Time.

They say it takes time.
Well freak.

Now.

This post is another accumulation of almost a month of writing sporadically and never finding the willpower or creativity to finish a complete thought, not that this one has any singular purpose. Humor me, I'm tired.

This is a test.
Not an academic test, like one that assesses pseudo life skills, like math or chemistry or vocabulary. Even the well-designed advanced placements exams only measure our capacity to focus for one to three hours on one very narrow subject. They are hinged on chance; an accurate reflection of knowledge is dependent on the student's exposure to the chosen test-day topics. For the most part though, I commend our district's education program. Even bad teachers give good tests, even if pampered students protest about difficulty. I'm just bitter about my B+.

"The test will measure whether you are an informed, engaged, and productive citizen of the world, and it will take place in schools and bars and hospitals and dorm rooms and in places of worship. You will be tested on first dates, in job interviews, while watching football, and while scrolling through your Twitter feed. The test will judge your ability to think about things other than celebrity marriages, whether you’ll be easily persuaded by empty political rhetoric, and whether you’ll be able to place your life and your community in a broader context. The test will last your entire life, and it will be comprised of the millions of decisions that, when taken together, will make your life yours. And everything, everything, will be on it." John Green

This test is called life. However, this is still a different test. It's in response to a prompt, kind of, from the Peaceful Warrior. The point is to live in the now, to be at the here, to be, always, the moment. Something is always happening, everything is always moving forward. Entropy is always increasing (heho), time is propagating in only one direction. I think Socrates neglected reflection too much, but the idea is still the same - don't dwell, and don't worry. And this was an unnecessarily prolonged introduction to my first and likely last direct reference to inspiration.

***
I am sitting, for once, legs unfolded, on a hardwood chair, in a way such that my thighs don't touch the seat and such that the seat is only 25% occupied by my body. My eyes are very dry, my legs are bobbing impatiently, and my slouch is grossly pronounced from many months of switching between intense physical extenuation and then absolute loafing.

Cogito ergo sum. Carpe collum. What is the grass, captain?
There are so many things I don't know. I've wanted to take the easy way out of building my body, attaining my grades, writing at the bare minimum and studying at the last minute. It is, in general, effective, at about a B+/A- rate. For the most part, that satisfies me.
But once in a while, I find the energy to try. It comes more naturally when I'm doing math - that one, blessed hour I can't fall asleep. But once in while, it comes in during a timed writing, an SAT test, a French project, even though I don't remember a single physics lecture, and even though I have never remained conscious for more than half of a history lecture. In Hack the SATs (it'll help you connect to me and improve you standardized testing scores!!!), the author talks about pretending the love everything. Critical reading is boring until there is a falsely genuine and passionate attacking of the passage - and that is the approach I've started utilizing, out of nowhere, in seemingly unrelated periods and areas of my life.

Suddenly, history is almost fascinating. Physics is almost worth further investigation. Wikipedia is my new pasttime. Poetry is the big deal, and math has great dreams. But almost, and almost never. False passion dies, fatigue approaches, and once again, I'm laying alone on my bedroom carpet, wondering what to do with myself at 1 AM in the morning. The tiredness approaches more easily now, as failure becomes easier and disappointment comes faster. Reaction time to conversation decreases exponentially. The only component of my mind that becomes more active controls rash decision making, and it does so, so now, at the epitome of one of the deeper troughs, I am staring at nothing and hoping that stillness can settle.

GG.

Since I am still in shock, this post may come off as emotionless and unrealistic. It feels that way to me. I am sorry, but my academic image has just been blemished in a way that cannot be ratified.
Finals. Ouch. Actually, its not really finals. It was one final, and now a deep and moving reflection upon this blind and falsely confident semester.

Athletic Training: I thought I wouldn't make new friends, and I didn't make new friends. Congratulations, I have successfully predicted my own social elusiveness around people of different races and unweighted classes once again. Some education was wasted, but meeting who white people consider white trash, nice black people, and decent Indians was refreshing in the midst of my high achieving Asian schedule.

AP Physics B: I learned to respect my teacher, which I guess is progress from last year. In the last few weeks, I didn't even fall asleep. A lot of grapes and almonds were stolen from 8:41 to 9:35, and only once was the textbook opened ... and slept upon. This is my final project, if you can see, if you care. It was the only good thing produced, and it's only because I can work aesthetics, and apparently nothing else. Especially not chemistry. https://naperville.instructure.com/eportfolios/13154/Home/Welcome

AP French: Either I have suddenly become extraordinarily eloquent in interpretive and interpersonal presentation in the French language, or the teacher is being nice to only me and the rest of the class is suddenly also getting B's and C's. Or both. I almost want to tell myself good job on getting an 86% in the class I thought I would dominate effortlessly, except that's a B, my precious, infant B, born of 16 weeks of C+. I actually appreciate the manipulation and combination of language. I cherish my Chinese culture, even if I think it sounds silly to speak to my parents in the tongue. French exposed me to the intricacies of true grammar, and I am grateful for every one of the 7 to 10 tenses it has taught me. Foreign life is fascinating, but apparently, foreign classes are sickening. I should thank my teachers for what they have done for me, even when I don't participate and make them impatient. C'etait un bon 2.5 annees d'apprendre la francais.

AP Chemistry: And here is my humbling D+, B+ class. The pride of my freshman silver test tube pride shot in one glance on IC. B+. Ouch. I have a couple rules for life, and number 2 (I guess it's number 2, but I haven't made an official list, so it doesn't really count) concerns hard work. There is a threshold of work that one has to expend in order to earn a certain level of achievement. In most cases, a relative minimum is at 90%, which is what constitutes an A-, a 5.0 at this school. I thought I peaked at this minimum long ago, almost naturally, but this week, clearly, I have slipped into a cusp... or something. I do have some things to say about the depth at which we cover certain topics, similarly to Physics B. Chemistry is not like calculus. Not everything is explained, and not everything could be questioned, especially when the teacher is mad at Benny. Still, it was possible to get that A, since people did do so, so I am a noob, and I need to focus.

BC Calculus: No. The level of engagement to polar coordinates and integrals makes it impossible for me to even think about sleeping. I am in love with my table, but only infatuated enough to be the best quiz group and talk about college. Everything is good, even if I didn't get A's until halfway through the semester. Calcchat also saved me homework time... and math team? My heart is at rest.

Lunch: Contrary to previous assumptions, I did end up eating 40% of this semester, which is an improvement, except weight-wise... supposedly. People are nice.

APUSH: For working so hard, I went clutch mode for the last month because I gave up too early. I am stupid, and history is okay. It helped me in SATs if not anything else, and it has taught me what grass really is. Very well, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes. Do you ever want to jump off a bridge? But you can't say that at a cocktail party. Of all classes, this is the one that made me question my beliefs and values seriously, regarding morals, academia, and values. Of all classes in which to sleep in the front of the class, this was it. I learned and forgot an unprecedented amount of bull right here. And words, I appreciate words.

AP Lang: Speaking of words, I have never done rhetorical analysis formally until now, and it's actually fun when I'm genuinely trying to make my bs authentic. Above all, this class made the best community. Our analysis groups were phenomenal, and they carried me hard. I watched my friend and teacher dress the same way, and then my teacher cry because we stood on our desks and saluted Oh Captain, my Captain, on finals day. She kept crying as she passed out our scantrons, and thanked us for ending her day so well. I think we honored her, accidentally, through our collaboration of mistakenly passionate pursuits of knowledge, and she accepted our antics. There were feels.

And thus ends my dispicable 4.54 junior year. I will update when my dad takes away my other force-fed and cutesy community, club badminton.

Math Team

Its so relieving to be back. I am spoiled, so I'm not going to complain about having to think coherently at 7 am, because more likely than not, most good teachers and managers and workers to the same at 5 am. I look forward to this stabilizer, the one good 30 minutes in a semester of hates last year.

God is so good. I'm too blessed.

Other note. I have missed other people. Finally, I have awoken myself to laughing at bad jokes. It could be the relaxed curriculum changes in physics, but finally, I'm not falling asleep and instead am thinking and conversing with, le gasp, other students. Finally, I've taken a few moments out of my own wasted time to catch up and even pretend to be bright-spirited, so we can be friends again. The cold is no longer an excuse, the food is no longer the bait (actually it is. It is becoming not the bait though). People are not disappointments.

