People getting crunk

It was one of those wonderful days where things were ordinary but weren’t. She plopped onto the couch with the SAT book balancing precariously on her knee as I buried myself in a blanket to stop my clothes from dirtying her bed (her request).We worked on some questions whilst eating cereal: she and her hand stuck in a bag of colourful pebbley things and me with mine in crunchy peanut butter balls (Captain Crunch is the BEST).  We talked about him and how confusing he is and how much we hated the uncertainty. I told her she needed to stop because he was making her sad and happy at the same time (more sad, actually) and we couldn’t have that. She told me I needed to start talking precisely because I don’t do it enough. And then we did some more work and she announced that she’d had enough and that she wanted to sleep. So I blogged and put on Ed Sheeran and Passenger and One Direction as she snoozed. Now I’m wondering if music affects the dreams you have… I should’ve asked her when I eventually woke her. She had wanted me to wake her after half an hour but I didn’t want to move her- she was tired and looked too comfy.

When I finally did, we decided on dinner and went to our favourite mall, our second home. We hid drinks in the freezer full of ice cream in Taste whilst we ordered Korean food, and by the time we went back to retrieve our drinks and stock up on Haribo gummies, our stone pot rice had gone from scalding hot to moderately warm. We took a walk home in the perfect weather and enjoyed the chill as we chewed on the gummies. The one that looked the worst tasted the best and the peach flavoured gummies that looked the best disintegrated in our mouths and had this terrible texture to them. I don’t remember what we talked about but it was all good and jolly, walking along the familiar, worn out roads with an old, familiar friend. There’s just something about walking and talking that’s easy and fluid and lovely. Especially when it’s dark and the street lights emanate an orangey light that’s hazy around the edges.

We had a walk later that night, trying to find a diner or pancake place in Central. It was late and Starbucks was closed so we roamed the streets, peering through alleyways and staring past drunkards/ “people getting crunk”. We ended up at Pacific Coffee and she ordered something yummy and caramel flavoured and we talked some more and I listened and tried to let her know that I understood in my own way.

The worst thing is not being able to give people your eyes and a piece of your understanding and show them who they are to you. Like a mirror from all perceivable angles, because there are no words to describe the depth of feeling or intensity you experience. Only ‘amazing’ and other words like that and ‘I love you’, which don’t convey the details, like how you feel when they know exactly what to say to make you feel better- not because they are words of encouragement but because they are more than words. They are faith and belief in you and they are fashioned from love. Like, that surge of inspiration they invoke in you or the overwhelming appreciation of their complexity and just basically wow. asfddhf can’t even try.

From Sobe to Sobe to remember. 

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I get it

Sometimes you work hard and it’s not good enough. Fact of life. You spend hours pouring over words in a textbook or solving problems with a calculator and then the exam comes and the worry of the flattening effect (on your butt) of sitting on hard wooden seats for hours adds to your ever-growing list of worries. You wait anxiously for the results and when the day comes, your heart pounds and your hands sweat. You look at the numbers or letters and you either breathe out a sigh or relief or stop breathing because of a stifling weight on your chest.

When I saw my SAT results, my heart sank when I saw the score for the maths section. I had done worse than I had anticipated and worse than I had the first time I did the test, even though I had spent the most time preparing for maths and going to costly tutoring lessons over the summer. What’s worse than getting a result below your expectations/what you had hoped for is getting a result that does not reflect how hard you felt you worked. The only way forward is to work even harder; it’s all blood, sweat and tears baby. The world is such a competitive place and the sad reality is that some people pick things up more easily than others and are gifted with memory and a natural flair for just… getting things.

My dad says my ineptitude in maths comes from him and its funny how we share the same academic strengths and weaknesses. I can say that I’m not a maths enthusiast and that’s fine- it just means that if I want to do well, I have to work harder than a lot of other people who just get it. 

But here’s the thing. There are two ways of looking at failure or being ‘good enough’. I hate that determining whether or not I’m doing ‘well’ in school rests on a comparison between myself and the achievement of others. I am ranked depending on my cohort, comprised of people regarded by their scores or a letter of the alphabet. I understand that’s the way things work- how can you say the tacos here are the best without trying the ones across the street? How can you say the fro-yo from Yo Mama is better than that of Tutti Frutti and Holly Brown without trying them all? See, I get it (except taco and fro-yo preferences are highly subjective). It’s hard to separate yourself from your report and the grades, yes, but it is crucial to remember that grades are so one-dimensional. We are all more than our ranks, jobs and positions. More than our PHDs, degrees and awards. We may fail by some conventional, societal or academic standards but ultimately, I’d like to agree with my grandmother: as long as you do your best, you’re doing well. Anybody who tells me otherwise or asks for more can go away. I am who I am, you are who you are and sometimes, how good you are at something or how well developed a skill or quality you have is much like deciding which fro-yo and what flavour tastes better than another. It’s relative. Thank God for the variety of life – everybody has something to offer!

