it is bursts into the room!

Apparently, this mad scientist is the one who is pushing for persecution of the little girls. I'm nervously holding the metal pieces in a loose open sort of way, hoping desperately the mad scientist won't notice. Meanwhile, my friend tries to have a conversation with him. However, the scientist starts talking about showing us his book, and disarmingly walks to the cupboard--the whole time with me in a nervous cold sweat--and points to the missing handles on the cupboard.

A tussle breaks out back in the hallway. I think my friend just pushed the scientist outside, screaming something like, "You think it's okay to torture young girls who never got a chance to grow up?" And they're fighting and fighting and fighting. Then somehow, my friend finds a frayed wire, with about a foot of the outside cut off to reveal the multiple wires on the inside, some of which were bare too. So he sticks the wire(s?) at the scientist and manages to zap the scientist a little.

Somehow after that, I started choking the scientist. He retaliates by somehow getting a hold of the wire (or maybe he was distracted doing that) and zapping me. Except I don't feel anything... except special movie effect where the subject stays in place but the background is shifting further and further back. And back. And back. And back.

I learn that the scientist was crazy because he loved and married a woman who had only been cold to him. I see myself in the club. I see myself in front of a bed. I see the seasons changing outside the bedroom windows, fall and winter and spring and summer and all over again.

Then, I realized that I didn't need to choke him anymore, so I let go. The first thing I hear is, "What changed today?" I look around. I'm in a house, and what I had been holding on is an old, dried, and fried corpse. The house itself is nice and airy, with the sun streaming in. It had that cute cottage feel to it. And there is my friend, who is now much, much older. He's 60 or 70 now.

I think I wandered around the whole day in shock. Instead of moments--or maybe minutes--of choking the scientist, I had been holding onto his dead body for decades! And my friend, who had only ever been a friend, albeit a cute one, has taken care of me this whole time. I feel obliged, of course, but also strange. Besides, while he is looking old, I still look as young as I feel, which is in the early 20's.

Anyway, in the end, we went to bed. He on one side and me on the other, with a balloon robot in the middle (think a straight wire attached to a red, round balloon at the top). At that time, I thought it was just a balloon. My friend brings out an open wire from underneath his bed and I shrink away. And he says, "I'm sorry, it's just become a nightly habit to try to bring you back." Then he turns to the robot and says, "I'm so glad that she's back, aren't you?"

And I figured he was allowed to be a bit eccentric because he's probably been going crazy taking care of me, someone who did nothing all day (as far as I gathered). Then the robot replies (and this is when i realized it's a robot), "Yes, I am very glad she's back, too."

That's when I finally got so freaked out that I woke up. Or maybe I fell asleep in the dream (I remember snuggling down into a blanket) and woke up in real life. Anyway, it was a very strange dream...

Psychoanalyze that, please.

Messages I've Received

I read every single message sent to me. No exceptions. Although, for the most part, I've given up on replying to them with any regularity. I have received some atrocious messages, and this post shall be a show case of them... They're all copied verbatim and in proper formatting.

1.)

YOU ARE FUKIN 760 LBS? GEESH . WHO WILL EVER WANT TO FUCK YOPU BITCH? YOU ARE NOTHIN G BUT A BIGSACK OF UGLYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY MEATR . GO AND WORK ON YOUR WEIFHT GEESH

Yes, because obviously I'm 5'2" and possibly 760 pounds in my photo. Get some common sense.

2.)

You can really be proud of yourself stabbing people in the back and making false accusations. It are your Chinese genes probably, it is about all they do there, stabbing one another in the back.

This from someone who claims to have a better grasp of English than the average native English speaker and who calls other people xenophobic.

3.)

First of all, Hello, its always good to find someone with similar interests than mine, which its of course hypnosis [...] I've done it before, I've hypnotized and drugged two girls to have no mind and no memory at all and then sell them when they compleatly bored me to a couple of friends to be used, I can do similar with you

[...]

Okay, this message was actually cordial and written in decent English considering that it came from over the internet. But I did wonder if I should call the police. (He later messaged me that these girls had wanted this done to them. But as a first message, it still makes it on my 'wtf list.')

And that's all for now (and hopefully for a long time).

The Problem with Fantasies

The problem with fantasies is that I have so many. Some of the are distinct, sharp and cutting into my thoughts every so often. Some are fuzzy, with the watercolor scenes bleeding out into nebulous space. And to make matters even worse, fantasies are safe; they are constructs we can twist and mold in our brains. Reality, on the other hand, is a block of unfinished marble you only get to chisel once. If you mess up, you better make something else out of it. (That something else is not necessary worse, but it would definitely be different.)