For the first time, I have made myself truly vulnerable. I told a considerably large following of people about the roots of becoming so worn, and the responses were surprising. It was not my Christian friends who replied emphatically  but the people who only tolerate my beliefs. I asked for prayer, and what I received was incredible care from the most unexpected people. It throws me, actually, that the one person who I had been mildly and silently cursing an hour ago was the one who shared my story with a resource to my benefit. I am humbled, and for a few seconds, tear-stained.

Is it just the holiday spirit? I feel my curses slowly draining out of me, and it makes me ecstatic. Freedom is my theme this year (I called it after Arrival last year... ha), and finally, I am opening my eyes to service once more. It feels so good to be back. It feels so good to be alive again.

Ugly Duckling

The most beautiful flower will die when it's surrounded by ugly weeds.
This week has been full of cocktail parties. Do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge? And I will probably be referencing this quote quite often now, so expect it, and assume only that I am uncomfortable at cocktail parties, nothing more.

Fatigue is taxing. I can pretend to be so enthusiastic about math that I always survive BC and math team, although only at a 92.0% success rate. I have cut it very close in Chemistry, even though I respect the science and teacher to no end. My eyes have shut for abnormally long periods of time when my physics teacher stares directly at me; my face has made intimate contact with my APUSH desk for hours. I am tired.

I have become ugly. The circles under my eyes have become semi permanent, which apparently, is unattractive, at least more so than when they are not present, according to a respected male in the surrounding community. Flat hair and hair loss are the norm. All of my skin is cracked, and sooner or later, my nose will be too cold. Apparently. These are all metaphors for the state of my heart. Read carefully.

Comparison is dangerous, but boys like danger (I just saw it on Tumblr, excuse my fallacy filled rage). Shouldn't there be a time when comparison is no longer valid, when one person owns something permanently, and the lack of that something is insignificant? Shouldn't there be a time when people stop telling me what and when and why to eat, as if I haven't thought about it all day out of absolute paranoia and undeserving spite? There should be a time when I don't even have to think about it anymore, and I can be at peace, preferably before Arrival or GraceCon.

Not caring is also dangerous, but I am just stupid and should never not care again. Everything has a purpose, and I've totally missed it for too long, and now its too late. I am completely ugly and too soft and too weak to lift my eyes up. I'm worn...ha (tenth avenue north?), and I hope that if anything, I can help other people not be so ugly and soft and weak.

Listless.

Note? I wrote this two weeks ago but apparently was in such a subconscious state that I neglected to publish it. But I am going to publish it, because I hate having saved drafts. For the records, I have an 84% in French now.

The irony and other rhetorical strategy I try to subconsciously employ have become ineffective. What do I do.

I have spent a lot of time in silence recently. Part of this phenomenon is my lack of original thoughts; part of it  is my inadequacy of self expression. Its almost interesting that to the people I feel closest to, I still can't find a way to sufficiently embody my thoughts in words. This could be a root cause for my 78.01% in French. Ouch.

Here is a collection of thoughts.
1. Acadamia
2. I have a calculus test tomorrow. I can't tell if I'm not studying out of pride or a subtle, listless depression.
3. I have become progressively uglier and egocentric. This is probably no good for anyone.
4. Serving is of utmost importance. My uncle told me that math would not fulfill my designated serving duties well.
5. Atrophying musclays
6. Indians
7. Abdominal muscles, and how to flex them
8. I suck.
9. Math team tryouts are this week. It seems as if many of the assessments I care about have been and are badly timed to the chronology of personal traumas, but I think these traumas are predominately self induced
10. Where did prayer go?
11. I hope that losing my straight A streak is a transcript change that will land THAT college in which I am supposed to serve.
12. Maybe I should have cheated in APUSH. Just kidding, but its not okay.
13. Losing, and other Tenth Avenue North

Elephant.

This is the kind of stress than pulls my head in every direction and in no direction. If there was a net force, it would be zero, no acceleration anywhere, even if my incapable brain had any mass at all.
So basically I have done nothing, and in some twisted way, I have no desire to do anything, and this isn't justification for sloth. There are just no feelings.
In the past weeks, I've opened blogspot and tumblr every single day with the intention to write something. I have considered confessions, outpourings, and sermons alike (not sermons.... I jk. I'm not in the place for that), but not once have I formed a single cohesive paragraph. Exhibit A, take large number.

A quote by Paul Gilmartin, author of (tumblr credited) the Mental Illness Happy Hour
“I cannot stand small talk, because I feel like there’s an elephant standing in the room shitting all over everything and nobody is saying anything. I’m just dying to say, “Hey, do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge?” or “Do you feel an emptiness inside your chest at night that is going to swallow you?” But you can’t say that at a cocktail party.”

Do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge? One day I will ask someone, although hopefully it won't be out of such desperate measures. Bridges are useful and romantic if used the right way. In all seriousness, I think something is going to swallow me, and its breath stinks. The odor reminds of me people I can't forgive and a mix of bad meals. The warmth of the swallowing breath is much like elephants' poo, too soft, too large, too messy to clean up.

In an extended metaphorical and not so twisted way, I also want to jump off a bridge. I want to take the withdrawal with fail; I want to stop running, huddle in a blanket, read, and forget to eat. It would be so easy to stop eating and habitually lie to everyone... isn't that already the default? It would be so easy, but it would be so hard to feel alive again. At the lowest trough of the waves, I want to stop talking and stare at sweater patterns with whatever frequency comes most easily. If I stare long enough, I forget to see the ugly and only see the world (but not in a guru universe way. more like a yoga way). But mostly I'm just weak. Those were all spineless desires to express. Its not that the elephant is being ignored but that it is grossly protruding and defecating all over, and I just hate the smell of poo.

The problem isn't even that I feel this way; emotions are fleeting, not defining. The problem is Paul Gilmartin. Nobody is saying anything. I'm just dying to say, "Hey, do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge?" and in now a truly twisted way, I'm dying to here someone say, "Yeah."

Distance.

...is the integral of the absolute value of velocity. Isn't that beautiful.

Subjective observation is important. Its the first step in every injury report form, and only after this evaluation can the athletic trainer do the objective, assessment, and plan. It is the history, which always, always, comes before palpation and special testing. Athletic Training says so. It is law. http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_manshocTPq1rngbi0.gif

Eye contact is very rare for me. There is almost always math homework, a physics textbook, the occasional calculator with which to fiddle. There may be movies, board games, campfires, clouds, or bunnies, anything to serve as a distraction from the most resonating mode of communication. The problem, I think, is the frightening magnitude of focus required to purposefully maintain the gaze of another. Teachers are good at this, because they remove themselves of all intentions except the furthering of their students' educational horizons and understanding of life. Its awkward for friends unless it is a brief glare or sympathetic shot of sharing the pain. Its nerve wracking from flirts and naturally playful and witty people, often assumed to be innately superior to the humbled masses. I refuse it from my parents, deflect it from other adults. Someone did say that once, right, that eyes are windows the soul? Shakespeare, Da Vinci, proverbs, the scholars. It must be true.

In the recent past, I had the distinct pleasure of being rightfully trapped in close proximity to a fixed gaze. Physically, it would have caused significant pain to flee the situation, and emotionally, the inertia of the atmosphere was too great to overcome. Thus began an informal staring contest, which I probably lost at the fault of a dare and eskimos. Of what I actually want to take note is the exchange and record of cognizance. I remember wondering how ugly my eyes were, but mostly, everything disappears. There is the lingering question of what happens next, the breathless absorption of the space that is filled and packed with the absence of everything. There is a moment of trolling and a moment of utter seriousness. There is a moment of classic (by Tumblr) and a moment when there is no space to be filled at all.

The Public Domain

A consideration: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mdclr3yqCa1qz4d4bo1_500.gif

Appeal to the masses isn't what I really want to talk about, partly because we see it too much in politics, partly because I know nothing about politics to even say that, and mostly because its uncomfortable, questionably hypocritical, and subject to suffer from the topic itself (speaking of politics, OBAMA, http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/sickaroundamerica/view/ and why healthcare). Fortunately or unfortunately, circumlocution is fun and can even be accidentally inspirational. And there are maybe four readers, three of which probably aren't even following me, so "public" doesn't really, really apply, even though I don't have copyrights, probably.

