What’s the worst thing I’ve stolen?
Probably little pieces of other people’s lives. Where I’ve either wasted their time or hurt them in some way. That’s the worst thing you can steal, the time of other people. You just can’t get that back.
– Chester Bennington
I’ve never been on a roller coaster in my life. I usually tell people it’s simply because I have a heart problem. Indeed, I do, but I doubt my heart problem will be the death of me if I were to ever ride one. If anything, it would be because my body somehow doesn’t know to how plaster itself to a seat as the ride plunges downwards. It’s always something I’ve realized every time I’ve been on those wet, moldy rides at Six Flags; I’m always gripping the bar for dear life while the rest of my body is disagreeing and slowly pulls upwards, as if it understands that maybe this “dear life” I’m trying to save isn’t worth anything.
Several times in my life, my emotions have gone through these “roller coaster rides” with different individuals, though not all at the same time. These “rides” all represent each person differently; each symbolizing the many different peaks of our relationship… friendship… or whatever it was.
I can only imagine the anticipation people have once they approach these rides; anxiousness, excitement and even fear. But we’re never too sure of the outcome until it’s over, right? I would assume that the wait for these rides are always longer than the ride itself and that’s the shitty part about it. Everyone is always up for the ride, but they never want it to end. That’s how it usually is. Once it’s over, it’s over.
Unless you’re the kind to jump back in line and wait all over again.
Even if I were to ever ride a roller coaster, I think one go at it would be enough for me. I don’t think my heart would be able to tolerate the adrenaline rush; in fact, it would probably just hurt my heart more than the first time.
But then again… I’ve never been on a roller coaster in my life.
Maybe it is worth the second time, maybe the third. Who knows. The one thing I do know is that as far as this analogy goes… I’ll be the one person standing in front of a roller coaster and just imagining what the whole ride would be like.
I used to be so naive. I used to think that everyone I came across didn’t have a single bad bone in their body. That is… until I had the pleasure of meeting you. Now, I say pleasure somewhat lightly because although I’ve, since, gained certain knowledge I would have been better off without, I can’t completely say that knowing you altogether has been a regret.
You have a way with words and I deemed you as another sweet talker. For one, we’d never held a conversation which extended beyond, “can I have change for a twenty?” or “what’s the password this week?” I never thought too much about it. In fact, months had passed and just like it had been the previous month, there’d been no progress in our dialogue. We were simply two individuals who didn’t put much effort into getting acquainted with another.
It’s so strange to think back and realize how long we had put off actually holding a real conversation. Somehow, conversations began to happen regularly. You liked to joke around a lot, which I caught onto quickly and willingly played along with. The foundation of our friendship began to spurt just like poppies: laid out there depending only on ourselves to start somewhere. Soon enough, there were days I began to look forward to seeing you; work started to become worthwhile -at least for those five hours.
Over time, as with all relationships, it hits a certain peak and thereafter, it begins to dwindle; sometimes quickly, sometimes not, sometimes it just stops abruptly and other times, it stays lingering. Where ours fall, I’m not too sure…
I met your whole family; at least most of your dad’s side. It was completely random and I was absolutely put in a situation way outside of my comfort zone. Yet, you were there to reassure me that everything was alright and even though your family barely knew who I was and was also taken aback to the fact I was Asian, they welcomed me with open arms. But I haven’t been back to see them since that day.
With all flowers, poppies start from a bud and slowly open up to reveal itself. That was you. You were so mysterious in my eyes and I suppose that’s what I was attracted to; I wanted to break into your shell and figure you out. Eventually, you did and the truth came out… voluntarily. You opened up about your day to day routine of getting high and shooting up every chance you got. You paced around the room giving me details of how hard it was to function without ice; you just couldn’t handle coming down from that type of high.
I can’t forget that night; the more you spilled, the bigger my eyes widened. I knew you had secrets, but never did I imagine they would be this serious. I knew nothing about drugs and most definitely nothing about meth. I guess you realized you were saying too much. I heard the frustration in your voice when you said aloud, “Why am I even telling you this?” I learned a lot that night… and the following nights. I began to make it a habit every night, after we got off, to talk about your past.
