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| It's been about a month since I came out...of my cave that is. To be honest, I don't think there was a lot that changed. People have pretty much been the same. The only real difference is that I have come to grips with the fact that I might have to lower my standards, not just for potential suitors, but for friends. I am not sure whether or not this is a good thing. But since my bar has dropped like 10 notches, I don't get too upset about the shabbiness of my relationships. I have accepted it like I accept friend requests from people who I don't really know.
If I were to give myself a grade, I would say that I would get a B-. I mean, if you haven't noticed, I have been all up on facebook. Honestly, I want to cut back, but it's so addicting! I'm not going to lie; I get, to a much lesser extent, the same kind of excitement when I log onto my facebook as when I wake up for Christmas. Something about that little red notification flag on the bottom right corner. Not even Fruity Pebbles or Eggos can make my day facebook notifications do. I need to cut back.
I need to get one of these shirts. (Mainly because I need new shirts)
The past couple of days in my English class, we have been intentionally reading very gushy, mushy, puppy-love type of poetry, prose, and essays. We are dissecting why they are so popular. I read it, and I feel so uncomfortable. It's well written, but so cheesy. I hate cheesiness. But lo and behold, we had to write something for class. And lo and behold, we had to read it for the class. Short story short, I sucked. This is my attempt to write a gushy piece. Here it goes. It kind of resembles Corinthians 13.
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LOVE
Love is sucking in your stomach every time I see you
Love is awkward and silent. Hence, the awkward silences.
Love is purposefully getting caught checking you out.
Love is picking out the yellow Starbursts that you hate so much.
Love is watching and "enjoying" Sex in the City. And buying milk duds and popcorn.
Love is expensive
Love is double dates
Love is scrabble night
Love is 3 months long.
Love is same profile facebook profiles
Love is being whipped.
Love is also being a man.
Love is dedication, devotion, and denial
Love is cliche like fortunes from fortune cookies.
Love is a dream.
But a dream is only a dream.
And dreams are finite. So fleeting. So ephemeral.
And as my morning grogginess wears off
And I try to remember
the intoxicating and overly romantic portrait of Love.
And then I remember this: Love is still here to stay.
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Honestly, this is as gushy as I can get. It was so hard. And people cracked up while I was reading this. I think they laughed because it was so cheesy. Freaking A. I'm still contemplating whether or not I should disable comments on this. Freak.
Sidenote: I could really go for some Gushers right now. I wish they wouldn't stick to my roof so often, though.
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| As a poser writer, I have a specific angle when I write; I write to entertain people. I realize that I try too hard. There are times when I've written an entry, and read it aloud, and thought to myself, "will it make people (glenn) laugh?". And then I would delete it because I probably wouldn't eclipse my 10 comment expectation. Of course, my expectations have dropped like F-Bombs out of a man suffering from Tourettes. But sometimes, I feel like a lot of my writing, especially in my blogging, is not entirely organic. For me, I am constantly bombarded with ideas. And when I say "idea", I am encompassing everything that the abstract term implies. This includes potential pick up lines, witty facebook status updates, movie premises, retreat skits, retreat team names, names of my future children, etc.
Up until now, I have let about 95% of my ideas just dry up. But I recently bought a notebook to jot down ideas so that I could sort of remember them, but more importantly, just have them out of my brain so that I have more time to think of more ideas, rather then dwelling on them. Also, I have made it a habit to sit down and write for two hours a day. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Sometimes I sit, and I glare at the screen, only to be mocked by the blank stare of the blank pages. Think about it. There is no pressure to write. There is no structure. There is are no expectations. It's like skydiving, except there is no risk of death. And it doesn't cost an arm and a leg. Yesterday, during one of my two hour sessions, I wrote one paragraph about the prospects of going on a blind date. Then I played pinball.