The Public Domain, aka judgment, popularity, approval, confirmation, by Yours Truly, jk

Admittedly, I am not as eloquent as either of the Green brothers, by pen or mouth, so an introduction to fearing exposing ourselves: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGmAekTPD5c

So first, my disclaimer? I judge people, some strongly, some more aloofly, some probably very wrongly. I never hate people and have bitter reservations only for one to three. In this day and age, there is enough freedom such that actions and words do reflect the heart, regardless of how hard it is to admit. We are not suppressed by unspeakable life-threatening government, binding religious rules, or cult-frat-sorority rituals. For this reason, everything said and done, purposeless or not, during times of pensiveness or thoughtlessness, is still, on some level, an indication of the thunder brewing within. Even the simplest minds have thunder, I would hope, anyway.

Its a relief to be alone in the crowd, furiously working, calculating, writing, without hindrance, 100% in sync with integrals, differentiation, rhetoric, circles. Its strangely exhilarating to observe the world through interaction, realizing, that as five old friends gather to analyze the suicide of Edna Pontellier, that others have deep, deep insight, even about befuddled feminists of the Realism age, and fiery issues at heart. Its wonderful to have teachers that live, authors that think, and my dear mother, who understands. These feelings are either part of my adolescent revelation phase, or the decreasing frequency with which I talk to people for real. So the latter.

Similarly, its a relief to be alone, away from the prying and giggling eyes of the public. Finally, in the literal sense as well, there is air. Oh how I love to be surrounded by nothing but the embrace of the forest, the sunset, the chill of the air... oh how I love to be momentarily unthinking, because everything is okay, like once a week, for one, precious hour.

Interruption

In the past few years, I have made it a habit to slide into a state of physical and mental exhaustion after any long period of competitive math activity, regardless of how rigorous it had been, meaning this cloudiness tags along every ASMA, ILML, NSML, ICTM, and calculus test. ARML shouldn't even be considered... it is death. Some have interpreted this decline in energy as sadness or anger, but, just to clarify, I'm still mulling over every problem, so carefully constructed, wondering how clever or stupid I had been.

So when people ask me what field I want to study in college (and presumably for the rest of my life, because knowledge doesn't end, and I can't imagine ceasing to learn, which apparently, is a viable path to take), I say either "I don't know" or math. Nothing else makes me think so closely; there is no science deep enough, no language profound enough, no art beautiful enough.

The worst problem, I think, that comes from such an engrossment, is my intolerance for interruption. Although clearly evident in other spheres of my life, it is most prominent when in the middle of warmups for NSML or after a particularly taxing contest. During the former, my speech impediment is worse than French presentation freezes... that, or I speak too quickly to be comprehensible anyway. After the latter, silence is golden, duct tape is silver, and both Au and Ag suffer from inflation unprecedented by even the Panic of 1837 (sly joke here ehehe).

And disclaimer, again, I'm not that good at math, at all, as can be attested by my 90.75% BC grade, repeated failures to win FTW (irony pun), and successive failures to qualify for any math competition beyond state, or to do well in state, for that matter. Its just wonderful, much like being uninterrupted.

Additionally, I am a victim of all sorts of inertia. For one, sleep inertia snatches me from the grasps of owner-less wisdom during physics and APUSH every day. (The key to pulling all nighters, by the way, is a 2 hour nap, good food, and coffee.) I am heavy set and stomp all over the badminton court, desperate to reach a bird of which only good players think to change speed (and velocity). Forced shifts in direction and halts in a good run may subject surrounding victims to berating anger. Sometimes.

Recently, the flow of my life was interrupted, in not a rude manner, by multiple issues, some moral, a few emotional. I expected to earn straight A's. I expected to be, in fact, cruising, not easily, but with some high quality thinking and insights, through French, through chemistry, math. Even APUSH would cause me pain, a couple long nights, but give nothing less than a final grade of above 90. I was to run every day, there are no excuses not to be number one, not to be a good friend, not to talk to other people, not to fulfill every circumstance with which God presents me. SATs should have been a casual thing, and, without question, I was to maintain my body perfectly.

Interruption 1: SATs. Rarely did I see my parents so serious about anything until I began pretending to review for the SATs. For three months, I was expected to spend 2 to 4 hours critically analyzing passages and polishing grammar I had to master 3 years ago. This was okay with me; as long as I could continue to flip 20 pages a day and forget about it, the hassle was worth not working - but still, my parents continued to nag week after week, screaming for me to study harder for a college entrance exam that wasn't capable of being studied. These were times when one of the greatest disparities between me and my parents became evident - they thought studying was everything; I thought, and think, studying is nothing. Its not to say I didn't prepare for the SATs - its not that I'm trying to credit my score to my natural genius. I did spend lots of time pretending; perhaps I subconsciously picked up a couple tips (just kidding). I took two practice tests, I skimmed, although likely unconsciously, the critical reading sections of the Princeton, Barron's, and Keplon's Review. I read Hack the SATs a year ago and the morning of the exam. Truly, though, the best preparation, jokes aside, was life. Math is easy, Mr. Bey was good, and everyone should read complex literature every day.

Interruption 2: Mon garou. A subject of controversy, gossip, and inspiration, although the last could be just relative to other similar cases of the day. It is, actually, natural to accept this new wolf into life, as if praying for us is instinctual, as if time spent running is extended, not cut short or made less enjoyable. In a way, its like making a real friend with whom to be at church, math team, science bowl, but always, as if it becomes something I expect to be present, something that is meant to be there, something that I welcome to be there. It is not utilized, at least not actively, as an enhancement or detriment to our spiritual lives, but instead just becomes part of life itself.

It is, however, quickly draining the amount of time I spend talking to other people, and although the interactions are still thoughtful, still true to our friendships and exchanged understanding, they are less, or they could be deeper. It is one more thing to hide, and while this can be exhilarating, keeping secrets and closing life by compartments to selected audiences are cumbersome tasks. Many questions of priorities have presented themselves, but mostly, I have learned to let time heal and roll, to love freely, to work passionately.

Interruption 3: Health. A summer of chatting into the morning and waking before 8 am to play League of Legends has drastically altered my views of sleep. This semester, there were no more than a couple days when I slept for more than 6 hours on a weekday, although 6 hours is now my normal functioning recharge time. In the beginning of this year, however, I staved my body of even more rest, shooting between 4 and 5 hours of sleep maximum. In many bouts of hypnic jerks and falling victim to sleep inertia, I lost 5% of my physics grade to a B+ on my fluids exam, at least 10% of my grade to poor exams and lost homework in APUSH, and a hearty 21% of incompetent presentations and memorization in French. Here lies my shame, my impoverished 82%, 79%, 89%.

Of course, winter is approaching, bringing with it darkness an hour early and an irresistible desire to gain insulation. With it comes another half year of anticipated depression, already cycling relapse, which never completely healed since last May. I am tired, still, and I pray that I will be given the opportunity to choose to serve God, praise God, worship God.

S'okay.

I always say that its okay and that everything is no big deal, whether its a D in APUSH or another B in calc, whether its the expected loss in badminton or some embarrassing moment when people drop food on themselves. Its okay to feel like crap every morning, almost, and sometimes, its even okay to feel like crap going to sleep. Its okay to have emotional misunderstandings and its okay if my parents anger for no good reason. What is anything in light of eternity? For if I could speak in tongues and have all the world's knowledge, but have not love, I am nothing, we are nothing. 1 Corinthians 13!  So, by default, basically, everything is okay.

Yet in my conviction that its okay, its not, supposedly, allegedly, and it matters very much. Its not okay because in my imperfect forgiveness, there is an underwhelming anger that rises on cue with every reminder, a barely restrained urge to reciprocate some tangible level of pain - a sadness, apparently, because even when I smile and cringe at the same time, repeating that its okay, there are uncontrollable tears swelling beneath my eyes. Every time, a gloomy dullness presses me, which, in some sadist, ironic way, breaks my closing heart, but not for myself, I guess, but for something sacred and, regardless of circumstances, singularly possessed.

Morality

Broken, finally, by my mom, actually, while discussing, of all things, not sex, but abortion.
I mean we talked about sex too but thinking of how much life was destroyed in even my own family sent shock through my stomach. I didn't think I would cry for someone I never knew if I barely shed a tear for my grandparents, yet, I guess, in this weekend of crazy, quite the trauma has been buildling pressure.

