She's Wonderful!

The Cycle Begins

This is not a happy story, if you want to know the truth. This is not your typical hero tale where the villain is only evil and wins throughout most of the story, and therefore you think it's over for the hero when the two face-off at the climax when suddenly, though planned in the most dramatic way possible, the villain is vanquished forever, and the whole amiable village that took good care of the hero celebrates--even that one guy who is skeptical of the hero because he is secretly jealous; yeah, even that guy celebrates the villain being vanquished. Eventually, all the little town folk and the hero and the hero's companions learn that the greatest power of all is love--and love, dear reader, lies within all us. Lovely.

No, this is not one of those stories--that, if you continue reading, you'll be assured of. This is a much more sadder tale of loss, betrayal, anguish, antipathy, and defeat. There might be some scenes or instances of brief contentment; hell, at times there are even times when the level of anguish and pain is relaxed--just a little, mind you. These things I'll begrudgingly grant you. But, underneath each of these good fortunes lies another series of miserable events, greater dejection, and moments where you go 'Damn, that sucks'; and it's true: whatever just happened in that particular scene to make you say those words out loud, and possibly in front of your parents or teacher, does suck. Lots of things in this story suck. And whatever sparkle sparkle of hope you may see in the fogged and overcast night will quickly be extinguished with great animosity--always.

I am telling you this to serve as a warning. Reader, you should, right now, stop expecting a happy ending to this novel because, well, it just isn't going to happen. Got it? Just stop. Right now. There will be no happy ending. There. The longer you delude yourself into thinking there will be one the longer you'll be miserable. And just so you know, once you start to read this story, you won't be able to stop reading until it's done, at which point you'll feel terrible because of the unhappy ending. Do you see what you got into now? Just go.
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Has my warning not sent you away yet? Fine, I concede: you may continue, if you really want to do so.
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Still?

Okay, but I warned you: let's begin.

Solid Futility

I try to scoop out the liquid essence
of your memory,
but each time I reach deep inside,
my brain is dust and my mind sits dry.
Time, apparently, has drank all of you.

Mauve Memories

These mauve memories
hibernate in my mind
like those hand-painted lilac shoes
you gave me two years ago I loved
but forgot about,
until I'm cleaning and find them in mid-January
and decide to wear them one last time before I throw them out;
except these mallow memories can never be thrown out,
but can only be forgotten
and found once again
one day in every winter
blooming in groves against the deep frigid snow.

Across the backyard lawn at the small party

I looked over at you, and I don't know if you knew I was admiring you, or if you knew I was looking at you, right at you, instead of someone else behind you, but if when our eyes struck each other and I could see the beautiful amber of your eyes set in piercing white orbs, and you could see me, a stringy, not too handsome yet not too bad looking, smart, socially inept guy sitting in solitude with his laughing friends who, though not actively searching, sometimes notices someone who could one day be his greatest confidant and life partner, his future wife and other half, his lovely girlfriend, then fiance, then wife; the only other person with whom he could talk with, really talk with, talk with beyond anything he's ever experienced, which is something he knows he could only do with a wonderful girl who loved who he was and who would love him for what he would later become once he finished grad school and left for the peace corps and came back two years later with a completely different outlook on life; who could love him on trips around the world and around the country and around the state and around the city and around the house and around the backyard as he played a goofy life, taking it as serious as it needs to be--which is not very--and only becoming a little less goofy under certain circumstances, never once forgetting to appreciate the tangible colors of reality with a deep breath and a 'thank you' sailing through smiling lips, emanating from a solid pair of lungs that live to skip through life on happy beats of invigorating gratitude; if when our eyes struck each other and you saw me admiring you, it's because at that beat of a second my heart was pulled deeper into my chest and my whole body felt as if it had fallen a hundred feet in two seconds, and I suddenly become conscious of the small breath of air I barely managed to inhale, that I would like to talk to you to get to know you better; you seem like a very interesting, funny, smart, warm, passionate and compassionate human being. But if not, if it wasn't me you were looking at, or if it was me and you're not interested, or if you aren't an interesting, funny, smart, warm, passionate and compassionate human being, then I, an average guy with an extraordinary store of love to give but who is incapable of sharing it with anyone else but his life partner, won't bother you with another glance, although I think you're missing out, really; and even though you may not want to know what a kind, funny, smart, interesting, all-around wonderful individual I am, I want you to know that I saw you tonight under clouded Los Angeles stars and beneath wide, sky-scraping palms next to dozens of buzzed people and through the loud, ripping bass of a DJ; and even though I don't know if you know, it was you--only you--I was looking at.