One of my biggest issues is my self-confidence. I don't know how to take a compliment. This is not stemming from my modesty (which I have very little of), but because of my unwillingness to believe that I am...wait for it...talented. I get really embarrassed when someone compliments me. Even if they are complimenting on something trivial, like my shoe tying ability, my face would turn hot (temperature). I swear, my face blushes more when I get complimented than a couple of sips of wine. Honestly, at 22 years old, it is still a concept that I have yet to digest. But I think the moment I am able see, be comfortable with, and relish in the things I have been gifted with, is the moment I (and my writing) will be able to breathe easier. But all in due time. I feel like a computer downloading a 100 gb file on 56K.
So I guess this is a long winded way of saying that I am going try and write for the sake of allowing people to see, as accurately as possible, the things of my heart, as opposed to try and write a sugar coated, sprinkle covered, saliva inducing, best-seller every time I write. If people laugh, cookie for me. If they don't, then I need to be ok with it. With that said, everybody loves a good doughnut. Especially a glazed Krispy Kreme, microwaved for 12 seconds (cook times may vary depending on power of your microwave).
I don't know what to make of this picture.
Mother!...Teresa...
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| I had to write a flash short story for class today. I wish I weren't so meticulous about my writing. And I could really care less about what people thought of me, except for in my writing. For example, on Eumeen's facebook, I wrote "utter" instead of "udder", and I was really embarrassed. Not that cute, "oh, he asked me to dance" kind of embarrassment. I'm talking about "peeing in the middle of your book report" kind of embarrassment.
Anyway, I had to write a flash short story (250-750 words) for class. The teacher offered extra credit if we read it in class. Extra credit, for me, is like offering Miss Trunchbull's decadent chocolate cake to a fat kid. Or Baklava works too. I guess that comparison could literally work for me too. Great. I'm so clever.
I spent way too much time looking for these pictures.
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Without further ado...(please silence your phones and hold your criticisms until I die)
Crack of the Bat
My brother was a fine baseball player. In my mind, no one hit screaming line drives like he did. I didn’t have the luxury of watching Babe Ruth play, but I’m sure he had nothing on my brother. He had a way about him. A swagger. It’s almost as if everything that happened, happened because he wanted it to happen. If he wanted a to rest, he would strike out. If he wanted to impress the pretty girl in the crimson blouse, he would hit a moon shot, and take his sweet time trotting around the bases, as if he had a limp.
His day job, of course, was being a potential drenched professional baseball prospect. But his foil would take over the night shift. He did his best gargoyle impression. All the nobility and dignity were quickly replaced by rowdiness and recklessness. And he, too, had his Delilah. She was desirable, but not beautiful. She was voluptuous, but not pretty. She was a woman, but not a wife. From the moment my eyes disobeyed my mind’s admonishments, and laid oh so conveniently on her figure, I knew that she would be difficult to deny. She had all the right weaponry. She was like a $1.99 buffet- too good to be true.
What made my brother great made him weak-his stubbornness. His unwavering commitment to the temptress was eerily similar to his unwillingness to miss a baseball game. Similar to the way he would not give up the inside of the plate, he would deliberately not give on his pursuit of fleshly passion. But one fateful, and dreary night he found out that I was right. This was the one time I did not relish being right. I wish I were wrong.
I’m still a little hazy on the details. I had my heart-wrenching, knee-crippling, mind-numbing distraught to blame for my aloofness. My understanding is that my brother and the conniving tramp got engaged…in an altercation, that is. After an expletive laced tantrum, the girl snapped. Unfortunately, so did the bat she hit him with. And now all I’m left with is the shabby glove he loved, and 50 cents for his jersey I sold at last weeks garage sale.
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| I would say that most of the Asian/White couples that I see, the women is Asian. I am pretty sure I am not breaking any new ground here. I can't explain it. I can't even explain how I feel about it. It's like, how do feel about pine cones? It's like, whatever. (Wow, how about that for freakin' eloquence).
Now, for those of you who don't know me, I am a very swift worker. This applies to homework, sit ups, eating, and most pertinent of all, relationships (or lack thereof). I connect the dots way too quickly, and I assume that my feelings are always going to be reciprocated. Foolish me. Furthermore, I am the kind of guy that values similar interests way too seriously. I mistake coincidence, or similarities, as well, destiny. Like, if you like grape flavored Popsicles, I think we should consider getting married. I am kidding, but there is some residue of truth on it.