This fanatical week has turned my mind in circles, or ellipses, and if you find the area under the curve, just use 3i/n for the input of a function of a summation, assuming i = 0 and n is just n. But seriously, I'm forced to question my ready acceptance and my flickering priorities, to question my deepest motives, to analyze my nonsensical responses to worry and affection. How interesting, to live in the hypothetical, then to realize that it isn't hypothetical at all, but completely and nightmarishly real. Maybe only time will reveal whether two really work better when they are one.

There are so many expectations tagged onto a status and the shallowness of the title. Living under a formality takes away the best part, the real deets, the friendship. We will glorify God and be pure in all eyes, even though from an impersonal perspective, its all very strange, mostly because we (I) sweat too much. I feel as if all but the subjects of scrutiny see the relationship as, in the best sense, cute, as if two very confused people are experimenting, perhaps precariously, despite the logical fallacies of every aspect of it. I sense a general idea that there is a wavering awkwardness and a reserved fear of one another, when at least today, I have to say, it was a sadness, a diminishing anger, a careful peace, and five hours of sleep. In some ways, I wish I could make people understand, but most of the time, I can only pray and be grateful for yet another unexpected, explosive blessing.

Forgiveness.

Excuse my double post but for lack of conscious thoughts, FORGIVENESS IS REALLY HARD.

Trust is hard to earn.
Infatuation takes too long to pass.
I question my own motives.
I need to glorify God in these things. We have glorify God. There is, at the very least, a purpose beyond having fun.

From a psychological study perspective, the onslaughts of berating strings of swears is unnaturally out of line with so much smiling and hand-holding. I should probably look at the universe again, because once again, I'm struggling to finish my homework and to refrain from cutting a select many people.

I guess this is the time for moral questions. I wonder what God is setting up for us at this time of the year. Why did everything happen this weekend.

forgive.

Forgiveness, I guess, if it comes after 24 consecutive hours of swearing under my breath while taking the PSATs (aka money), and if it comes under a very dim Orion's belt and a very unapparent Big Dipper, and if its after a relieving playing of Gangnam Style, Your Love is My Drug, and Good Night (we don't even have to try. those are the lyrics.. right), and if its after the first time I actually enjoyed a dance, then I guess it could be biased.

Holy goodness I might not throw up.

Oh just kidding check this homework. 2 Bs and a C+.

Its been a very hot and cold day. The sky was beautiful from beginning to end, which I wish I could say for awkwardness, but that was amended quickly with a couple fists of anger and California Girls.
Tired but happy. Briefly.

Still

A white and orange light blossomed around the black roses of static beneath her eyelids. Her eyes flickered for a second and flashed wide open at the sight of the brilliant glimmers sliding off the panes of her windows. The wind barely kissed the glass and the trees loomed high and bright, stock still. Besides the distant trill of early birds, the world was at rest.

She passed her hand over her stomach, making sure she could still feel her hip bones under a small layer of what she preferred to think of as insulation for the freezing winters. Her heart jumped as the tips of her fingers signaled the ever-bearing presence of this lipid coat, and agitated, they quickly withdrew. She sat up and stared at her legs, arteries and veins kindling a slowly sweltering heat. To her, her legs looked like tree trunks, thick and thin with muscles built and torn in all the wrong places. Her black, drooping eyes stung in frustration when she squinted into the full-body mirror, urgent to find an unblemished feature. She stood still, searching.

In the unwavering reflection, she saw that her eyes were small and dusty, receded from months of looking but not seeing. Her ears, which heard but did not listen, hid behind her split hair, which flew in wisps across her face. She felt the raw cotton t-shirt gnawing roughly against her skin and crumbs grating down her throat, all the while trailing thick, tired saliva in the roof of her tongue. The skin peeled off her scratched cheeks and tickled the scars that never healed. Her legs were purple and pink and brown, bruised and cut from falling one less time than rising. To be technical, her poptilial fossa sported a tumor-like keloid and her second toe suffered permanently from an avulsion fracture. She knew these facts because she was brimming with knowledge, but empty of everything else. Her cuticles were too small, her nails were too dry, and she was altogether imperfect. She stood still, loathing herself.

In her fatigue, she felt a deep, unwavering churning of dissatisfaction. She was a sandbag, and the world was an ocean, and no matter how full of sand she was, she was, after all, made of sand. The ocean would overtake her motionless sack of a body, and she would drown and crumple until the tide fell back for the day. The violent storms would leave her soaking, burdened with everything with which she had filled herself. In desperation, she would hide her heaviness by decorating herself with frail seashells, and she would look in the mirror to extract the smallest broken shards. But her methods failed successfully time after time, because the tides always came back and washed away the feeble fragments, leaving her naked shell exposed, grossly visible in every reflective surface she passed. She stood all the more still now, because this way she could angle her body to find the perfect portrait of herself.

Some days, she would grace her mattress with futile punches and her pillow with trickling tears, but for the most part, she would slump against the dry walls or sprawl herself full length across the thick carpet and become motionless, mind racing uncontrollably, meticulously combing through the dissatisfactory qualities of her body. The insides of her tightened, curled fists quivered with anger and disappointment. She would hold her breath as long as she could, crushed by her own contracting chest, holding her bloating, shameful face in an expression of forced neutrality. She stood still, writhing inside.

One day, she could no longer hold her breath. Her face had become flushed from forgetting to breathe as she obsessed over her body composition.  Her entire body had become a plank, not just rigid with fear, but literally straight and inflexible from immobilizing herself in front of the mirror for so long. She thought about the different ways she could rid herself of the sharp shells that stuck to her sandbag.  She stood still, eyelids flickering slightly.

She walked to the bathroom and bound her weakened hair into a ponytail, biting her lip because this process unveiled her face even more. The white light hit the edges of her exposed face, revealing the softness of her cheeks and the fading of her eyes, but in place of her usual pallid, porcelain expression were pulsing capillaries, crazed with a fervent desire to break free. Even though she had barely moved more than a few yards, her heart thudded against her bare chest, crawling slowly up her throat.

Almost convulsing with the inability to contain herself, she plodded clumsily down the stairs and pulled on the shortest socks she could find. She dreaded to see the bones of her ankles covered by cloth, appearing thicker and straighter than she knew they actually were. Her running shoes engulfed her feet, and her large women’s t-shirt covered everything but her forearms. In a minute she was standing outside, quietly gathering the courage to unravel herself. She stood still, wondering.

She surveyed the outside world, which, if it were an ocean, would be completely peaceful. The sky was cloudless and the breeze maintained a constant gentleness, characterizing the typical, perfect day. The sidewalks were clean, the lawns were mowed, and the bushes were pruned. Birds flitted by her, leaves fell past her, and chipmunks darted behind her. The ecosystem was the definition of homeostatic. In the endless rotation of seasons and the unpredictable antics of creatures, nature was still.

The sound of creeping waves rushed into her ears. She broke into a slow jog, noting the tightening of her previously atrophying calves. Her arms pumped in an almost swaying fashion, awkward, unsure of how to propel her body forward. Her shoulders were slumped but began slowly arching backwards as she ran faster and faster as sand trickled furtively out of her flowing t-shirt. She felt a slight weight alleviated, but she could not check to make sure her carefully arranged display of shells was still in place. She slipped closer to the shoreline. The springs in her legs began to oscillate from the sudden, elastic release in tension. Waves of fresh air beat her face and dove into her lungs, cleaning more sand from the walls of the sandbag inside of her. She had been still for too long, and now she could not stop.

Her quadriceps burned and she gasped for breath, stomach heaving in and out, up and down. Her hips were sore from the endless, bouncing stress, and her eyes would sting from the falling sweat. She furiously leapt across a thousand sidewalk cracks and crushed the tousled grass, not once considering the notion of resting. Her body slowly exhausted itself as she ran, always pumping, always gliding.

When she neared the end of the run, she saw in front of the chuckling sprinkles a giant tidal wave. It reared beyond the rooftops, ready to mercilessly engulf every suspecting and unsuspecting victim, to carry away every worthless and worthy object in its way. Sporting but a few handfuls of scattered seashells in her sandbag, she ran straight toward the wave, and it collapsed on her.

She was still.

Some notes.