I woke up one day with this terrible dream, and I still remember exactly what happened.
I went to the bank to deposit about $300-400. Why was I even carrying around that much cash to begin with? I remember placing my wallet on the teller’s counter, and I suppose I just forgot it. I walked off and it didn’t occur to me until later that I misplaced my wallet. I called the bank about it and when they looked on the cameras, they realized the bank teller was the one who had taken my wallet. Anyway, the bank gave me $600 to make up for the money I lost… even though it made no sense as to why they exceeded the amount I lost to begin with. Next thing I remember, I was home -or at least what I presumed to be my house, although it looked nothing like any home I’d ever been to before. I went up the stairs to the my room and when I opened the door, there was a girl (the bank teller) sitting on my floor with syringe in her hand, getting ready to shoot up. She looks up at me, all sorts of dazed and I completely freaked out. For some strange reason, I ran into my closet and locked myself in there while this woman was sticking herself in my actual bedroom.
The dream completely bothered me and set my day off. I told you about it and all you said was how you’ve traumatized me. The next day, I found myself on Netflix and I somehow brought myself to watch some meth documentary. I kept absorbing all this information about this drug because I was so curious, yet so scared. It started to become a reality to me that people like you existed, and to be honest, it scared the hell out of me. I accepted your past, just as you should accept any extra baggage that anyone you care about has with them. But this sort of baggage was more than I ever expected anyone dumping on me.
Did you know that when poppy flowers bloom, they quickly die? And did you know that right after I felt our friendship was at its highest peak, you lost my trust? All it took was one lie and it just so happen to be a big one.
You told me you scratched your arm putting up Christmas lights at your grandma’s house. But when you finally had the courage to pull up your sleeves, what I saw didn’t resemble scratches. The green, blue and purple ran up your forearms; I touched all the tiny pinholes that surrounded a few of your veins. I cleaned your arms with alcohol wipes while all you could do was avoid looking up at me. After placing those tiny band-aids over the holes that were still seeping from your weekend activities, I started to walk out the door. Still… you hadn’t looked up; you couldn’t face me knowing you disappointed me. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” was all you could say. I stopped at the door and mumbled, “Just don’t lie to me ever again.”
Days, even weeks, after that night… I’d constantly check your arms and ask if you were anywhere near drugs. You would tell me about your cravings and how badly you wanted to give in, but you slowly began to control yourself -something you’d always had trouble with. I knew you wanted to prove to me you were stronger than the drug itself. I could see in you that you were trying.
But like many things in life… there is an end. You quit the job and disappeared. You started hanging out with your junkie cousin and her junkie boyfriend. We all know where that led to. Your whereabouts are unknown to me. I tried to keep tabs on you every now and then. Your own father relied on me for any slight information on you. Now, you’re nothing but a memory to me. From time to time, I think about how you randomly asked me, “you gave up on me, didn’t you?” and how it had caught me off guard. I didn’t give up on you… I was just foolish to think that I trusted you enough not to give in.
But I was wrong.
There’s so much about me that I don’t think people know. You’d think I’m talking about personal matters, but it’s actually just things I enjoy in general; my appreciations.
Lately, the only show I’ve been watching is Oddities. If you haven’t heard of or seen it, I suggest you just watch an episode or two. It’s really interesting to see that people collect such strange things, or the fact that these items even cost so much. But for me, it’s not so much the pieces that weird me out, but more so the ones who come into the shops looking for something specific or have acquired something that makes you wonder, “What’re you doing with that in the first place?” I get that there are eccentric people out there, but I really do question what sparks a person’s interests.