For example, in a fantasy world of mine, I am forever young and rich. I fly my private jet when I want to ski, or scuba dive, or go shopping. I am the owner of a hundred leather bags, and a hundred pairs of shoes. I am also famous, having left my mark in the world with a great, wonderful invention I've come up with. I may even have won the Turing award. Or have turned down offers to be the Dean at first tier universities. In this fantasy world, I have beauty, brains, riches, and fame. I live in extravagant comfort by myself, so that I can be free to travel wherever I want. Though, of course, I have my coterie of handsome young men who are more than willing to scramble to do my will.

A more realistic fantasy world would be an ideal future. In this version, I would have a comfortable job near my mother and my sister. I'd be married, and perhaps having my first child at the age of 30. I still hate gardening, but I've learned how to cook. I might only have 3 weeks of vacation days a year, but I take the time to travel when I can, with the husband who shares my interests (at least in traveling). My home is comfortable, probably a 3 or 4 bedroom, with an open kitchen always smelling of freshly roasted coffee, and a comfortable den with a large aquarium of fish. In this fantasy, I might not be the top of the world, but I am happy and content and satisfied with life.

Another fantasy of my mind is that classic Thomas Crown Affair / espionage one. In this one, I am smart, wily, and always carrying out secret missions. I am so constantly high on the adrenaline rush that I am reckless and have a much higher pain tolerance than normal. Of course, one day, I meet my match. We fight, we tie, and something happens to bring us together. Maybe one of us changes sides. And from then on, we work together, until we die young, but gloriously, having left our subtle mark on history and humanity.

Then there is the romantic fantasy. I am by myself and lonely, just an average girl next door, who has slowly watched her friends get paired up over the years. But secretly, that one guy I never considered because he seemed so unattainable has always wanted me. I protest, of course, mistrustful of his intentions. But instead of being put off by my coldness, he becomes determined to do whatever it takes to win me. Here, the fantasy takes a split. In the first version, he romances me until I give in. In the second one, he becomes a stalker and kidnapper, until--basically--I have Stockholm Syndrome. (If you think that's weird, please remember how popular Twilight was.) Either way, in the end, I come to love and trust him, and we live happily ever after (probably without kids, if it's the second scenario).

Then of course there are the sex fantasies. That somehow I am hyped up on arousal, and that nothing can completely take the edge off. Perhaps I've been brainwashed, or injected with a pheromone, or was born with a genetic defect, or simply trained to be this way. I have no more worries in this scenario, except the constant need to cum. (Or I might have periods of lucidity followed by mindless need.) I'd beg, I'd sob, I'd plead... I'd do anything so that I can cum (maybe I need permission, or cock, or a drug). In the nice version of this fantasy, there is a man who is my master, and he is mostly benevolent, though he does play with me sometimes. He might lock me up in a cage for my own good during the day when he's away. He might make me sleep on the floor. But I love him in my own distracted way, because he has never truly been cruel to me even though he's been given many chances. And though it's extra responsibility for him, he's still willing to indulge me most days. And because he considers me his, he's willing to go to lengths to protect me, from others and from myself.

At the other end of the spectrum for that fantasy, there is the I lose my job, house, and all prospects of employment. I end up on the street... and you know where that goes...

And I have many, many other fantasies that interest me in one way or another. Does this mean I actually want all my fantasies to become reality? No. Does that mean I would even want to play them out? Not really. For me, it's interesting to think about the possibilities, and sympathetically arousing when I cast myself into another self in another world.

But just because I find a story arousing or I have a certain fantasy, that doesn't mean that I want it to become real life. (I don't want outhouses and dragons in real life either, but they're in many novels I enjoy reading.) So what you should really be asking me instead is, "Where do you want to go?" And I would tell you as honestly as I can where I imagine going next with my life, on a need to know basis, that is. But otherwise, I am open to possibilities.

So please... Just because I find being poured into a cement block (yes, I read an erotica like that once) hot doesn't mean I want it done to me. Or that I even have that kink. Part of the appeal of an erotica is that I am always safe as the reader (unless there's stealth hypnosis implanted in there, of course). ;)

Bra fit

Girlie rant here...