The Twenty-Story Monster Part 1

I have to fight it. No one has told me this. I just know.

It's about twenty stories tall and ugly and smells like rotten milk. The world around me becomes still and silent. It exhales a deep and low moan. I cover my ears before my head explodes in the upsurge of noise.

It stops but my head keeps swirling. My ears are ringing like I'd just been knocked in the head.

It bellows a huge gust of wind. It's hot, cancerous breath coils around me like a tornado. I gag as I inhale large chunks of green poison up my inflamed nose and into my lungs.

I can't think anymore. It's too hot in here.

I force every part of my body to run. Nothing happens. I push and push against the fatigue in my head and the weariness in my legs. I'm losing consciousness.

I push one more time. My nerves and muscles almost split from the force. This time, I manage to push myself out of the rushing wind and take a huge gulp of clean air.

The monster is large but fast.

It reaches down and yanks me from my arm. I feel something tear and I scream with my entire body.

I faintly hear the sound of rushing wind as I'm pulled two hundred feet up in the air in the span of two seconds. I can't feel my head anymore. My thoughts turn into paste. I'm beyond confusion; there's no relief for this.

It's holding me in front of it's face. I can't keep my eyes open. The pain spewing through my body is too much.

Only now do I realize I'm violently shaking. I'm convulsing like a madman and I can't stop.

It laughs. Honest to God, it laughs at me.

I'm pathetic. I know why its laughing. I'm a pathetic maggot and I deserve to be laughed at.

I can't fight--I'm too weak. I've been struggling too long to fight anything. I'm tired. All I want is rest.

I know I'll finally get it in a few moments though. I'm grateful it'll be over soon.

Positive People

I like positive people,
positive persons providing sunshine to our lives,
sheening fun to our drives,
and silly stamps to our life visas.

Starry Hills

It's Thursday; tomorrow's Friday--
the day for trash pick-up;
ordinary Friday,
picking it's way along the decaying rows of days.

I don't need a jacket
to walk to my cold car.
She turns her engine with a growl,
and asks for a little more rest.

Street lights like blurred memories,
headlights behind me like empty phantoms,
everything driving by, silent
as a mute t.v.

Darkness, lovable darkness,
don't remind me you come once a day;
let's spend our solitary hours
together on the empty fluorescent road.

Aren't starry hills
most beautiful
when covered in darkness?

It's dark and I'm still awake,
like I've always been,
and always will be
like the way she never was.

I enjoy to drive at night,
when streets are clear
and my burdens soft.

Childhood

Childhood is winding down,
winding down,
winding down;
childhood is winding down,
we're now adults.

To Do

What do I do when the sun blares cold nothings, and my wife always watches t.v. in a different room than me, and my kids live in their rooms, and my cat never purrs when I pet him, and my shoulders are always tense like I've been sitting down for a really long time, and my eyes are always dry and hurt whenever I open them after closing them, and my feet feel squished in plastic shoes, and my car's maintenance light is on but it hasn't broken yet, plus I only have $150 in my account, and I feel like having sex is what only a younger version of me did, and it takes me four minutes to pee when in my twenties I could do it on command, and the music I like only plays on oldie stations, and my car doesn't have gas, and my kids are assholes and my wife's ignorant, and I'm always lonely like I'm hungry?

What do I do then?

Timed Writing

This morning I took a workshop on Timed Writing. At the end of the hour, we practiced. Here was the prompt:

Many of us enjoy reading, going to the movies or just listening to stories told to us by friends or relatives. Usually, our favorite stories or movies have a strong impact on us. Write about a book, fable, or movie that has affected you. Explain why it is important to you and how it changed your life or how you think.

Here's my response:

The Harry Potter series is important to me because it sparked my interest in reading in the fifth grade, causing me to pursue my current career goal as a writer.

When I began the fifth grade, I was like most eleven-year-old students in my school: energetic, impatient, and did not particularly enjoy reading. I never bothered to read very much, which is why I did not enjoy it. I hadn't found anything to love in it. So, when my teacher began to read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to our class, I was not eager to listen. Fortunately for me, however, something remarkable happened: I became enamored with the characters. Harry felt like a kid my age whom I could relate with; the Dursleys were despicable monsters that I didn't mind respecting--after all, they did raise Harry, for better or for worse; Hogwarts, Harry's scholastic home and sanctuary, was just as real as my own school. Once we finished Chamber of Secrets as a class, I returned on my own time to the beginning of the series--Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I found more to love in books by reading it. By the time I finished, I had already started the third installment. Once I finished the fourth book (at that time there were only four published), I began to hunt for more literature. Spending lazy afternoons on my blue couch in my sunny living room, I devoured hours of books throughout middle school, and once I entered the ninth grade, I began to write my own.