1. the propinquity effect
2. hypnic jerks (an the falling sensation)
3. heads
4. C+ in french no big deal
5. no big deals
6. college, math, nice forests, calculus
7! To maintain the best mobility, fat, weight, ans mass all need to be stored as close to our center of gravities as possible, which is basically around the belly button. For men then, weight gain is focused almost exclusively on the belly. Women, however, have uteri (is that plural) and so the next closest place to store fat is in the butt and thighs. Once again, math wins.
8. Parallel universes
9. The bridge experiment was called Thematic Apperception Test. nice.
10. quads

Prayer Meeting

Be still my heart.
Its been a while since I've prayed, we've prayed like that. The majority of us were sporting dried sweat all over, some hair matted with perspiration and none too few unchanged soaked through shirts. Half of us didn't even eat dinner, and the AC was slowly seeping in, yet among the distractions and even the friendships, we prayed, so hard, so genuinely, for so long. Its an honor to be able to pray through the Holy Spirit. Its an honor to be able to come before God like this.

Extrema

Testing for extrema sucks. At least we got an A- on that quiz.
KEPT AN A- IN CALC. One happy moment in a sea of pain.

Just kidding. Maybe a couple more than one happy moment.
In the past week, I've managed to fall asleep during class four days in a row, lose a toenail, eat more ice cream than I thought existed in my immediate threshold, and run 38 miles.

Today, on the edge between September and October, also feels like the edge among three different lives. Physical, social, academic elements of everything are starting to trip me up. I feel naturally but uncomfortably unstable. It's like a triangle... if you change one point, the entire center of mass will change and I'll cry hard. Or I could stop being a sandbag. I could stop building on eroding glass and continental shelves and live on the rock of Jesus. So many things have changed in the past month... so many priorities, so many people, but I think that's all just one crazy revolution in my mind. What's going on.

Equinox

It's such a blessing to be able to share the last day of (the Gregorian calendar) summer, running the rain through, actually, multiple forests, quite literally frolicking in meadows full of flowers-- coincidentally, standing at the intersection of two paths, one that's less traveled than the other. Absurdly, continuing to run faster as it gets colder and farther from home, where the graffiti beneath the train tracks becomes unfamiliar and the sight of buildings equates to civilization, compared to where we stood, wondering, how much yolo is buried inside the magnificent human body.

I beleaf.

Dry.

605 am, 20 minutes late, my raw cotton tshirt brushes roughly against my skin. Breakfast crumbs crunch down my throat, relentlessly grating the arid plains of my esophagus, all the while trailing a thick, tired saliva in the roof of my tongue. The skin peels off my scratched cheeks and tickles the threaded scar that never healed through my chin. My front tooth is plastic and I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair.

When the tide of guilt and humiliation crawl up my bruised and bloody toes, I notice the purple scabs and bruises pulsing in an eerily poisonous rhythm. The reddening keloid at my poptilial fossa (knee pit, for lack of any other accurate name) emulates a slaves infected back, minus ninety percent, but still repulsive and irritatingly pressing with blood that was never needed. My second toe might as well be declared an avulsion fracture. The hatred rushes through my arteries and my fingers involuntarily grab at my imperfections.

The 36 24 36 rule is an impossibility for my people, but my natural lenses make a plank of my torso. I miss the visible planes in my elbows and knees and the weak coldness shooting through my airy lungs. My calves sink and I carry my legs rather than having them confidently hold my tight spine in a pseudo casual slouch. My skin overrides the most beautiful mists. I itch. I punch the walls and grab my pants, white and pink cuticle less finger nails pressing fiercely in sync with my cracked knuckles.

I am restless, afraid, disgusted, until I pound in the rain, from speckles to strokes of the flashing clouds tears. The thunder emits a low moan of caged power, and God sends the might of his creation flooding through the air. I am blinded, weighted, miming the trees in my powerlessness to pity myself. I am humiliated and humbled, overwhelmed by even the symbolic presence of the great I am. In my dissatisfaction, my mind spins a 180 for the thousandth time. Humility is not beating myself, but lifting everything else upwards.

Dulled.

It's only been a month of school and I can feel the heaviness encroaching my summer lolzies. Suffocating fumes of winter and insecurity and food and running and muscle are approaching the corner and I hate that the cycle is rolling again. The monotony of the mechanics will be geared into motion once again. My stomach unhappily testifies to this truth.

I am tired. Sometimes I still hate myself. Most of the time I lack the mood to write in good prose and almost always my most intense thoughts whirl in the car, where I wonder if parallel universes exist in this universe and why people are so similiar. Why do the spaces between your fingers fit perfectly to mine? Just kidding. Hanky panky has not yet made its way into my clumsy questionably existent and much frowned upon romantic life.

Its so wonderful to understand. Sometimes I like people because they're so different from me, because they're fascinating anomalies in my one track mind, yet even when we are mutually interested (it happens sometimes...maybe), our diverging views are lost in distaste and confusion. Even if it was an attractive boy. Even if it was an admission officer from Yale. Sometimes even hours and hours of talking and flirting won't cut it.

But then sometimes someone comes along and grammar is forgotten. Words and thoughts and puns and  punches just reel and roll off my fingers and on some rare and blessed occasion, off my tongue, because cursed school prevents actual human encounters more often than not. Its like the God shaped hole everyone has, but a person shaped one for worldly angst and love and relationships. This is someone who could be your best friend and someone that fits like the satisfying click of a ballpoint gel pen.

It's all about the connections. When we talk I forget I hate myself. I forget to try to find the strengthening dullness and see once again how beautiful is Gods creation.

Uptight.

Admittedly, I have been uptight as well. Due to a severe bombing of a calculus test, an unwittingly erroneous chemistry test, and a slowly choking hate for BS (brain storming, Mr. Wright said. Why the face.), my handwriting has degenerated to a tense scrawl and my incessant doodling has expanded to illustrating the workings of the universe (and I almost never dare to probe those fabrics...).

I'm almost fascinated by the genius inside me when what my body needs even more than many packets of instant coffee is a week of sleep. My depressing pseudo Chinese calligraphy might be able to pass of as flairs of expert minimalist design, and truly, truly, the truth inside every lie just bleeds itself onto my APUSH notes that I use to not fall asleep. I'm writing poems and puns off the top of my head and as I read my friends' college essays, I become the boss of epigrams and wit and wisdom.

Just kidding.

But honestly, I feel like my brain is working on double speed on everything except physics, french, math, chemistry, critical reading, and history, which are basically the only things my parents and school actually command me to know.

And so I thank God that its absolutely beautiful outside. If I couldn't run off this insanity, there would be no being still. In a way, its not okay that I depend almost exclusively on a particular 5 to 8 miles every day to ground my prayer, yet I can't help but think this is God's way to humble me. At my proudest moments, He breaks me (so cruelly with that calc quiz today...) and shames me until I learn the disciplines (which I seem to after years..), but at my worst, the pound of the gravel (actually, it should be the elasticity, not pound, because pound implies heel-striking) has always been available with the lilac sunset or otherwise refreshingly beating sun and woolen clouds.

So goodness, calm down. I can't tell you this over and over like I want to because no one listens to anything except experience, because the important life lessons are ones that have to hit you hard first. But man, I know life might be hard sometimes, but a harried rush to class to get there three minutes before it starts and constant drowning in chemistry homework won't fix anything. As unmanageable junior year seems, trying to avoid the teacher's irkings (which by the way, are directed towards the entire class, not you or anyone in particular) and beating yourself up is probably one of the worse ways to calm down. Chill. We're all in this together. I lost an electron, I'm positive. Peeta kneaded the dough. I tried to catch some fog but I missed. Life is so very good, and this isn't even the real one.

Pioneer Park: Another APUSH Essay

This one came from the heart, so if my teacher rejects it, I will cry hard.
Also probably the best piece I've written concerning running so... take it or leave it. I'm turning it in.

I spent the past 10 months of my life running furiously up and down Hobson Road and Washington Street, unabashedly bloodying the sidewalks, j-walking without looking both ways, and precipitating sweat with every step. In anger and impatience, I have ripped leaves and branches from the very trees that selflessly provide every passerby with shade, and I have definitely killed a few innocent gnats either by accidental swallows or frustrated swats and slaps (which made more contact with my own face than the bugs…). I would never regret any of these exhilarating experiences, but my research for this assignment has made me more conscious of where exactly in Pioneer Park I choose to dirty with my well-practiced saliva spitting skills.