As for myself, there are possibly quite a few things that I absolutely adore that others may not. Not many know that I went through a dark period in my life, and when I say “dark”, I’m talking about my punk phase. Ha. Black clothing, skater shoes and that IDGAF attitude. That sums up my middle school years and nowadays, I’m not ashamed of it. I still relive those years through all my CDs, but that’s besides the point. I’ve always had a morbid kind of place in my heart, which probably feeds into my fondness for vampires. Jk.
No, but really. At one point in my life, I really considered getting my mortuary license and even possibly attending the Dallas Institute of Funeral Services. Whenever I first mentioned this to people, one of their first reactions was, “You want to work with dead people?” Well, yes. Many people see this as some type of taboo. But how I see it, funerals are meant to remember the life of someone who just passed away. It’s almost like a bittersweet goodbye to this person who has made some impact in your life. I’d like to think that the idea [of funerals] is to mourn the loss of an individual, but also celebrate the life they had lived. With that, funeral directors hold this position of recreating the person who everyone once knew and present them one last time… almost like a last look.
Another reason why I would not have minded being an embalmer was because, at one point in my life (if you hadn’t noticed — there a plenty of points in my life), I wanted to be a surgeon. I was never fond of science as I grew up, until my senior year of high school when I took Anatomy & Physiology. It was because of that class that I had felt invincible towards science. Yeah… wrong. But my reasoning for choosing to be an embalmer versus a surgeon was determined just by one thing: life. Surgeons work under the constant pressure of making sure they don’t mess up with someone’s life, literally, in their hands; whereas, an embalmer doesn’t.
Now… where was I going with all of this?
So while I’m watching this show, I was thinking about how I would definitely want to step foot into these kind of shops and browse around. Not sure if I’d actually purchase anything because I have this thing about buying items that were previously owned by someone else (haven’t y’all seen ‘the Possession’?). I have toyed with the idea of having a human skull in my possession, though. It would definitely be a conversation starter; but because I tend to base things on movies, I can’t have a headless horseman coming around trying to retrieve his head back. So perhaps I’ll just stick with fake skulls or maybe even consider a longhorn skull (I’m such a Texan enthusiast) just to be safe.
You know that association between smell and memories? Olfactory memory, I believe it’s called. Well, it happens to me plenty of times. But whenever it’s the scent of that Polo cologne you would always wear, it always throws off my emotions.
The first time I remember smelling it in months happened while at work. A guest practically drenched himself and passed by me as the trail of his cologne lingered behind him. I caught a whiff of it and I quickly took notice. What… what is that? I know that smell. I stood there in full concentration trying to piece together this mystery in my mind. Scent to memory. But what memory and whose scent?
Yours. I realized it after what seemed like minutes. Suddenly, the feeling of confusion, then realization quickly turned to sadness. The emotional roller coaster that happened in practically the speed of light was so overwhelming. Get it together. It’d been so long. Even just the faintest scent of your cologne could make me feel happy, yet sad at the same time.
I think about the remnants of us. I think about what once was and I think about if there still is. There’s no doubt in my mind there always will be. But as of right now, we still have a lot of growing up to do. It has been quite some time since… since us, but how do we measure time when we were all over the place: sporadic, almost. Play, then pause… back to play; it’s a cycle that kept going even when we thought it was done. Except now, we’ve been on pause for a long while… unless this is truly the end. I know deep down, though, it’s not.
It’s hard nowadays. We try to be normal around each other, but we’ve never known normal. We were always just us, in our own little world. I’ve been trying, honestly… to be normal. But what I remember our ‘normal’ being… was us living in this lie. At least a lie to everyone else, but we were happy.
*I suppose it’s time to start dumping a couple of my old posts from Tumblr onto here. Rereading some of them made me think exactly where my mind was at. Nevertheless, they made for some pretty interesting posts.*
I have this addiction to coffee.
But the thing is, I was so good at controlling my cravings, especially after Lent when I became so accustomed to not giving in to my urges. This summer, though, I relapsed. Maybe that’s just a little bit too dramatic… to say it like it’s some sort of illness. I mean, I know there are people out there who can’t survive starting their day without a cup of coffee, but my cravings usually happen around midnight. Although I tell myself to ignore it because I know I can’t afford staying up a few extra hours, I alway give in… easily. Starbucks. McDonalds. Burger King. Anywhere. Lattes. Frappes. Cappucino. Anything.