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I don't want anyone to think I didn't read at all before fifth grade, because I did. But Harry Potter was the first time I read religiously. I owe many thanks to J.K. Rowling, as well to Jerry Spinelli, Louis Sachar, Franklin W. Dixon, etc.

For me, it is everything I read and love that inspires me to write.

Earth Night

Everything is flooded through the night
as the Earth twirls in spacious darkness,
her clouded forehead cool
in the gravitas silence.

Outside My House

The air was cold outside; I puffed out a huge cloud of ice as soon as I stepped out. I felt the warmth in my chest dissolve like evaporating rain in that breath. A short walk to my car and my lungs were frost-bitten; the air was really cold outside.

Charles Manson

When we look at Charles Manson,
staring straight into his eyes,
we shudder and think to ourselves,
"This man is a wicked monster! Look at those cold eyes."
In reality, however,
there is nothing particularly cold about them.

The Ride

Our lives rush toward us
outside our windshields;
we can't wait for this time to pass.
Then, when we pass it,
we see life isn't more special up the road--
just more of the same.
We realize we make the ride special now.
But, it's too late,
because we see everything rush past
in our rear view mirrors,
as shadows of power lines run across the pavement,
resembling curved skid marks.

Hm.

I seemed to have missed four days in my posting schedule. Darn. Looks like I'll have to post more than once a day to catch up.

I think I just needed a break. I think that last poem about Jeff Goldblum kinda wore me out--in a good way, of course. I felt satisfied with my accomplishments. But I'll be getting back to writing now. I have quite a few ideas for new poems!

Man? No. Beast!

Stories of lightning, hard thunder and steel.
Jeff Goldblum, you are my mother-flippin' hero!
A chin like Roman Nero, a modern pharaoh;
Your bod is a feast for eyes--for real.
Stallion hair, wild tan eyes; when you arise,
My day, the way I embrace life, gives birth
To wings that lift and fly; my worn eyes
Do surf the Earth; there is but mirth
In this hurting world. Your rhino-thick arms
Carry my lungs like a hot air balloon
Up to the azure sky, way past the flying barns.
My breaths lay in golden oceans, festooned
In the nebulous outer space. Woe! My heart fumes
because I can't see my dear Goldblum!

Comments. It's Cinco de Mayo! Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Anonymous Me:
We're all selfish jerks. If you think you're more selfish than a normal person should be, you're wrong. That little thing each, every, and all individuals go through called being a human being that is just full of fun stuff--feeling stupid sometimes, having greasy hair, and being so selfish you usually don't care about your friends birthdays, achievements, etc.--is what makes us wonderful, wonderful animals.

The real selfish jerks are those who don't (or can't) admit they're selfish jerks because they cannot believe they are so flawed; however, I think we can eventually grow or learn to live for something other than ourselves, if you can believe it. I think that really is possible. Hang in there. And please keep posting! I really enjoy your blogs, especially your more introverted ones.

SLAPPED!

(Two men—GUY and WALT SPINDLEMAN, who is holding a briefcase—are standing next to each other, waiting for the train.)

GUY
You there.

WALT
Yes? Do you mean me?

GUY
Yeah, you. You’re the only one here, aren’t you? Do you got the time?

WALT
Yes.

GUY
What is it?

WALT
It is a quarter to six.

GUY
Oh, goddammit! I’m late, I’m late. Goddammit.

(GUY continues worrying.)

WALT
You are welcome.

GUY
Heh?

WALT
For giving you the time.

GUY
Yeah-yeah, whatever.

WALT
It is not “whatever”. In polite society we thank people for services, no matter how small.

GUY
Goddammit, I’m late. Goddammit. When’s this train gonna get here?

(GUY continues to worry. A short while passes as the two men face opposite directions. Suddenly, WALT slaps GUY in the face.)

GUY
Ow.

WALT
I beg your pardon?

GUY
You just slapped me!

WALT
I did?

GUY
Yes, you just hit me!

WALT
Are you sure it was me that slapped you?

GUY
Oh course it was you. We’re the only ones here.

WALT
Are you sure it was me?

GUY
Yes, I’m sure.

