THIS PICTURE IS ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE

In the process of trying to "figure out" Facebook, my mother recently uploaded this little gem. And, like the tightly-wounded ball of emotion I am, it had me oohing and awwing from nostalgia.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my youngest brother, Lewis, from years and years ago. Adorable, yes? He's thirteen now. A far cry from this teary-eyed little toddler who obviously did something bad enough to harbor a punishment from our parents (i.e. roam free and be happy like the child he was). And like the assholes we were (are), my other brother Lawrence and I cackled and snorted as we grabbed the household camera and a Valentine's Day Winnie the Pooh doll to amuse ourselves for what seemed like forever. Probably a couple of minutes or so.

To everyone else, this picture is that of a sad baby. To me, it's the tough sibling love that my other brother and I took advantage of because we were horrible children with a sense of humor. It's a reminder that Lewis wore hand-me-downs, hence the gender-neutral cardigan he is seen wearing here. It tells me that we were still living down Hayes Circle, in neighborhood with streets named after the past Presidents of the United States. Someone had given me that Winnie the Pooh doll one year in junior high. I held onto it that whole day because almost everyone else got flowers and balloons on Valentine's, so I had to keep my hands and self-esteem preoccupied.

I can only smile wistfully at original and candid Kodak moments like these. How times have changed, with our generation growing up and making a transition into a digital era. And here we are, taking endless snapshots of ourselves, our friends, the skies looking on like a Christian music CD commercial, our meals-turned-artwork, random and serendipitous acts of nature (or of God, for some). Here we are, deleting pictures because we are able to get a second chance of taking a noteworthy photo.

I find that the nostalgic value of a picture is directly correlated with the amount of time that passes. A picture taken now only serves as a reminder, not a memory. Only when I pull up a ridiculous image of me reading a Canon camera manual to my stuffed guinea pig do I recognize this as a mark in progress and compare it to the person I have become. Of course, this is all common knowledge. These news don't break grounds. I'm not teaching; I'm only thinking out loud.

The beauty I find in picture taking is that no one has to be a photographer to get the world to see what they see, in the light, angle, or moment that they see it in. This is one reason why I usually opt out of asking everyone to group together, while the boys straighten their faces and the girls break their backs to feign the appearance of aesthetic appeal. I like catching people in the middle of a good moment, naturally lost in whatever they are doing, saying, or feeling. And I have absolutely no experience in photography. I just know when I want to visually bookmark a point of time in my life.

Say cheese, everyone.

PAN DULCE

There was once a time when I was 6, with loose baby teeth and a messy ponytail (?). My mother wasn't too hairstyle-friendly or skilled.

But this one time in my life I befriended my next door neighbor, whose name was Stephanie. She was in a different class than I was, but we were in the same grade. We would carpool together, and our mothers would upkeep light conversation for us. I would ask her where she got those Mexican watermelon-shaped lollipops, those Vero Rebanaditas Paletas. And we would both make some homemade pan dulce. Other times, she would stop by for some awkward play time at my place with my messy-haired Ariel doll.

And one day, out of nowhere, she left a cartoon drawing of me on our welcome mat. On some wide-ruled paper, torn sloppily and half-assed from the spiral-bound notebook, was a marker and crayon duo manifestation of me. Me, with a monster face! W-with a tongue sticking out and fiery eyes and everything!

The bitch even had the nerve to take the time and effort to cut a neat rectangle paper out to attach to the bottom of the drawing, labeling my name on it. You know. Just in case I had trouble identifying the subject of the artwork, of course.

My mom found it first, actually. She took one look at it and sternly crumpled the paper up. By the time I had seen it, I was staring at my crumpled self from the eyes of a 6-year-old schoolmate. Jesus...I knew I should have held off on asking my mom to buy me those light pink cowgirl boots.

To be quite honest, I wasn't too mad. I was a bit confused because I was trying to figure out if that meant I wasn't going to get anymore pan dulce. But my family's move out to a different neighborhood, schools and schools away, had answered my question for me. I wasn't hurt. But I could never to this day figure out why she did that. I'd be lying if I told you that pan dulce tasted just as good after that time in my life.

That one time in my life.

We never know how we affect the world around us, and we probably never will.

I MUST BE DREAMING

Last night, I experienced a shooting in my sleep.

I was in a diner, right smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Dirt and small patches of dying, overgrown grass scattered all around it. The restaurant was modestly built with horizontal wooden paneling, dried out from time and exposure to the sun.