So here I am, laying in bed, and it’s 4:17 am. I have 10 pages to read before class tomorrow and yet, I’m pushing it off in order to type this pointless post about my addiction to coffee. I’m going to regret this in the morning. All it’s going to do is lead to a series of events that I’ll eventually regret simply because I asked Long to make me coffee at 1 am after our spur of the moment food run to HEB.
Anyway, the caffeine has long kicked in and I’m awake. For the past year, I had this problem of staying up until 5-6 am. I would survive off of 5 hours of sleep and I became used to it. Over the 3 weeks I spent at home, I fixed my vampire lifestyle… but that was short lived. I think it’s partially due to the coffee I’m consuming at the wrong hours of the day… or should I say night? Point is, I’m up late at night, therefore it leads to plenty of alone time. Not really physically, but mentally.
Don’t people become delusional after certain hours of the night? Not that I’m implying I’ve become delusional, but my thought process is just everywhere. Would it be weird to say that I, sometimes, feel like I’m having a conversation with my own thoughts? I think about the different people I’ve encountered in my life, the past, what I could have done to change certain situations, what I could be doing with all the time I’m wasting, etc. Sometimes, I even worry. Who worries at 4 am in the morning? I do. It’s ridiculous how much my mind works at such odd hours of the day. Sometimes, I get antsy. I hate being the only one up during these hours. I hate that nothing is open, besides Wal-Mart.
Frankly, I think I just don’t enjoy sleep as much as others do. I mean, from time to time, I like to sleep in. But lately, I feel like sleeping is just wasting valuable time. I could be doing so many things (besides studying) while everyone else is sleeping their lives away.
Last month, the last two weeks of school were probably some of the best nights of my life; granted some of them were spent studying my life away. But seriously, I stayed up til 5-7 am having the best random conversations, ever. In the end, the sun would be rising and people were up starting their day while I was ending mine. Without Kelly, those days certainly would not have existed. In little over a week, I’m gonna see this bitch and needless to say, I’m very excited. Hah. I just can’t wait until fall semester begins and we can continue to wreck havoc on Thursday nights! Haha, just kidding. Sort of.
Alright, well I think it’s that time to start reading for class.
That’s what I usually call men with full on beards, but I don’t necessarily use it in a negative way. Actually, I don’t ever find myself putting down ‘mountain men’ in any way at all. I mean, why would I? Also, even though I put this label on just about every guy with a beard… I’m not entirely saying they all live on mountains. It’s just that I assume all ‘mountain men’ are gifted with the ability to grow that much facial hair.
Now, before I start to ramble on about hairy men, let me remind you that it IS, indeed, November; therefore, I am not randomly rambling about facial hair.
This month, also known as “No Shave November”, not only signifies the only time it’s acceptable to get away with absolutely being lazy to get rid of the hair growing on one’s face, but is also a method of raising cancer awareness. Bet you didn’t know that! (I, honestly, didn’t either ’til about a few days ago. Shame on me.) After learning that this is apart of raising awareness, it totally made sense to me. Women are able to grow their hair out, then cut off several inches to Locks of Love to donate for the children who lost their hair due to medical conditions. How else are men able to contribute? Sure, men can grow their hair out as well, but I don’t think that would reach popularity among many as “No Shave November” does.
Anyway, I was never too fond of facial hair before. Possibly because the guys I’ve previously dated weren’t really capable of growing that much facial hair to begin with. #asianprobz (There is an exception to my current boyfriend; but he claims that his hair growth is from his French side.) It also doesn’t help that all of my ex-boyfriends were younger than me. [I know, I know… insert cougar jokes here.] But really, I’ve never given facial hair a chance… before. It hasn’t been ’til this past year where I’ve come to appreciate it, and I’m not quite sure why or how. Nevertheless, I suppose it’s a good thing that I’ve started to notice this particular characteristic. Don’t get me wrong, though. The clean shaven look is still very attractive. But serious kudos to those who can pull off a beard; it can either make you or just make you look homeless.