WALT
Hmm. Nope. I don’t see it.

GUY
See what?

WALT
I just don’t see me slapping you.

GUY
You did! You did slap me!

WALT
I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible.

GUY
How could you not know you slapped me? You were standing right there! You were right here when it happened!

WALT
(thinking)
Still.

GUY
Apologize to me!

WALT
For what?

GUY
For slapping me.

WALT
I shall make no apologies for a crime I did not commit.

GUY
You did commit it!

WALT
What proof have you got?

GUY
Proof? The only proof I need is knowing you slapped me.

WALT
Hm, I’m afraid that’s not good enough. That would not hold in a court of law. I should know: my brother-in-law's a lawyer.

GUY
I don’t care if it holds up in a court or if your brother-in-law's a goddam Saint Bernard. I want you to apologize right now!

WALT
I think you’re a little traumatized from being manhandled by a small slap and are remembering things differently. And, by the way, I think my sister would care very much if he were a Saint Bernard. Besides, even if I did slap you—which I most definitely did not—it would not be my fault.

GUY
What do you mean “not [your] fault”?

WALT
I mean just that. I have this condition which causes sporadic spastic twitching in this arm. Usually it simply causes my arm to jump a few inches, but once in a while, when I’m feeling particularly angry (like just now when you refused to thank me for giving you the time), it slaps people across the face.

GUY
You mean you’ve actually slapped people because of this?

WALT
Oh yes, numerous times. I’d say close to fifty by now.

GUY
Fifty!

WALT
Yes, fifty.

GUY
You’ve slapped fifty innocent people without knowing it?

WALT
I’m sure not all those people were innocent. I have met some rather rowdy individuals in my life time, I’ll have you know. Yes, now, I am certain for a fact there has been at least five uninnocent people I’ve slapped in my life.

GUY
Don’t they get mad?

WALT
Oh no, not at all. Yes, I usually explain to them my condition and then about the other people I’ve slapped. Knowing they are not the only ones to be mistreated seems to comfort them very much.

GUY
Just like that they’re not mad?

WALT
Yes, quite so.

GUY
What about the first guy?

WALT
I beg your pardon?

GUY
I mean, there must have been a first guy you slapped, right? Didn’t he get mad because he was the only one you’ve slapped before?

WALT
I assure you, there was no first man.

GUY
What do you mean?

WALT
My good sir, you don’t think I’d be so rude as to have a first man, do you?

GUY
What?

WALT
I’ve always slapped close to fifty people—no more, no less.

GUY
What the hell does that mean?

WALT
It means you’re the fiftieth or so person today I’ve slapped, if I did, in fact, slap you—which I did not—that’s been close to the fiftieth person I’ve ever slapped.

(GUY remains silent and confused. WALT slaps GUY again.)

GUY
Ow, what the hell was that?

WALT
What was what?

GUY
You just slapped me again!

WALT
This is all getting a little preposterous, don’t you think?

GUY
What the hell! I thought it was THIS arm that did the slapping?

WALT
How did you know they switch sometimes?

GUY
They switch!

WALT
Yes, that’s right. Sometimes it’s one arm, sometimes it’s the other; other times it’s neither, a few times it’s both.

GUY
Both!

WALT
Yes, that’s right.

GUY
How could it be both, then one, then the other, then none?

WALT
(laughing)
My good sir, I don’t presume to be a doctor. I am a business man by trade.

GUY
Look, are you gonna apologize for both times or not?

WALT
My good sir, you have yet to produce a fragment of evidence that I’ve slapped you a first time; stacking the claim I’ve slapped you a second time is simply ridiculousness at its most pleasurable. Besides, my arm twitch is a debilitating medical condition I am forced to live with. I shall make no apologies to that which I cannot control. I might as well apologize for the rain or sunshine.

GUY
Why don’t you just get an operation? You look rich enough. Or hell, just keep your hands in your pockets.

WALT
(indignant)
Keep my hands in my pockets! Like some sort of chim-panzee or monkey in a zoo?

GUY
Monkeys don’t even have—

WALT
I’ve never heard such a proposal! And as for an operation, I choose not to because my doctors tell me I will lose all feeling in my arms if I undergo surgery. Now tell me, what kind of operation is that? One where you are left worse afterward? What kind of quality of life would I have then? Hm? Put them in my pockets. Hhm!

GUY
(bashful)
Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

WALT
I should think you damn well should be.

GUY
Well, I damn well am!

WALT
That didn’t sound sincere.