There was an overcast on this particularly late afternoon. I saw people here and there, sitting inside and dining, windows wide with the eaves of the roof hanging low. There was nothing around us but what I can only recall in my head with one word: FARM.

Out of nowhere, gunshots rang in my head. I grew dizzy with fear and a rush of adrenaline as screams echoed throughout the restaurant. I didn't know what I was doing there to begin with. So says the dreamer.

A few of us were lying down on the porch floor outside of the diner, silently praying that the shooter wouldn't hear us. There was nothing to hide behind to conceal any efforts of an escape. A couple more gunshots interrupted the remaining patrons' cries. Nothing came after but the whistle of the light wind picking up around the place.

Dead. They were dead. I didn't see it, but I felt the abrupt silence slice down from the top of my head to the pit of my stomach. Holy fuck. Holy shit fuck. I faced away, hearing whispers of the people hiding next to me, covering their heads and muffling their sobs. Without any warning, the murmurs stopped.

My heart began to pound harder when I realized that the porch was splattered with blood. To my horror, everyone was gone. Limp bodies leaning against the wall of the building, some facing down in the pool of their own deaths while others had been shot down during their attempts to flee. I immediately grew sick to my stomach, inhaling the overwhelming stench of copper.

The door was propped open by one of the shooters' foot as the other man walked towards me. Play dead. That was about the stupidest thing I could have done at that moment, after they've seen me watching them. But I did it anyway. As he continued down the short porch walkway, his footsteps echoing through the hallow flooring with a thump, thump, thump, I felt my heart slowing to match the beat of his stroll. I stayed in my position, lying belly down with my head rested on an arm, and played dead.

He stood over me for a moment. I couldn't exactly see what he was doing or looking at while I tried not to choke on the blood soaking onto my arm and almost reaching my face. It grew silent again. I slowly turned my head to catch him in my peripherals, but he was gone. They both were gone. I caught a glimpse of the door slamming shut as I listened in on their conversation from inside the diner. I slowly crawled across the porch and down the steps, finally touching my hands on the dirt.

I eventually stood up from my crawl and marched directly to a dated van, parked on a small asphalt patch about fifty yards away from the restaurant. As I approached the vehicle, I heard a faint song playing through the static of a radio. Without any hesitation, I walked around the front of the van, pulled the passenger door open, plopped onto the seat, and closed it as hard as I could. In the driver seat was a former co-worker of mine, Jennifer Plunkett.

"Someone's coming," she speaks with a slow drawl, unamused by one of the shooters charging towards us while yelling something inaudible.

"Kill him," I commanded her. She sighed and started up the car, putting it into gear.

All I can remember is that we hit him head-on, his body lifted up onto the front of the van moments before the van smashed into an abandoned truck. She backed up and accelerated forward again, crushing the man's body over and over again. Peering over the hood of the van, I began to lose sight of a body and more of what I thought to be mangled flesh and blood.

"Thanks," I exhaled angrily.

"Should we--"

I am no longer sitting next to Jennifer. Instead, I found myself on top of another van, painted glossy like a bright, red fire truck. It drove through the clean and narrow streets of a town at a friendly 20 miles per hour. The van became a truck as I fell onto the bed and peered through to the front cabin to identify the driver and passenger. My friend, Alexi, and her sister Alyssa turned their heads back and waved at me.

I sat back and was caught off guard by the buildings looming over me.  The tops of each building bent downward, as though they were alive and inquisitively taking a closer look at me, a stowaway passenger on this fine red van-turned-truck. I heard honks and horns bellowing around me, all not in unison. Clown town, I thought to myself.

We arrived at a movie theater, where Alexi and Alyssa tell me that they want to see a movie that I've already watched. They pull me in and sit closer to the front of the packed theater. I felt a little hand grab mine and I looked down to see my youngest brother, Lewis. In reality, he's thirteen with a croaking voice from the beginning stages of puberty. In my dream, he was timid and only five years old all over again. I picked him up and carried him along through the aisles sitting down next to the girls, who were lost in conversation amongst themselves.

The film was already playing. I think it was a romantic comedy. Lewis tugged lightly on my shirt sleeve and whispered to me. "Can we see another movie?"

"Sure," I leaned towards the girls and told them that I would be right back. I walked up the aisle with Lewis, and we snuck into a theater playing Tom and Jerry instead.

I woke up and reached for my phone, hidden in between the legs of an oversized stuff teddy bear that I have on the corner of my bed. The time was 5:39 A.M. My candle flickered quietly on my desk.