Most people wear the wrong size of bra. Or wear the wrong fit. Or wear it in the wrong way. Here are some things that women should know about bras:

The bottom of the bra should be flat, as in the back of the bra should not be riding up. Furthermore, the main support of the bra comes from underneath, not the shoulder straps. Therefore, a good bra would fit well even if you slipped the straps off your shoulders. There should be no gaps between your bra and your breasts (unless you're squeezing your breasts together on purpose), or the bra is too big. However, if the bra is too small (which is often the case), the edge of the cup will cut into your breasts, which is both unpleasant and unsightly. Lastly, no matter how good of a fit you get, you will still need to jiggle your breasts into place everytime you wear a bra.

I wear a D sized bra, but my breasts are probably actually more 'C-sized', because I know how to find the proper bra-size for myself. Of course, I only buy bras from lingerie stores where I can actually get a proper fit. Besides, models have thinner frames, so their breasts are comparatively bigger.

Also, for washing bras... You should fold one cup over the other and tuck the straps into the cups. Then, place the bra inside the bag you use to wash your stockings or a special bra washing container. The point is that the bra should stay folded like that as it goes through a 'cool' wash cycle. Wash and dry your bra as you would wash and dry your stockings.

The Secret to Hypnosis...

http://www.reviewhypnosis.com/

I personally found this hilarious. It's like saying you can read a book on being successful, or write your way into becoming a multimillionaire. You can, but chances are, the shortcut's not going to work.

But I suppose somebody must buy this. Poor, desperate sops.

Weird Dream

I had a dream I was shopping for shirts, made with fall materials but in spring colors. The stores were American stores, but the mall was situated where the Zurich Airport is, because I remember thinking, distinctly, that I needed to finish at a certain time to catch a train home (to my old room I moved out of 2 weeks ago, actually).

At first, I took all the stuff I wanted to try on to a fitting room. But it turned out that was not a fitting room, just an area in the fitting area (which is all dark and put up with tent material). So then I wandered around the fitting area, which was strangely big and busy, but absent of personnel. I found a rather large fitting room and started trying things on, but as I was putting on a yello shirt (satin underlayer with a translucent layer on top, square neck cut, and short, billowy sleeves), I realized that the door jammed and wasn't shut all the way. The door was actually crooked, so the bottom part of the door will always be open. Anyway, I tried to shut it by slamming it shut, which first caused it to bounce back open, and then caused a giant noise and a lot of dust to fall with the vibration, since everything was made with tent material.

That was when a personnel ran to me (slim, average hight brunnette in a t-shirt and skinny pants or tights, her hair was in a ponytail, the bottom of it not quite reaching her neck) and told me anxiously that the changing room might be dangerous because it's potentially on a fault line. So I had to evacuate that particular changing room.

And then I got mad, thinking that I would never get a chance to actually try my clothes on, and that's when I woke up.

(And then I had a random dream sequence/thought that in order for sex pounding sounds to be echoed for miles and miles around, you'd need to practically fall from 2 miles up in the air everytime. Since that was not very practical, you'd actually both have to be giant sized, like those monsters on the mountainsides in Japanese sentai shows.)

Psychoanalyze that, please.

Older Men

Older men, you are creepy. I called my friend Amy today and she said--and I quote--And I went to this club last night, and there were all these old guys there. I mean, I'm not just talking about older, they were like... at least almost 40! They're like my dad's age. That's just gross.

So there you have it, older men. When you go to clubs with cover fees to pick up girls, you will only get the extremely kinky ones and the golddiggers.

And add 10 creepiness points if you're trying too hard to be young. (And 20 more creepiness points if you take pictures of your pale, flabby stomach and post them up to show how young you are.)

Your fantasy is not you

Profiles, guys! Take them seriously, write something both coherent and interesting. If I like your profile, I'm much more likely to respond to you.

And seriously, don't write your fantasy in your profile. Don't do the whole this is how it will be thing. Why? Because if I was interested you at all, I was interested in a mutually-beneficial relationship. I want to know what you would contribute to it and how I can contribute to it. But I don't want to be just a moving blow-up doll for you to playact your fantasy. Whatever we will have should grow organically out of our relationship and our combined personalities than from your strictly preconceived ideal.

Besides, if I wanted to read erotica (which I do), there are plenty of sites for me to go to. If you want to know my favorite stories, just ask.

I hate housework

Laundry, dishwashing, vacuuming... All that just holds no appeal for me. It's not calming, it's not peaceful, and it's certainly not something soothing. Housework is a huff and puff of busywork I'd much rather leave to someone else.