With University a prospect not too far off (in fact drawing closer as the weeks fall away), the future is brought to the forefront of my mind and it is a daunting thing. It’s easy for thoughts to spiral out of control, spring boarding from one failure to another until the mountain of anxiety is seemingly insurmountable. But I need to remind myself to take a deep breath and realize that God has a plan for me. Even if I don’t get the scores I want and I don’t get accepted into the Universities I am pining after, it’s going to be okay. His way is the best way.

“And this same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches, which have been given to us in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:19

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Isaiah 55:8-9

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

Sobe xx
P.S Holly Brown’s frozen yogurt is to die for.

A part of the family

The taxi drove away as she smiled and waved out of the window like a dancing sunflower (yes, sunflower is definitely fitting). We had huddled around her, my parents standing side by side, my sister slightly aloof, me in my pajamas, and all of us fairly quiet, waiting for a taxi to U-turn.

I can assure you, just because I didn’t cry does not mean I don’t care. Just because I couldn’t say the words out loud does not mean there’s nothing that I want her to know. She was tearful when I hugged her and I hugged her tightly, hoping she’d know that I knew I’d miss her in her absence.

I wanted to thank her for opening the door for me with only a slight furrow of the brow for being woken up by the bell at 3 am, for coming to school and dropping off books that I forgot to bring, for cleaning up my ubiquitous mess, the cups that line the headrest of my bed, for cooking me eggs and sausages when I’m indecisive about what I want to eat, for cutting apples and pears for me without me having to ask, for stocking up on Indonesian noodles for me, for policing my outfits (she has an eye for mismatching), for ironing shirts for me last-minute, for folding and re-folding the clothes that I displace every time I change, for enduring my singing in in the morning, for killing the cockroaches, for knowing where the objects of my life are placed and for encouraging me in everything I’ve ever set out to accomplish (even if it’s just making it through an exam).

Truth to be told, we didn’t speak all that much. Routine was our speech. She knew I’d come home eventually and I’d expect her there when I did (except on Sundays). Now, she’s got her own home and family to build with her soon-to-be husband, and someday soon, I’ll realize how hard it is to go on as I do when I’ve lost part of the equation to normalcy.
She gave me more than I ever gave her and she helped me more than I’ve helped her. For that, I am apologetic and most of all, thankful.

Cathexis

kəˈTHeksis/
noun

PSYCHOANALYSIS
  1. the concentration of mental energy on one particular person, idea, or object (esp. to an unhealthy degree).

Sometimes, I get so wound up about something that happened I can’t stop thinking about it. It doesn’t happen often but when it does the emotions are on replay. They are insistent. A really good memory will come to mind and occupy hours of my day. I catch the scent, a reminder of a person or a place and I am immediately overwhelmed by a combination of feelings and snapshots. The summary of Autumn; it’s crispness and comfort, or the high of being around special people (my besties) or his crinkly smile and choppy laughter. A bad memory or incident will lodge itself into the tranquility of the ocean that is my mind and dirty its waters. Merciless and tyrannical.
Cyclic thoughts keep the ghosts around – things that should already be long gone. Sometimes, the good memories that are supposed to make me happy make me upset. Because they aren’t real. Well, some of them aren’t. Because in a desperate effort to remember and because I can’t bare to lose the moments I’ll never have again, I fill in the dark spots with what I think should have happened and what I think he might’ve said. Dwelling on the good is no longer good when all it does is lure you into the past. And the past is an inherently sad place, replete with all that can never truly be retrieved.

I wonder how I’m going to deal with the death of somebody I love.

“Am I in love? …

“Am I in love? Absolutely. I’m in love with ancient philosophers, foreign painters, classic authors, and musicians who have died long ago. I’m a passionate lover. I fawn over these people. I have given them my heart and my soul. The trouble is, I’m unable to love anyone tangible. I have sacrificed a physical bond, for a metaphysical relationship. I am the ultimate idealistic lover.”
— James Dean

Sorry, you crossed the line

I always have weird conversations with people and I usually enjoy them immensely. My friends are weird and I love that they’re not ashamed of it. Weird is different, fun, interesting, original and even brave as opposed to the predictability and monotony of being like everybody else. Being weird means deviating from the norm, of which depends on the sameness of people, and obviously, since we’re not all the same in every single way, we’re all at least a little odd. But when typed online, without the correct delivery or an expression to match, messages get lost in translation- that is, things can get awkward.