SLEEP, FOOD, AND MOVIES

I am inexplicably indifferent at this moment. I think the educational system has taught me to inadvertently hate Mondays. And I'm pretty sure graduating to a job with "office hours" has also renewed my lifelong sense of disdain for such an unintentionally hated day. Someone had to start the week, and God knows that Sundays are for brunches, dreading Mondays, and...well, God.

My weekend consisted of Riverside. I spent the entire weekend there, hiding from the world with sleep, food, and movies. I didn't do shit, and those were my intentions. I don't even think I made it a point to pretend to be interested in the Super Bowl. What time did it air? I didn't even know who won or lost until I saw a Facebook status update from one of the 9ers, a gentleman who graduated from high school the same year as me. And to that effect, I'm bracing myself for all the sports themed memes and smart aleck statements made in reference to the game that I won't get (nor will I try).

But I digress.

George and I went to eat dinner that Saturday evening. It was an impulsive decision that we both made, sitting in his car in the dead center of the lot near the university. A Denny's loomed behind us. A Del Taco stood feebly next to it, forgotten but still hopeful. A Fat Burger, a Flame Broiler. A pho restaurant. A pizza joint. Various cutesy boba places scattered in between the larger chains. "Where do you want to eat?" I asked, as we both simultaneous turned our heads in completely different directions, searching.

"Uhhhh," he trailed off and continues to peer over my shoulder as I did the same to him, still looking for a place to dine. "There's Marines. But I know you don't like Marines."

My head turned to follow the direction of his gaze behind me. In plain sight, I saw a closed business with nothing but the illuminated sign that read "Marines." We both bursted into laughter as I lightly shoved him. "Oh, Jesus."

My ex-boyfriend used to be a Marine.

We ended up walking into Sushiya. You know, some derivative form of a sushi restaurant. A greater portion of the menu turned out to be half off. In between bites of cut rolls and hand rolls, we both started talking about this strange recurring idea I've had in my mind for quite some time now. I remember mentioning it to my friend, Roberto, but in between our stages of intoxication. He wouldn't recall. It was just had something to do with an alternate reality, but a bit more complex and specific. I worry sometimes that I will believe it to be true, and eventually go crazy.

If I haven't already.

I watched Wall-E later that night and fell asleep on George's shoulder during the fact. I thought I played it off pretty well, because I responded in my normal voice when he checked to see if I was awake. While all the fat people were hovering through a community-wide transit area and Wall-E knocked a fat man named John from his hover seat, I dozed off once more. I woke up right when the ending credits started up, only to calmly ask George, "Don't you just like the credits? I like how they showed the advancement of mankind...while the people gradually lose weight, the style of art changes progressively." He agreed and I smiled to myself, extremely proud for sleeping through it without being caught.

But I guess he already knew I was asleep. He told me this as he escorted me down from my proud moment. Dang it.

The next morning, I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time ever. As the first scene began, I mentally groaned at sight of the apes, sitting there and picking frivolously at scattered plants in the ground. This is the whole movie, isn't it? Please prove me wrong, movie. I sat up and covered myself in a red blanket, hoping for a change of pace.

The pace didn't exactly change.

I did, however, find it cryptic and thought-provoking. "Will you tell me what the fuck happened, starting from when he landed on Jupiter?"

"Well...I'll try," George answered. I knew what kind of film it was as soon as he told me he'll "try".

I liked it. Although I probably missed both the philosophical and allegorical interpretations because I was too busy trying to figure out what the movie was about, I did pull a few things from it. I immediately went to look up and see what exactly Stanley Kubrick had in mind when he was making this film, only to discover (to my delight) that he encouraged an open interpretation of the film, and didn't completely offer a complete explanation of the meaning behind it. So, this leads me to three options: (1) watch the movie again, (2) read the book that Sir Arthur C. Clarke had written in conjunction with the film during its creation, or (3) have an open discussion with people who have seen it. I don't intend on finding an "answer", but it was kind of adorable finding the different homages that Wall-E made in honor of the film. In 2001: A Space Odyssey, the space crew worked with EVA probes, while in Wall-E, the Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator ("EVE") had her name mispronounced by Wall-E, who innocently annunciates it as "EVA". Because Wall-E is a Pixar film, and Pixar rarely creates without purpose, I would like to say that this was tribute was fit into the movie so well. And although 2001: A Space Odyssey and Wall-E have different points to prove, they both have a deeper messages to uncover. I think I would still like to listen to other interpretations of it before I begin to formulate my own.