The Park District boasts of a .66 mile trail on its website, but that little stretch of paved road can barely represent 26 acres of overgrown weeds, open fields, cuddly picnic tables, and the centerpiece of Naperville, the DuPage River. A web of narrow, dirt paths sprawls across the small forests of Burr Oak trees. Staying too long in one spot often results in rashes of bug bites, and with some bad luck and aloofness, moving too quickly can result in serious head injuries from low lying fallen tree trunks. The woodchips that I crush and the pebbles over which I trip could lie atop the very remnants of Bailey Hobson’s grist mill. Even though native species are just being reintroduced to the woods as part of a restoration project, the centuries-old river still calmly brushes by the banks for all amateur fishermen to enjoy.

The river, as expected from almost any civilization, is the foundation of the settlement. When Bailey Hobson established the first permanent home of Naperville in Pioneer Park, he was not looking for legendary peacocks or for black berry trees (although both were fringe benefits). In the 1830s, nothing was more important than a consistent source of water and timber. Hobson found both resources available and built a mill and an inn, thereby commencing the written history of Naperville.

Most of the days in which I pass through Pioneer Park, I spend less time than I should admiring the vanilla sunset draped across the sky and the orange mist sprinkled in the sun rays between the openings of the trees. The great majority of my efforts are put into thinking about not thinking about the soreness in my legs, catching my breath, ruminating the ways of the universe, and psychoanalyzing mankind and whomever I happen to like at the time. But when I do take a step out of myself and fall into the flow of the woods, I see the graceful and stupid deer behind the bushes and feel the heat of the sun beat my smelly, sweat-coated back just long enough, until another tree’s light, drifting branches shield me again. I hear the cicadas’ drone and smell the morning dew glistening on every blade of grass. No wonder Hobson chose to settle here.

Dunkin Donuts: An APUSH Essay

An argument for the importance of donuts and coffee.
I pray that my teacher will accept this.

Some people would argue that America barely runs on Dunkin. When it does, it runs very, very slowly; the term “waddles quickly” seems more appropriate. For me though, a solid 550 calories supplied by one beautiful Chocolate Coconut Cake Donut is fuel for an abnormally fast paced and guilt ridden run. I would love to run so quickly again, but because I had little time and energy to debate the benefits and repercussions of enjoying the sweet 14 grams of fat in my favorite Jelly Filled Donut, I purchased an unsweetened iced coffee for $1.08 in the Dunkin territory, all in the name of this assignment.

Dunkin Donuts claims that its donuts have brought smiles since 1950. Perhaps that is true, but with the gleeful grin plastered on the little boy’s face come a ladle of saturated fat, a shower of sugar, and only an occasional drop of protein. Dunkin’s coffee is what has made and is making true history, and it is making it far faster and far more efficiently than did any general, president, or commander.

Coffee is the American drug but also much, much more. The end to the list of countries that thrive on the production and consumption of coffee is far from the start (but if need be, I can start by listing Mexico, Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Ethiopia, the Ivory Coast…). As America’s largest retailer of coffee-by-the-cup, Dunkin Donuts is stimulating the world to stay awake and urinate unnaturally frequently every single second. 30 cups of coffee are catered by the second in any of the 10083 stores in the world. 2.7 million cups of coffee are making, presumably, at least a million customers more productive and likely to sculpt history than they should be.

In its unwavering, and in fact rising, demand to serve the people, Dunkin has preserved small bundles of happiness for every donut and coffee lover to appreciate. The Dutch have been generally been given credit for introducing the lump of fried cake and naming it the “doughnut,” and indeed, Dunkin has kept the tradition of frying its dough and naming the circular products “donuts.” Accordingly, Dunkin has also made available an assortment of donuts with holes in the center, as first done by Captain Gregory when he impaled a perfectly whole doughnut on his steering wheel. Even better, Dunkin has taken the liberty to vigorously crank out dozens of flavors of donuts, each type more complex than the next (for instance, the Chocolate Frosted Donut to the Chocolate Glazed Cake Donut to the Double Cocoa Kreme Puff Donut). Its menu is a textbook of the donut’s development in 60 years.

I am impressed and disgusted. The coffee I finished drinking long ago was made from perfectly roasted cherry-like beans. The donuts I could smell were freshly deep fried and the service was instantaneous. I have a lot of reservations concerning junk food, but the smooth, swept floors and glistening racks of baked goods (apparently Dunkin has expanded to all breakfast items) almost convince me that dying of a heart attack might be worth the occasional treat. 

Everything is beautiful.

A friend: 

I really like Seattle's landscape -- the trees and the hills and the mountains and the *lists on and on*
It's really prettyyyyy ~

and just like that I fell in love with a picture of Seattle. That wasn't good description; quaint but vague, adoring but kind of nothing, yet its enough for me to feel the summer air. Did I mention that I really like air? I love air. Air is the best.

Today I raced the sunset, even though my quads still don't allow me to squat without making an inhumane face. I was going to run 2.5 miles because sunset was reported to be 8:09, and it was, well, 8:09, and I thought I was afraid of the dark. But heck to the no. Heck no. One step under the paper clouds scattered around the setting candlelight fire bent my breath into the words "how good is God." How good is God. A glimpse of the sky against the wind's kisses really, really psyched up my legs. I ran so fast, gnats died on my face on impact. I found out when I looked in the mirror before my shower. So lovely, I know. Half racing the sun, soaking in the colors and swallowing too many gnats, half beating the darkness, rubbing off the closing navy. That's beautiful.

What else is beautiful. The beating sun in the saran wrap humidity. Cuddly winds. Tear drop rain and waterfall thunder. Dancing orange mist in the vanilla sunset. Purple Popsicle skies and the sheriff's whistles of birds. The morning scent of twilight dew and the tickle of the very, very wasteful sprinklers (do you know how much fresh water we waste on making our lawns look pretty? Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-enGOMQgdvg). Woodchips that bend under the weight of a bound and   sun scattered fields hidden behind the really, kind of huggable trees.

And that's just part of summer time.

London 2012

pluck the strings of my heart. I guess.

I'm just watching the rippling muscles and the agonizingly effusive howls and screeches of victory and the burning tears of defeat. World class.

When I watched the Beijing Olympics in 2008, I wanted to be part of the fanatical cries and bitter pain. I wanted someone to kill my body over and over until I became stronger than attractiveness allows. That was my secret dream, to compete for team that I love passionately in thousands of falls and hundreds of scars, losing for years until the great win, wrung out in exhaustion in a heap on the floor, sweat rushing from every pore into my eyes and onto the ground.

I gotta say, for the past two years, I haven't proved that much of myself. I was born to be a student. Bottom heavy torso, zero athletic talent, a shy teammate, and a really good sense for focus. I read books. I didn't think of my body as anything but a vessel to keep me alive so I can study.

Now I hate that life. I hate sitting in one place. I hate reading textbooks and taking notes. I hate that I have to stay in a lump called AP US History and AP Language and Composition, two ridiculous and useless classes that will teach me nothing but to hate it more (its actually not that bad... but I'm in a passionate mood right now). I hate the softness that I could feel in my legs and the easy flabbering of my arms. I hate the mindlessness and passiveness of SATs (I had to mention them somewhere...) and computer programming and the overrated security of desk jobs. I'm sick of doing things so I can money to live comfortably. Who the flip wants to live comfortably? I have very, very high doubts that God wants me to live in a $650,000 house with 4 bathrooms and a kitchen made of stainless steel. Look at the last tab in this blog... money is so superficial. I don't care if it will buy me bubble tea and a pass to the gym every day. I don't care if it will significantly reduce my stress when I'm doing taxes or something else about which America freaks out so selfishly. Dat healthcare. 

All I want to do is run and run on my sore legs and sweat on the dirty green floors of Midwest. My physical patience has been cut short this summer. Even if I happened to like a boy (le gasp...), I wouldn't stay to talk. I can barely stay to talk to my friends on my verge to run for the second time that day. I feel obsessed with the perpetual soreness in my quads and the clench of my knees in every step I lunge. The individual muscles in my forearm are starting to become prominent in hard light and my body is thickening in a way that isn't fat. There's a point where people workout so much that the opposite of supposed effects occur in sleep: sleep quality gets worse. It's worse. I sleep 6 hours a day so I have time to LoL (okay bad excuse) and run and bike and play. They say to exercise for 4% of your day. That's one hour. Screw that. I'm hooked on at least two and approaching four to five. 