Seriously, last summer (the first time I truly lived by myself), my dishes got dirty and piled so high in the sink that... well, let's just say it nearly became a health hazard. And you know what I had to do to motivate myself to do it? I'd get myself all worked up with a vibrator, and do the dishes before letting myself finish. That is what it took for me to get the housework done. And no, I still didn't enjoy it (the housework part, that is).

When I'm all growed up and settled down, I will pay to have a professional come clean my home. She will do a better job, enjoy it (hopefully), and I'll be helping society by hiring people.

(Saturday is laundry day for me... and ugh...)

[Private] Humiliation and Why It Cannot Be 24/7

I think humiliation would be hot, as well as being made to beg. I won't go any more into details on that, since this is--supposedly--an under 18 okay blog, and not an erotica blog.

But I will expound on my psychology behind this.

See, there are social norms. And your network is usually a web, which means that the people you know are likely to know each other as well. So if you do something that's considered "bad" by one of your acquaintances, your other acquaintances would know, too. This has been proven true with kindergarten ("She likes to read, don't play with her.") to high school ("Did you hear? She got drunk and puked all over the place last Saturday.") and follows you into your adult life ("You don't want to date her; she has self-image issues."). And most normal people care about what others think, if nothing else, because you have more opportunities open to you when you have a good reputation.

So there's a lot to be said for maintaining your image so that you can go far in life. There's also the plain fact--at least for submissives--that our natural tendency is to do what pleases others. And there is nothing that displeases people more than jarring them out of their little established worldview. For most people, I am organized, successful, friendly but slighly antisocial. To them, I am also too workaholic to even consider having a life. Or too organized to ever give up control. So, subconsciously at least, I do my best to measure up to their expectations.

Geeky Thought

A submissive is like a Linux platform. If you were given permission for control, and you know what you're doing, you can have it doing anything you want.

A for-hire-per-session submissive is like a Mac OS. Everybody can use one, as long as you shell out the money for it. And you'll think you know what you're doing with it. But you still have to be really good to actually get into the nitty gritty details to get the full experience (I'd imagine).

A spambot is like Windows Vista. They try to tell you that they're good and real, but all they're really doing is wasting your resources. All the time. And you can't do anything you want on them.

A vanilla person pretending to be into kink is a Windows 7. It's nice to look at, and works as you'd expect, as long as you do things how it tells you to. But if you want anything more or any further customization, say good-bye to either functionality or reliability. Or dual-boot with another OS.

(Wait, so does that mean a person with multiple--and possibily hidden--personalities is a multi-boot machine? What about running parallels, then? A person who is truly a sub but can fake being vanilla enough to make most people happy? Hmm... this needs further contemplation.)

(This post was not meant to offend in any way. I regularly use 7, mac, and linux--ubuntu hardy.)

More Tips for Guys

Stephann made a great post... just thought I'd link to it. He's right on the dot about a lot of things.

Especially names. I think people underestimate how important it is. A generic name screams lack of creativity. So if your name has a number tagged onto it, I can only think that you are one of many, and there's no need to bother talking with you specifically.

Also, if a person does have their IM listed somewhere, go ahead and chat with them. But otherwise, don't ask until you've sent enough emails to established that you're actually an intelligent person. If you can't have a good conversation with me, we cannot have a relationship. Of any kind. (I mean, that's plain common sense, right?)

New Theory...

Everybody has the first truly emotional memory. For me that was when I was eight and told quite plainly that I will have to leave the safety and comfort of my grandparents' home (because my mother missed me). I went from cosseted (seriously, you could not have found a more spoiled eight-year-old than I was) to what seemed like full independence, having to do things autonomously in a strange world with a strange language.

I think that experience probably defines the moment when I decided I can only be happy with someone else over seeing my happiness for me.

So my theory is this: That if your first truly emotional memory was that independence brought you happiness, then you would be a dominant. Otherwise, you'd be a submissive. If you were equally happy, then you'd probably be a switch (or vanilla).

Try it on for size. But of course there would be exceptions.

Jumping

A little meta-post first...

On my way home, my mind always wanders, and inevitably comes up with something to blog about. But the blogpost always starts out big and ends up being pared to an almost entirely different topic. This post was going to be about being suicidal versus being an adrenaline junkie. But instead it's come to this... "Jumping: an extended metaphor." Metaphor for what? I'll let you decide.

Okay, here's the actual post...