It's strange to see what I have to say about things nowadays. I used to have a Dalmatians diary when I was younger, equipped with a set of rainbow colored washable markers. I'd write things like, "Today was a good day. I ate a sandwich and Mommy told me I had to sleep early but I don't want to." I was OCD, so I'd alternate colors in rainbow order. As difficult as it was to read, I still utilized the yellow marker regardless. It was so hard filling a page up back then. As you flip through the pages, you'll notice that I began to grow lazier, with my handwriting in a rushed slant as I noted, "Today was okay. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Well, bye!"

I think that's my weekend and thoughts in a very large nutshell. Like, if it were actually in a nutshell, it'd be big enough to fit me and a blanket in. I know I don't make much sense.

Well, bye.

FIESTA FRIDAYS

I woke up today, my eyes peeking through its lids in hopes of finding nothing but darkness.

Minor sunlight.

I facially groaned and reached over for my phone in hopes of confirming that yes, I have about two more hours of delicious sleep in my future. The time read 6:38 A.M., 22 minutes before my alarm goes off and yet another 8-hour day passes by. I felt myself growing warm and comfortable again as I slowly eased myself back to sleep.

My phone vibrated. Again. And again. Annnd...again. It continued a few more times and finally stopped. It was my boyfriend's nightly ritual to text me, and they usually range from lengthy to length-tabulous. Who am I kidding? They're all long and nice to wake up to.

I got ready like the 9-5 toolbag I am, and debated on whether or not I have time to dry my hair. On my way out from my room, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and jumped. Jesus. Alright already, I'll go and dry my hair.

Here's to another day working for a job I care very little for (*fakes downing a bott--glass of wine*).

Now, before judgment arises, I must clarify. Upon hire, I told my employer that I wouldn't be here for long. It would only serve as means to save money and contribute to my financial obligations. I do have some goals that I've been working on, but I can't exactly share it with the public. I will tell you, though, that I am saving up for these unlabeled goals. I'm only human. I'm a simpleton. I'm insignificant. I'm no celebrity. I am Jack's piece of shit. Yeah, so I kind of just made a Fight Club reference. If you didn't get it, then you are not the target demographic for readership.

I'm kidding. Who am I to tell you whether or not you should read my shit? I'm not that snobby.

It's usually in the mornings anytime after 8:01 A.M. that my friend, Foley, texts me. Every morning from Monday through Friday, like clockwork. I'll get a notification telling me that (a) Foley has texted me and (b) Hautelook is sending me daily spam email. I don't even shop on Hautelook. Forgive me for being curious and signing up with my email.

"Fiesta Frito Friday. I feel as though the days passed by way too quick this week, it's alrdy friday??" Foley calls them Fiesta Fridays when we both commute on our our own respective freeways to our separate jobs. I love Fridays. The cars merge smoothly, the drivers are more efficient, and the distance between all vehicles widens. People just don't hate their lives as much on Fridays.

Some time during work, George and I began to stray from our normal conversation on Gchat to discuss the imaginative possibilities of experiments on whether or not females are (considering majorities) more detail-oriented than males are. He made a good point observing that males do tend to be detail-oriented in things they are interested in. But still, what causes this? Nature or nurture? To speculate, we created this fictional world in which we completely isolate individuals from present day societies in all parts of the world. The question I posed was, "Would this experiment be considered abuse?" We are talking about a lack of exposure to...everything. Will these individuals still harbor gender-specific characteristics that we observe in the men and women we live with today?

This discussion went along the lines of The Truman Show, starring Jim Carrey. In this film, Jim Carrey plays a man who slowly begins to realize that his entire life was a reality TV show. The people he has grown up with, the people he has come to love and care for, are all participating actors. What a fucking trip. The worst part of this storyline is that it was for the sheer purpose of entertainment!

But why am I surprised? That's what's happening today, is it not?

These thoughts are way too intense for a Friday afternoon. Behind me, a small stack of magazines sit underneath my purse. Rolling Stones (featuring 30 Rock's last hurrah), Cosmopolitan, and US Weekly. Unattended and unread. I'm sitting in this office suite alone while I listen to the visiting Canon tech install and set up the network for our Canon copier. The phone rings in my boss's empty office. Pandora plays on the Two Door Cinema Club station. My keystrokes are louder than they should be.

Here's to my first blog ever since MySpace stopped happening.