Say, I’m on facebook and I’m not so familiar with this person. We chat back and forth and the person stops replying. At first, I attribute it to the fact that he/she is busy. Perhaps he’s in the bathroom. Maybe she’s eating. Maybe he fell asleep. What if facebook is lagging? What if they’re dead? All quite possible. After a few hours though, (most of) these excuses are no longer convincing and I start to think maybe I said something wrong. Maybe I’m too weird.

That is an unhealthy way to think and it makes me doubt myself, but it really begs the question: how weird is too weird? For me, the boundary between being weird and ‘too weird’ or ‘weird’ in a derogatory sense lies in whether or not the person is considerate of others. Too weird is being blatantly and unapologetically offensive, seemingly having no morals or a very limited emotional capacity, not being respectful of personal space and privacy or being completely ignorant of social cues. Otherwise, I can probably put up with you. Ha Ha.

Most of the ‘criteria’ involve people, and in saying that, I am suggesting that on the spectrum of weirdness, one end tapers off to include those with autism or those who have certain personality disorders, which probably wouldn’t be as problematic if society did not exist. ‘Too weird’ carries negative associations and implies abnormality. Yes, it may seem unfair to judge those who naturally behave the way they do, but the whole field of abnormal psychology operates atop of the idea that mental illnesses are real. Some people argue that people are just different and pathologizing these differences just shows an intolerance in society. But on the other hand, social interactions are a part of the human experience- identities are dependent, in part, on the presence of people. Having difficulties in this area may inhibit an appreciation for genuine relationships, of which are one of the greatest joys in life.

It’s a tricky subject.

Anyway, the way to think when people don’t reply should be:
I don’t mind. We’re just not the same kind of weird.

Sorry, but I’m going to keep impersonating people, slipping into different accents and personality types (sassy black woman) at any given moment for fun, using only Emoji’s in a conversation, saying incongruent and maybe even inappropriate things in the wrong setting, walking around in my pajamas all day, hating tomatoes and the list goes on…

Hey, what’s funny?

Everybody loves funny people because everybody loves to laugh. It’s another one of those ‘best compliments’ to give and receive because it just is. It makes the heart expand and makes me smile inside.

But what makes something funny? Where is the line between amusing and funny?  There’s sarcasm and wit. There’s that crude humour that utilizes stereotypes and profanity. There’s randomness and the complete breaking of expectation. There’s dark humour and irony and self deprecation. There’s understatement and exaggeration. There’s the misery of others, the Omg So Relatable funny and the So Corny It’s Funny kind of humour, which basically follows the It’s So Bad It’s Good sort of paradigm.  I wonder if someone has made a list.

I shall make it a point to research laughter and the science behind it.

Found the perfect link actually: http://science.howstuffworks.com/life/laughter.htm
I love google.

Chewing pens and tissue issues

From the title, you’d expect this post to be quite random. It is. #sorrynotsorry
Cause what’s exciting about predictability?
And quite frankly, being called quirky is one of my favourite things (I will love you forever) although it puzzles me as to why it’s such a feminine word. My life’s mission is to find the male equivalent.

Anyway, staring into someone’s eyes as they are talking can be very intimidating. But I fake it until I make it. This works for so many other endeavours – if you want to seem confident, sit straighter, stand taller and don’t hang your head. The body goes first and the mentality follows. Embodied cognition y’all! Just like how the very act of smiling has the ability to change your mood and make you feel happier.

Speaking of smiling, I cannot smile for long on stage or whenever I am in front of an audience. It’s the self consciousness that makes me forget how to be normal. I become hyperaware of my behaviour, isolating parts of myself in an unnatural way because I see myself in my minds eye. After a while, my cheek muscles fail me and I stop smiling and apparently end up looking like I’m about to cry when in fact, I’m just letting my cheeks rest. To counter this and the strangeness of relaxing my face, I always bite the inside of my lip. It’s a nervous habit, like biting pen tops… It just happens and I suspect that it’s a comfort thing as well. Oral fixation y’all! Hopefully I won’t get ink poisoning from my affairs with multiple pens.

Oh look I found evidence. Omg.

lol

Also, I’ve recently begun to think about tissue paper (I’m quite proud of the rhyme in the title of this post). I don’t know why it concerns me now but are tissues packaged in tightly compressed air-sealed plastic bags when sold? How are they disinfected or sterilized before being used in the bathroom…? We wipe dirt and other nastiness with what we consider to be clean. But I doubt anything is really clean, what with the creepy crawlies, microscopic bugs and dust in the air. The body is a temple and the temple is a playground for tiny living creatures. Lovely.

So that’s my splurge for today.
P.S Just threw a few psych terms in there – shout out to my main man Freud. #lol #lad