The one thing that sort of weirds me out is when December rolls around and all that effort of growing out facial hair is completely shaven off. Plenty of guys become unrecognizable. Alright, I’m exaggerating. Really though, the baby face throws me off. In a sense, I feel as though December brings up some kind of rite of passage (or whatever the opposite of that may be) where men suddenly go back to their normals lives, or even a couple years back, by shedding off all that hair. It’s like they time traveled back to their peach fuzz phase. It makes me wonder what their next few days are like… beardless.
Anyway, I suppose the point of this was flat out say how much I appreciate this month, and its participants. OR better yet, those who just have a beard all year long. Ha. I just hope that one day, I’ll have a mountain man of my own.
Well… not literally from the mountains.
When I turned 20, I thought to myself, “Oh my God, you’re gonna graduate, get married, and soon have a family” and it scared me. Ideally, I wanted to be married by 27, but at 23, I’ve started to think that maybe that’s too soon.
For anyone who knows me well enough, knows that I’m just like any other girl who likes to plan every little detail about the wedding she will one day have. I admit, it’s like a guilty pleasure for me to browse through wedding blogs and magazines for ideas, with the thought in the back of my mind asking, “would I even be able to afford that?” But realistically speaking, I shouldn’t even be thinking about the materialistic aspects of this imaginary wedding.
Realistically speaking, I should be thinking more about myself. I need to start being selfish about things pertaining to my life, at least little by little.
Since last Christmas, I’ve always toyed with the idea of just moving out to Seattle, staying in a studio apartment, downtown, with the company of a cat. It sounds pretty drastic, I know. Almost like cutting off the only world I know and starting over. I would utilize this time in my life as a way of “finding myself” —how cliché. I never understood what people meant by that, but I imagine it’s just a lot of down time to think about what one wants and how to reach their goals without any distractions.
These last couple of months, I’ve been struggling with where I see myself in the future. I don’t stress about which particular path in life I have to take because I do believe in options. I suppose the hardest part to all of this is figuring out how even begin.
Maybe I should start by getting off this and actually starting my final paper that’s due in 19 days.
Procrastination at it’s finest.
Out of frustration, I started another account. I couldn’t remember any of my account information for the other blogging sites I’ve had. This is what I get for having multiple email addresses and passwords. But I mean… it doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side; it just sucks forgetting. I suppose writing these kind of things would be helpful, but I’m quite terrible at remembering where I’ve placed certain things. Talk about memory loss.
Anyway, it’s a quarter til 5… am, that is. I really shouldn’t get comfortable with staying up this late since, for the last four months, I finally fixed my sleeping schedule. I went from going to bed at 7am to actually getting tired around midnight. Pretty dramatic change in lifestyle, I must admit. My eyes are getting irritated and weary, most likely from staring at this computer screen for hours now with an exception of doing laundry and folding clothes. -Which, by the way, I’ve realized that oil stains are at the top of my pet peeves list. I highly advise everyone to check for chapstick before deciding to wash any article of clothing with pockets…
Reverting back to why I started this account: I need a place to dump all my older blog posts that I, personally, enjoyed typing up or have just felt are worthy keeping. I mean, that’ll be my initial purpose for this, but knowing myself, I’ll end up rambling on about whatever I’m currently infatuated with or something along the lines of what is going on in my head. Was it really necessary for my first post to be about my purpose? Well, why not? It’s like the introduction of an essay; you can’t just begin without an explanation… it just sounds awkward if I were to just be straight forward and dump a crapload of posts all in one sitting. Imagine if someone were to come across this and realize 15 posts were all from one day… I, myself, would like some sort of explanation for one’s said actions. So, here it is.