Wow, don't get too excited, kid.
Now the story ensues...
In one of my English classes, there is this one girl that has piqued my interest. Just for the sake of the story, let's call her Delilah. I don't even remember how we struck up a conversation in the first place, but we have had an ongoing dialog in class, but more importantly, out of class. Whoopie! Goldburg! And this is probably the most important trait of all: she finds my awkwardness endearing.
Here's a list of similarities between Delilah and Samson (Me):
We both harbor vehement rancor for Uggs.
Our second favorite way to eat an egg is boiled. (I love deviled eggs)
Wide-ruled line paper is better than college ruled.
Our favorite basketball move is the Dream Shake.
We both dearly miss Fruitopia.
We both hate flossing.
We are both huge hip hop heads.
We both think we are good at rapping.
We both LOVE underrated and under appreciated things, such as: $2 bills, Tater Tots, Baltic and Med. Avenue and Deciduous Trees.
We equally HATE overrated things, such as: The term "legit" and "FTW", Facebook "Likes", Park Place and Boardwalk, and GGGGGGGGGGG UNIT!
Don't ask me how we stumbled onto those topics, but we did. But I digress...a little too far.
One day, as we were debating the best Cream Cheese flavor (Salmon), this one guy plops down right in between us. He could've sat anywhere in the room, but he decided to deny me of the only thing going for me in that class. He rejected me as Dikembe Mutombo blocks careless finger rolls.
And I am totally comfortable with who I am, and my sexuality, but the dude was a better looking version of James Franco. Instantaneously, Delilah seamlessly transfers all her energy and fervor in her discussions with an overly flirtatious banter with freakin' Franco, leaving me in the frigid shadow of his stature. A good looking one at that. I hadn't even reached the flirting plateau yet. Or at least I didn't know. (Side note: I need some sort of instrument or alarm to let me know when someone is flirting. I am that stupid.)
And as a result of James Franco and his stunning looks, I am another victim of this inexplicable phenomena. We should have a name for it. I'm proposing to call it "I need to step up my game". Or something of that same nature. | | |
| I was actually going to update something else, but I figured the more posts that I, well, post up, the faster I can become a Lifetime member. Whatever that means.
Anyway, you can just see this as a mini-post. But technically, I put in a lot of work into it.
I'm in this poetry class, and we are learning how to write creatively. I'll be frank; I thought that poetry was the most overrated thing. I felt like I could just write poetry while I eat my fruity pebbles, but I realize that it's rather difficult. In fact, it's even more difficult, knowing that you have to read it in front of the class. It would be one thing, if it was a class of imbeciles, but it's intimidating because they are all English majors who are well versed in the realm of poetry. Wish me luck tomorrow. This is my first real poem I have written as Jason Lim. (My pen name is Fatality).
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Futility
Pacing back and forth, weighing the pros and cons
The pros seem awfully heavy tonight
Or maybe it is the superficial courage I have received
The chambers’ rhythmic cadence resonate
At first a subtle hint, but it crescendos
And my anxiety and doubts are juiced out of me
But my mind is meandering mindlessly.
I seem to be attempting to dance, but gauging the audience’s unison chortle
I am not dancing.
But I am not here to dance.
I strategically maneuver myself through the multitudes of drunkards.
A few faces I remember. A few more I wish I did not remember.
So I drink to that. I grimace. And I drink some more.
I try to hide from the hodgepodge
of homeless looking homeys hovering over me.
I should’ve stayed home and watched The Office.
But alas! The seemingly futile night bears some good fruit.
Probably a peach.
I approach her, drenched in what used to be my apprehension.
My eloquence, along with my pre-written speech is lost.
I frantically search for words as if they were the
antidote to this awkward situation.
She seems confused by my antics. Funny. So am I.
I continue to fumble for the football that is “the right thing to say”
When will this debacle end?
The immortal moment finally decides to pass
But to my dismay, so does the peach of my eye.
Fin.
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