Something might be very wrong. I've lost my focus for math, even the challenging problems that I used to love and kind of cherish because of the very limited access I had to them. Because I wasn't good enough, you know. I'm not a fast runner (working on it) and I'm heck to the no not a very good badminton player. I still play stupid shots and drop war until the point is lost. I still smash like a girl (a decent one, but still not manlike yet) and get nervous and angry at the wrong times. Sometimes I fall and throw my racket up too high and drop it like a fool. Sometimes, when I run, I walk because I'm tired and I hate myself. It happens.

You probably don't think I'm that good. From what you've seen, I'm very much a foolish girl with too big dreams and the biggest and most failing try hard ever. If you're one person, you saw a match that I won 21-19 when I should have won 21-0. You saw me barely cut a first place in 5th singles and bleed unnecessarily all over a court on which too many girls were too disgusted to play. If for some reason some guy who may know me stumbles upon this post, you REALLY think I'm an idiot because you have 9 times my testerone and at least three times my muscle mass. One of you owned me in a badminton match (I'm ashamed) and many of you have watched me flail like a worm who's never seen sunlight with a pulled buttocks (right). I had straight legs in the summit of losing the power I spent two months to build and really, my shots were out of wack. I played like a girl. Okay. I sucked. Thank you boys. 

I hate that everyone sees me this way because what I want to be is so far from that image. Its not like my eyes are set on the Olympics or world championships. Heck no. Nationals are the biggest competition at stake right now, and that's still junior nationals, and that only comes after state, which is really already a big dream that everyone will stick their noses up at me for dreaming of. This junior girl who talks too much about running and stomps too much in anger wants to go to state and place top 4. Lolz. 

It might not happen. But it could. You can feel my legs if you want (actally that's weird. If you do, don't say that I blogged about this and told you to, because that makes me look bad). I know and my club knows that my potential is exploding. In your eyes I will be a try hard girl again and again, and this year, I still be that for months and months and months. But I'm not even trying to prove people wrong. If this too-big dream were to happen, I wouldn't scream I told you so. I would probably scream something like GOD IS SO GOOD HE'S SO GOOD HE'S SO GOOD TO ME. OH GOD IS ABLE and then do some fist pumps and bear hug Coach and Stephanie and Ailynna and just fall. I got a try-hard label for a reason... I try hard. I'm not going to give up because my coach will beat me if I do and because he ordered us team shirts that  cost $25. Trust me. I'm not spending very literally 10% of my life just so I can prove some cocky faces wrong.

We're the best team ever. We're going to dominate. Watch for us. 

The funny thing would be if we got pitted against each other because we have really bad seeds.
Then we would smash drill and the winner will still go on to own in the finals. I know it.

Big dreams.

Retreat

I'm really excited.
Apparently the lake is beautiful.
Apparently its the best retreat among the churches.
Apparently the worship music is really good (not apparently, actually. I listened to some... its good.)
Apparently I don't hate myself so I can have patience to understand God.
Apparently I'm not an emotional freak so my heart won't be so hardened in every prayer.
Apparently I have friends now so we're going to grow together and have a good time.
All these expectations. Apparently they're still going to be fulfilled.

Big sidenote:
I love elite team. I have never met people who are so passionate about this sport and so restless about training to win. I have never made friends through a mingling of blood, sweat, and tears (mostly sweat). I have never soaked my clothing through twice and twice again in hours. I have never done really anything for more than 3 hours without wanting to rest, especially not in a gym where the only air conditioning in 96 degree weather comes from a big orange fan. I have never met a coach who was so encouraging and unmovable in his faith in us, despite our you know, feminism, and his ranking as #1 in the US and #47 in the world. I have never wanted to cry during a game or stumbled so unsteadily off the court, gasping for breath in a voice that is too high for my vocal range. I have never felt my legs become so powerful and I have never felt this close to flying. That sounds ridiculous because its just badminton, but that's what we call good footwork. Flying. I definitely have never felt my entire body turn to lead or the genuine hunger that makes me want to eat everything and never be full.

This was my wish two years ago. In some random street in Chicago, I told someone, "I want someone to train me really hard. I want to feel like I'm dying over and over, but I can't stop because my coach will push me until I collapse, but then I'll be REALLY REALLY GOOD and own people. Like those athletes, you know?" Of course I didn't think it would happen. I thought I'd just do amateur math and be a typical know-nothing socially defective girl who ran a lot but not very fast. Little did I know, I didn't even make math team that year and would in 14 long months, realize one of the greatest gifts God has bestowed on my sorry self.

I'm still not really really good. I'm not even really good. Or good, depending on your perspective. But sometimes, dripping puddles of sweat that would gross out any reasonable human being on every corner of the court while finishing 200 sets of footwork does something that makes me love being not that good anyway.

Social Anxiety

Sometimes I swear I have it. Man.
Once upon a time I biked past a group of white boys who turned out to be the Asian guys from my church, but they were balling and all that so I thought I could pass without their notice. But alas no, they noticed, and one idiot called my name, to which I responded by saying hi and immediately taking a 180, biking furiously in the opposite direction. Social anxiety: case in point.
Flustered, they say. Too obvious.

It kind of sucks. The people I've seen get nervous look like fools, giggling like freaks or coming to a standstill in original thoughts and creative commentary. I have a problem pacing my words to come in human pauses and losing my ability to respond with appropriate timing and saliva. The good thing is that I'm usually in a place where I can run away or avoid eye contact. And today I was sweating in 96 degrees so no one was looking at me. Hopefully.

And awkward hands of course. Ever wonder where hands go? Sometimes those extremities are the most regrettable flopping slabs of meat. These occasions are just one of many types of instances that I wish I could have boy hair and walk out the house with one swoop of a finger comb. Remember my post about never finding good pants? True story. That hurts at these times too.

In my case, I just try to ignore all of these things and just be a normal friend, but that's where my diagnosis comes in. If I truly have social anxiety, then I will never be able to help it. I will be stuck at laughing like Phil Wong and flailing for eternity.

Just kidding. I don't have it. I like people... I'm just awkward maybe.

Freedom

Did I already write a post about this? If I did, it probably concerned badminton smashing or trying to get away from some certain eating habits. Maybe about my physics grade. Let's have another go today...

A song to play with fake guitars and off-pitch voices: Freedom is Free.
Except its not. It's actually really expensive with soldiers and life and all those quite valuable things, in addition to a nice 14 trillion something dollar debt which I guess is partly health care's fault. WHICH IS WHY WE SHOULD ALL VOTE OBAMA RIGHT. Vote for him. He's in for the long run, not to make people happy. More on that later. maybe.

My point was supposed to be that the weekend is finally over. For the past year, weekends  have become less and less appealing. Saturdays are full of being in the same house as my family and a temporary release in badminton. Sunday is a lot of driving around with my dad to go to church, drawing, and badminton. Both days are encompassed by set meal times and apportioned bowls of Chinese food that I'm sick of. Even when we have sandwiches or baozi (who's with me here.... I love baozi so much. dat spiced meat) the table is awkward. I'm constantly on alert for nagging about SATs, some shallow complaints about something stupid like SATs, some atrocious manners from the male side, or even my own sickness of everything taking over my body. the usual. you know.

For five mornings and 3 afternoons I will have the house to myself. I can eat whenever and whatever. I can run as long as I want to and go wherever I can. I won't even touch my SATs and watch America's Next Top Model because I actually think it's interesting. I'll do my stats project because I want to, not because someone told me I have to do it to prove my worth. I'll waste time and talk to people and live contrary to the lies China put in my parents' heads. I'm done with that.

I don't want to have to win when I'm no good in the first place.

Today a dear friend (just kidding. he's ok) told me that I'm not that good. It was genuine, but not an accusation. There was no hint that I should be better, but a simple statement. I'm not that good, but I'm enough. It doesn't matter. I'm still a person, a friend, a whatever. a correspondent in a relationship, if you want (not the love kind. gross no.) Yeah. This is the community I belong to. Christ's.

773 Soviet Union Factory

Don't read this if you give less than two cares about historical sites. It's for safe keeping, because I wrote this beautiful essay for MY FAVORITE FUTURE CLASS APUSH and realized it was off topic. 