GUY
I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. Stuff that’s been driving me crazy, like it’s been pulling my skin right off me.

WALT
Like what? Tell me.

GUY
Like, well, uh, my wife…she’s, um…she’s, uh, going…

WALT
She’s leaving you.

GUY
No, no. She’s, um…she’s, uh…going…uh. Yes. Yes, she’s leaving me.

WALT
I see.

GUY
And now the whole house is a mess, and plus she wants everything that belongs to me. Like, for instance, my great-great-grandfather’s chessboard. It’s been in my family since the Civil War! I was actually on my way to an arrangement at the courthouse.

WALT
Divorce is never easy. Through our darkest times we must always cling to the light, and that soft bird of hope “That perches in the soul.” Emily Dickinson was brilliant, wasn’t she?

GUY
I guess you’re right. Hey, wait! You slapped me, and still haven’t apologized!

WALT
Why should I apologize?

GUY
Because you slapped me in the face—twice!

WALT
I did not! And even if I did—which I did not—it would be due to unavoidable medical reasons, I assure you.

GUY
Medical reasons my left ass and foot.
(GUY turns around. WALT looks the other direction as his foot kicks GUY in the butt.)
Ow! What the hell’s your problem!

WALT
Excuse me?

GUY
You just kicked me in the ass!

WALT
Please, do not start again. I do not know how you know about the spastic twitch in my legs, but please, I do not wish to continue listening to your wild accusations.


GUY
Wild accusations! Spastic twitch in your legs?

WALT
Yes. The spastic twitch in my upper-body sometimes switches to my lower-body. Didn’t you know that?

GUY
(GUY raises his fists.)
Okay, that’s it. C’mon, right now!

WALT
I assure you, I do not wish to fight.

GUY
I assure you I’m gonna punch you in the face!

(GUY throws a punch. WALT dodges. WALT begins to flail his arms and legs.)

WALT
My arms and legs! They’re convulsing into a fighting kung-fu stance.
(WALT’s limbs stop flailing as he settles into fighting stance.)

GUY
I don’t care if they convulse into pink shoes! I’m gonna beat your ass!

(GUY releases a battle cry. WALT follows with his. They charge. Both fists make contact with their intended targets. GUY and WALT are knocked unconscious simultaneously.

Sometime later, GUY stirs and sits up. Seeing WALT’s unconscious body, he crawls and leans over him.)

GUY
(laughing)
I guess I kicked your ass, didn’t I Mr. Kung-Fu? Told ya I would, didn’t I Mr. Twitchy Arms? I guess this makes us even now, doesn’t it Mr. Spastic Legs? That’ll teach you to mess with a real man, won’t it Mr…What is your name?
(GUY checks the nametag on WALT’s briefcase.)
Walt Spindleman. You want to know what a real man is, Walt? A real man don’t take nothing from no one; real men drink beer and win fights; real men don’t have spastic twitches that sometimes switch arms and even legs; real men get what they—
(WALT’s hand flies up and slaps GUY.)
--deserve.

END OF PLAY

Little Known Fact

Though you wouldn't know it from reading my poetry and short fiction, I'm also a playwright! I know, right? Who would have guessed! Anyway, I'm saying this because I wrote a new play last night right before I went to sleep (I was literally in my bed when I thought of the idea; I got my notebook and finished an hour later, feeling very satisfied with myself, thank you very much), and I want to share it. I don't know when I'll post it. I still have to revise it, though I don't think that should take long considering I did some of that when I typed it up this morning. It's not for school or anything either, so there's no pressure to polish it until it bleeds like I normally do with my work, although I do plan to present it during the Poetry and Fiction Club meeting this Thursday, which will be the first meeting I'll be attending. (Oh, I joined the Poetry and Fiction Club at my school.) Ah heck, I'll post it later tonight.

P.S. Thanks guys for your encouraging comments. :)

P.P.S. May 5, 2010: I just realized I already had mentioned I was a playwright. Haha, oh well. I like this post anyways.

Comments

To Anonymously Me at Anonymous Thoughts:
I agree with Haley Sue: put yourself out there. Oh course, you don't have to do anything you don't want to.

To Haley Sue at A Watermelon Dream:
I'm lucky. I have my best friends around me all the time. I guess that's a curse sometimes too. :)

I hope you finish your papers!

-------------

Today I read Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. It's about a thirteen-year-old girl traveling across the upper-United States with her free-spirited grandparents, telling them the story of her friend Phoebe Winterbottom, all the while maturing as a human being and healing emotional scars after her mom left her and her father and never returned. Told in an easy, poignant manner, I thought the story was touching and heart-felt, while the characters were hilariously off-beat--especially Phoebe. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for a simple, emotional book to finish in an afternoon.

