Draft from March 4, 2016:
God, I need to pee. So, so badly. But my time here in this library is limited so I tap tap tap away on the Mac keyboard, smudged with countless finger tips.
Five feet in front of me, a European college student talks over the noise cancellation of his Puma headphones at a friend on the other end of his video phone call. A couple feet away, a young woman moans despairingly at her computer screen over taxes. Six feet under us are the memories of people who were once as annoying as these aforementioned patrons.
I shrug it off and plug my earbuds as my phone lights up with a text from an unnamed someone who is quite unhappy with me. I haven't been spending any time in his company, nor have I expressed any desire to. I turn back to my computer and keep tap tap tapping away. I'll strive up a conversation some day when I'm in the mood for constant sexual harassment. But for now, it's motivation enough to not start a dialogue with a man who doesn't listen.
Sunday, April 22, 2018
INNER TURMOIL
Draft from October 5, 2014:
Despite the stability in my life, I've been feeling pretty alone lately. And the thing I hate about this is that someone out there is reading this and understanding me. But nobody stops me in real life to tell me that hey, they get it. The pain we share is the same, but we all do what we can to pretend we're not affected by it. Apparently, it's a weakness. It takes one's suffering to remind us that we at least have something they don't have to keep our heads up and to walk on like we're better than that one person.
Despite the stability in my life, I've been feeling pretty alone lately. And the thing I hate about this is that someone out there is reading this and understanding me. But nobody stops me in real life to tell me that hey, they get it. The pain we share is the same, but we all do what we can to pretend we're not affected by it. Apparently, it's a weakness. It takes one's suffering to remind us that we at least have something they don't have to keep our heads up and to walk on like we're better than that one person.
I'm sick of feeling this way! I want to distance myself from everything and everyone around me. I want to do something different and enjoy it all by myself. I'm sick of waiting on other people, taking their time, not thinking of others, and telling me why I have to wait on them because it's the nice thing to do. I don't move as slowly as you! I want to get there at my speed and on my terms. Because I'm sick of it.
SUNDAY MORNING
I sat alone on my little balcony, atop all that is the second floor of my apartment complex. Views as far as the eye can see. And frankly, all I see is the pool and courtyard enclosed within the rectangular layout of the buildings. The morning is slightly crisp, but tolerable in one's pajamas and flip flops, with the burly help of my boyfriend's heavy winter jacket. Still, my feet are freezing and lacking blood flow. It's been a thing.
After distractedly glancing through a few pages of my book, I sheepishly placed my bookmark between pages 10 and 11 and stared at the bird shit on the cement floor of my small outdoor oasis. My mother would be pleased. It was common superstition among the Chinese culture that bird droppings are a sign of wealth and fortune to come. Being raised with superstitions is a form of brainwashing. No matter how much I deny its function and validity in my world, I always seem to live by them. My unit number doesn't add up to 4. The kitchen sink and stove don't face each other, as to have you swiveling back and forth when cooking. Our unit isn't at the end of a hallway and our front door doesn't face west. Despite the recent trends of adorning a bedroom wall with a large mirror, we've left that out altogether as to avoid having a mirror face our bed. And of course, thanks to my upbringing, clouded by the dos and don'ts of questionable things, I find myself slightly optimistic when I come across bird shit on my car windshield or, in this case, my balcony floor.
The whoosh of traffic from the 65 highway is nonstop, but distant enough to qualify itself as unofficial white noise. I don't mind it. I say "highway" nowadays instead of "freeway", hoping to open myself up to the idea of making Nashville more of a home now that I'm no longer in Southern California. But secretly, like any woman adjusting to a new relationship, I cannot help but compare.
Nashville's residential bubble bursted recently, shortly after I moved here less than a year ago. At its peak, the poor small town city took in roughly 125 transplants a day. Gentrification and Instagram-ready culture took to the streets. Fast food franchises have no room to live downtown. In with tapas dining, breweries with Facebook events, and whatever it is that white people do with food belonging to other cultures. Occasionally, one might stumble across an authentic gem sandwiched between hair salons and tax businesses. Everyone is new in town, starry-eyed and hopeful to make friends, find love, and do something with their lives. I came here reluctantly.
I slip my feet out from the flip flops and tuck them under me in my chair. It was sprinkling. I didn't notice at first because it came so timidly - soft, tiny droplets all perfectly spaced apart and melting into the ground upon impact. Great timing. Just as I thought I was being too much of a basic bitch curled up on a Sunday morning. Eventually, the big honchos follow the light rain to announce their arrival. I am thunder, hear me roar.
My phone lights up. "I heard there was a shooting at the Waffle House in Tennessee. Hope you're not near there and everything's okay." I take a moment to appreciate my friend before replying.
After distractedly glancing through a few pages of my book, I sheepishly placed my bookmark between pages 10 and 11 and stared at the bird shit on the cement floor of my small outdoor oasis. My mother would be pleased. It was common superstition among the Chinese culture that bird droppings are a sign of wealth and fortune to come. Being raised with superstitions is a form of brainwashing. No matter how much I deny its function and validity in my world, I always seem to live by them. My unit number doesn't add up to 4. The kitchen sink and stove don't face each other, as to have you swiveling back and forth when cooking. Our unit isn't at the end of a hallway and our front door doesn't face west. Despite the recent trends of adorning a bedroom wall with a large mirror, we've left that out altogether as to avoid having a mirror face our bed. And of course, thanks to my upbringing, clouded by the dos and don'ts of questionable things, I find myself slightly optimistic when I come across bird shit on my car windshield or, in this case, my balcony floor.
The whoosh of traffic from the 65 highway is nonstop, but distant enough to qualify itself as unofficial white noise. I don't mind it. I say "highway" nowadays instead of "freeway", hoping to open myself up to the idea of making Nashville more of a home now that I'm no longer in Southern California. But secretly, like any woman adjusting to a new relationship, I cannot help but compare.
Nashville's residential bubble bursted recently, shortly after I moved here less than a year ago. At its peak, the poor small town city took in roughly 125 transplants a day. Gentrification and Instagram-ready culture took to the streets. Fast food franchises have no room to live downtown. In with tapas dining, breweries with Facebook events, and whatever it is that white people do with food belonging to other cultures. Occasionally, one might stumble across an authentic gem sandwiched between hair salons and tax businesses. Everyone is new in town, starry-eyed and hopeful to make friends, find love, and do something with their lives. I came here reluctantly.
I slip my feet out from the flip flops and tuck them under me in my chair. It was sprinkling. I didn't notice at first because it came so timidly - soft, tiny droplets all perfectly spaced apart and melting into the ground upon impact. Great timing. Just as I thought I was being too much of a basic bitch curled up on a Sunday morning. Eventually, the big honchos follow the light rain to announce their arrival. I am thunder, hear me roar.
My phone lights up. "I heard there was a shooting at the Waffle House in Tennessee. Hope you're not near there and everything's okay." I take a moment to appreciate my friend before replying.
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