A Fascination for Fantasy, or Why I am Obsessed with Happy Endings

Stories are everywhere, and everyone tells them. It's the most ubiquitous form of enjoyment. They are shown on TV, waiting in the library, and told during conversations.

I like happy endings. I have a slightly odd definition of a happy ending, but there needs to be an ending where the main character accomplishes his goal. He may be dead, or have given up something important for him... He may not actually be happy--having lost his true love or made the world disappear--but somewhere along the line, he chose that and he accomplished what he chose to accomplish.

Put like that, perhaps I need happy endings because I need to believe in free will. I need to know that we're not just puppets. If I make a choice, it will make a difference, and if I don't give up, I'll get what I set out to. Now, the price along the way might be much higher than I would like, but that choice should be up to me. I refuse to believe that we're just victims of the ever-stoic, ever-turning world.

Besides, writing is art. So perhaps I'm just a traditionalist. To me, art should be fascinating and beautiful. It may be skewed in some way, but in the end, it should be someone's vision of how the world should be. People who see the world as something cold, dark, and ugly scare me, not because I can't relate, but because I can.

It's too easy to slide down into cynicism. I'm not "worldly" in the sense that I have done horrible things or explored the nitty gritty of the world. But--at the risk of sounding like a drama queen--I know just as well what it's like to be alienated and to think that the world can go to shit for all I care. I get tempted, too, to botch other people's hard work just so I have a better chance at something I might not even really want. I have hated children. And puppies. And couples in love. And sometimes, it's so easy to just insinuate a little thing to make people break up, or to say, "Yes, you should hate; you have a right to hate." Then, I can sit back and think to myself, "Well, it's their fault that they're not strong enough. It was bound to happen anyway." Never mind that some things need careful nurturing before becoming stalwart.

It's become habit now, but it used to take sheer force of will to stay optimistic, to give everybody the benefit of the doubt, and to accept that people who make mistakes deserve second chances. Because people do flourish--maybe not everyone, but enough, and if they're not given the chance to reach their potential, then this would be a bleak world indeed.

So I don't like stories where people are victims, or stories where people do everything they can but still don't succeed. It may make some people feel better about their own lives, but it just makes me doubt the effort I put forth. I would rather know that the ideal world where efforts are eventually rewarded is at least imaginable, if impossible to be perfectly replicated in the real world.

I want to believe that even if everything seems to be screwing you over, that as long as you don't give up, you will succeed. I don't need stories to reinforce what I already see so easily in the world around me: that even if you do your best, the world can still fall apart on you. No, I want to be optimistic and forgiving and believe in happy endings. Because the alternative is to become cold and glamorous and selfishly ruthless.

(And anyway, it's not like by not having stories with happy endings, I can somehow 'save' them for the real world.)

On Normalcy

This has been a touchy subject, and so I will try not to make generalizations. Rather, I will give you the specifics (of my view on it) and let you extrapolate from there.

Ah, to be normal...

I'd be lying if I said I want to be normal. No, I want to be different, unique... extraordinary! Of course I want to be special. Perhaps that's just part of the culture I'm immersed in, or perhaps it's a basic human drive or need, or perhaps it just is. I would rather win the Pulitzer prize or be known as the girl who ate the most tomatoes in a day than forever be just 'a girl.' The bottom is line is that I don't want to be average, or mediocre, or... normal.

But being different is not as easy as that, because there's another side to normalcy: acceptance. Society seems to accept the 'norm' much easier than those who are different. I don't know why... Maybe it's easier to be compassionate when you think the same way. Or maybe it's because the person who is most like you is most likely to support the same causes as you. Or maybe people were raised to revere this concept of normalcy and most have never looked beyond the 'do' to the 'why'. Whatever it is, those who color inside the lines are much easier and more generally accepted.

And yes, I want to be accepted, too. To that end, I try to make people feel comfortable with me and to be friendly. And yes, sometimes, that means not stating my opinion on something straight out, or dressing in a way that some people might not like. So, yes, I adapt the personality I project to suit the person with whom I'm interacting. But I don't think that compromises my individuality as long as I'm still myself with my crazy ideas of becoming an editor and learning to skydive and eating tomatoes all day long when I'm in private.

And it certainly doesn't mean that I don't accept those who are different. So while I might be "acting normal" most of the time, it doesn't mean that I am, or that I care if you are. And it certainly doesn't mean I would give up anything that's truly important to me in order to maintain the appearance of normalcy.

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.