I read this book, by the way, for Children's Literature, which has already become my most rigorous class. I have to finish a 5 page draft of my research paper by next week. (Sure, it's not 9 or even 5 papers like Haley Sue, but I don't think its anything to scoff at either, especially in light of demands from my other classes. But maybe I'm being too childish, though. Haha. I guess I am.)

I don't think I've mentioned the fact that my poetry class is self-publishing our work into a high-quality book. It'll be very professional-looking and organized just like any top-tier poetry magazine. I'm very excited to see my poems published in print. Even though I'm starting to view my writing as something to pour large amounts of effort in and work hard to produce, I'm still flabbergasted by the notion of writing for a living. And I might be doing it for the rest of my life! I may pay my bills with poem money. I would be able to buy a home because I rhymed 'don't' with 'won't.' Can I really make a living doing this? I don't know.

That's all for now.

P.S. May Everyday is going swimmingly. Unfortunately, I only wrote for about an hour and a half yesterday, but I'll catch up. Besides, I still have 27 more days of May! :)

First Day

Yesterday was the first day of May Everyday. (I skipped May 1 because...well, just because I thought up the idea around midnight on the first.) It went well, I have to say. I wrote two pages of some story I haven't planned, plus a few poems--one which I'll probably post in the next day. It's about cars! But not really.

I've been feeling a lot more stress recently. It's mostly the amount of work I have to do for school, but it's also the daunting task of transferring to a university next year. Even though I'm confident in my abilities, I can't help but feel overwhelmed in the face of my future. It's like I'm six and I've been riding a bike with training wheels for the past year, and now that I've got a good handle on riding, I'm expected to learn how to ride a motorcycle by next year. Well, it's not really like that; at least, I hope it's not like that. But it sure does feel that way. This feels like one of those times when taking a deep breath and sitting peacefully for a few minutes would do me some good.

I'm back.

Lately, I've been wrestling in my mind where I want to transfer to next year. I'm very lucky because I have plenty of choices, all of which are respectable schools. Living in southern California sure has it's advantageous--even though there's terrible traffic most of the time.

On one hand, there's UC Riverside, a small institution located in Riverside, surrounded by nothing, filled with little social life. On the other hand, there's UCLA, a HUGE school in Westwood, ten minutes from the beach, crowded with people, surrounded by LA society and LA traffic, with more prestige in their parking lots than a lot of schools have in their entire staff.

I'll be getting a quality education at both, that's for certain. They're roughly the same amount to attend too. (I'll most likely be living on campus.)

However, while UCLA is more distinguished, UCR has the specific major I'm most interested in--Creative Writing. And while UCLA does offer a Bachelors in English with a concentration in Creative Writing, I don't know how much I'd rather spend writing as opposed to studying English/literature.

While the area around UCLA is crowded with people and traffic, it does have more interesting things to do. Oh course, I could always drive from UCR into LA, about an hour to hour and a half drive. Or I could just live there. I'm not much of a social butterfly, though, so what's the point of going there simply for the vibrant city life? But, I don't want to be bored out my mind either. I've heard Riverside is a bit of a bore. I don't need much, though; give me a movie and ice cream once in a while and I'll be content to spend my days inside.

I don't want go to UCLA only to impress people, especially my extended family who has produced two UCLA graduates--my two oldest cousins. At the same time, I might receive a more broad and even a more respected education at UCLA as opposed to UCR.

At this point, I still have months before I have to apply. I've got too much to worry about to spend time destroying my peace arguing with myself over which top-tier education I should have. I'll choose the option that makes me happiest. That's the thing about me: I don't worry about myself too much; I'm happy to be content.

In May

I have plans for May.

I plan to write everyday in May for at least two hours, even if all my grades suffer, my eyes turn yellow and fall out, or if it kills me. It's time I stop being so gosh darn lazy and work hard for what I want. I want to be great at my career; I want to feel proud of what I do everyday of my life.

I'm calling it May Everyday because: 1.) it rhymes, and 2.) it reminds me I may or may not choose to be the best writer I can be. And I'll always choose to write.

My Followers

I am so lucky to have a follower--let alone three! Thanks guys for reading my blogs. You encourage me to continue. You take time out of your days to read what I have to say, and that's really cool. Once again, thank you.

I'll probably post something else later tonight.