When I was little, I never exercised much. Mostly, I was cocooned by my grandparents' many layers of love, and stayed home. Jumping--like all exercise--can be dangerous. You can twist your ankle or scrape your knee or even land badly and hit your head. Of course, because I never exercised when I was little, I had horrible balance. So even when I went to the parks with trampolines, I would only hesitantly go up, jump a bit half-heartedly, twist my ankle, and limp around the park for the rest of the day. Simply put, jumping was not a pleasant experience.

But jumping isn't all just jumping from the ground. You can jump from a diving board or from a building or from a cliff.

See, here's the thing about jumping: There's a certain height range that if you jump off, you won't survive. But if you jump from lower or higher than that, you'll most likely survive if you don't do anything stupid. Most people only ever jump off from below that height. They jump on trampolines, or from pool sides, or from a diving board. You can jump from 10 or 12 meters above water and as long as you don't do anything stupid, you'll be fine.

Question of the Day

If you have a hypnosis audio file, you can listen to it again and get hypnotized.

If you have a hypnosis text, I'm assuming you can reread it and get hypnotized.

However, if you have a saved chat log and you reread it, would you get hypnotized, or would it feel more like revisiting a memory?

Fact of the Day

It is apparently common to feel numb or tingly hands and fingers--and even face--when experiencing an orgasm. This is caused by the loss of blood from extremities and it flows toward the clitoris. Sometimes, it is also caused by (or compounded with) a lack of oxygen due to a subconscious change in breathing.

Hmm... The jury's still out for whether it's harmful or not.

For me, the feeling went away with the orgasm, so it's okay. But apparently, some people (of both sexes) are paralyzed for up to 15 minutes. That is a bit scary. (And by 'scary,' I do not mean creepy. Creepy is exciting. Scary is just plain scary.)

Tips for the Searching Men

In the past few days, I have received many, many messages. I read every one of them. I respond to some, at least once. And there are only a few who have kept me interested. What is the difference in all this? Well, here they are...

Top 3 reasons for me to ignore a message:

The Attraction of Mind Control

Like any child brought up in a conscientious and scientist family, I was always taught to think for myself, to consider all the facts and draw my own conclusions, and to question dubious and unqualified authority. Yet, I have apparently developed a fetish for mind control, an anathema of all that I was taught. Why is this? I have wondered that myself, and here is the conclusion I have come to:

See, I have a prosaic view on life; I don't worry about things that are out of my control. It was originally one of the "no stress" tips I picked up in high school. (Junior year, what's with full course load at high school, half-time load at the local community collage, working a total of 25 hours a week, and juggling the couple of clubs for which I was an officer.) Few people manage to successfully incorporate new life philosophies, but I seem to have managed well thus far.

Grammar Nazi! (and other complaints)

Here's another obligatory post: grammar and people's posts in general.

I'm not usually such a big grammar Nazi. If you have a typo in a chat or a forum post, I don't really care unless you are completely unintelligible. In that case, I would respond with a universal "?". However, when you're posting something such as a blog post or your own profile--something that people will look at as representative of you--please pay some attention. (And use spellcheck. Something like "Hi nice to meet you yes i can be domanet or submissvae" is just impossible to read. [And yes, that was a direct quote.])

FAIL!

I always seem to post when I'm morose. With the black background of the blog, I may seem quite depressed or cynical. I'm not, really. It's just that I tend to write when I'm upset.

So the upset of the day: My failed attempt at a standardized test.

I have been told that the GRE is to grad school as what the SAT is to undergrad. Even the grading scale is the same (out of 800), and I had thought that because I did well on the SAT without practice, I wouldn't need to study for the GRE either. That, as I found out, was an incorrect assumption.

So after spending over $200 in total, in traveling and on the test, and wasting a whole day to go to Geneva, I got a measly 610 for my verbal score. Math was okay. I got an 800 on that...

Ah, well, better luck to me next time.

EDIT: On a more positive note about school and stuff, I got a total of 54 credits this year, which is a startling 14 credits more than I needed. Even if half of those credits were completely unrelated to my field of study.

EDIT 2: It seems that some credits actually haven't shown up yet, so I should have a total of at least 62 credits, which is 2 more than the average year load of a normal student. Yay for me!

This is the obligatory "I've decided to start a blog" post...

I've decided to start a blog. It's just something to occupy myself, really, since I do bad things when I'm bored. Oh, not terrible things. Usually it's not even something illegal. It's just that I waste so much time when I can be spending time practicing my writing skills. That's at least useful. Instead, I'd just spent two hours practicing how to masturbate to orgasm. Well, that might be useful, too, but it's not something I would go up and tell my employer. (Or at least, I hope I never, ever try to get that sort of employment.)