773 Soviet Union factory, Chengdu, China

Presently known as the Chengdu Eastern Music Park

I went to the Chengdu Eastern Music Park to see a traditional art gallery, not a festival of old men playing harmonicas and Michael Jackson poses frozen in stone. I saw both, along with a solid row of nightclubs, and I had the pleasure of getting a stuffed banana keychain and a shot of excitement when I realized that the visit would also fulfill part of this assignment – and so I began to actually pay attention.

The oversized walkway between two large, industrial-looking buildings held the décor - the wooden duck fountain displays and marble walled boutiques (and clubs) literally do not even scratch the surface of the dormant factory. Behind the quaint shops tower walls covered in graffiti, mainly Marxist propaganda, declaring “UNITY IS STRENGTH.” Suspiciously large pipes and valves crawl up and down the concrete, and a couple steps past them reveal … a refurnished garage.     

The garage is the factory museum, where Soviet history is preserved in a few poster boards and picture frames. The resurrection artists of the area called their project “Reincarnation 2012” and claim (on one of their poster boards) that the construction of the park over the exhausted remains of the factory is like a “phoenix from the ashes.” As any proud Chinese would have written, the people of this republic should be proud to “find the glorious dream and gain strength from the history.” Then again, at least in my experience, direct translations in China have never been entirely accurate.

What actually happened is described in Go China’s and Country Data’s websites. It is true that a dormant factory was transformed into a musical night party scene, but the bigger picture is not in the festive jazz bars. Under China’s First Five Year Plan in the 1950s, a Soviet aid program invested in intensive projects to develop China’s economy. Aid was provided to 156 major industrial projects, mostly directed to furthering production of coal, steel, military equipment, and basic chemicals. Apparently, the 773 Soviet Union factory was one of these projects.

The only things that strike me as worthy of deeming “emotional connections” are the cleanliness of the park and the legitimate art gallery. From my past three visits, I always remembered my motherland as a foggy land with too many people, and hence sanitation and basic hygiene were often lesser priorities than putting food on the table. When I spend the majority of my time in China smelling pee, poo, or stinky tofu, walking into a brand new park is both a pleasant surprise and huge relief. Even the museum-garage is scrubbed clean of rust. Also, for the first time, I viewed entire exhibits of art that had zero contemporary, abstract minimalism to which American museums seem to have a strong attraction. Being exposed to so much art that I always respected and followed made me giddy and appreciative to the disciplines of this country.

But that is as far as my appreciation can go. I might have felt a few sparks of awe that the escalator I lazily mounted might have been a staircase to a captain’s command platform, but I have yet to give many cares for history. I leave that to this class, which I heard could be pretty influential, especially under Mr. Eby’s direction.

On Junior Year.

Some call it death, but I see it more as a couple near death encounters, and a lot more gaining wisdom. If I see it any other way, I will die.
Here go. My hopes.

Athletic Training: OK. Pray that this will actually be useful in my short career in season. (best class)
AP Physics B: If I don't fall asleep, this might actually be a party full of smart kids. (just smart kids)
AP French: Dear blowoff class, I love you. Except this language is so useless I keep forgetting why I took it. (edit, I was wrong, and I am terrible)
AP Chemistry: This teacher. Teach me chem! I'm probably going to ask for a rec letter from her, so I have to keep a good face... meaning eyes open. And hopefully continue acing those tests like she's used to... just kidding... hopefully not. (B+)
AP Calc BC: Oh baby. Prove yourself. (I lost)
Lunch: I think I'm just going to go make (clay) pots during this period. What a waste of a period. (hoho)
AP US History: I'm doing my homework on McDonalds and Jewel Osco. With luck, my teacher will approve of this liberal side... or else I'm screwed. (still am.)
AP Lang: Supposedly the teacher will like me. I'll take all I can get.

As for badminton and math team, I have big dreams, but I can't tell anyone until I reach them.
And Oasis... I can't wait to see what God has in store again.

Spieglan's Wisdom

This is probably the only good justification for me joining Science Olympiad in 6th grade (I didn't medal in all 3 events I had in JV, while the rest of my friends were placing blue ribbons. The varsity that year went to nationals and took 22nd place.)

I was running this morning on my usual trail. Nothing was different, besides the sickening feeling that I was running against a wall. Less than a mile in my plodding, there came a call, "No way! Nerd Herd?!?!" And indeed, it was Nerd Herd. On my shirt, that is. Actually, on the back, it says Nerd Xing, but any true Kennedy SciOly competitor would immediately recognize the old, faded blue and yellow on maroon any day. The caller was Spieglan, international competitor in Physics, World and Classical Languages student of the year, nominee of many other awards, and of course, a passionate and competitive runner.

He is a friendly man (I can call him a man, right? He's an incoming freshman to college.), slowing down to hold a enlightening and largely one-sided conversation with me for a good 4 miles. Nevermind that his usual pace is a 5:30 mile, 12 at a time, and that he was running 6:30 to 8:00 miles with me. I'm just trying to remember what he told me, because I've obviously been doing many things incorrectly.

1. Land and push up from the toes, not the heel. This takes lots of impact off the knees and shoes, which makes this a very good physical and economical investment.
2. Do workouts. 6-5-3s, apparently. I forgot what these were, but I'll find out soon.
3. 90 minutes should be my max. Supposedly, I shouldn't run a marathon until I'm 18 due to growth problems.
4. Legs lie. The best indication of fatigue is through the lungs, not through muscles.
5. Eat before, even a little, as to trick the body into being willing to burn calories for energy.
6. Say good morning to more people. I'm a nub.

And that left me stumbling back into my neighborhood, very satisfied, and very, very tired. "yolo."

Confidence is sexy.

If I noticed before, the word sexy hadn't come to my young mind yet, but now it does. And it's true. It may help to have nice boobs to thrust outwards or hips to push forward. Image matters, but its nothing without the attitude. Nothing more strikes the shock-tone chimes of my heart than solid self-possession. Dat spunk. Tenacity. Daring. Dashing, handsome man. Just kidding. I'm just using thesaurus.com (free advertisement!) now.

Recently, I have met a couple people whose esteems are like sandbags. They're too squishy and movable for good use unless they're washed over by a wave of water (metaphorically people, compliments, accomplishments... money... stuff) that will allow them to be anchored by the sheer force and weight of the water. But the water dries. These people are lucky when God rains down some blessings, but he takes away too. Blessed be his name. (check dat play on lyrics...haha)

Sometimes, I'm still a sandbag. But I'm done believing that I'm stuck being one. I used to be one that thought a strong (fisher)man could move and support me (I'm just extending the metaphor...so you will have to excuse my parentheses), but the only strong man, who happens not to be really a man, is God. Then I was a sandbag that tried to live off of essentially no water at all. Those attempts were always immediate failures (although not as much so on ARML tryouts. dang ARML). Hopefully I won't be any sort of sandbag in junior year. I've been sort of YOLOing my first weeks as a junior.

Not that my intention is to be sexy. Of course not.

Grand-motherland, ho!

I will be boarding a plane to China at 10 am tomorrow.
 My guess is that it will be an uncomfortable and suffocating ride, and a prison to my body when I get there. But I owe it to my grandparents. I owe it to my parents.
I think what I will miss most about America in the next mere 11 days will be the freedom of running. China is not clean. China smells like poo. On the right streets, it smells like chicken, and if you're lucky, maybe even fried rice. There is no road that's not jammed with people who are too busy to care about anyone but themselves. The air quality is more or less cancerous. At least, that's what I heard. Of Beijing. Not that I'm going there.
In addition, I will miss training. The past two weeks have been my happiest, and certainly not because of finals. It's in part because I've had the honor to officially make many new friends. But it also has a great deal to do with the constant soreness in my buttocks and the unrelenting clench in my hamstrings. I cherish the fatigue in my quads and the strain in my shoulders. That was weird. But it feels (and looks hohoho) good.

This year, God has really just been busting out the surprises. I didn't expect to make these friends. I didn't expect that so many relationship problems would come to terms at the end. It was definitely not in my line of view that I would fall in such a deep depression and sickness for so long. But in end, you know. It's like Job, but a million times less drastic. He gives and takes away. And He gave lots this year.

HONORED.

Priorities

I will probably update as the days go by, with commentary:
Finals. The death of sleep. I used to pride myself on my abilities to abstain from napping at any time... but science wins this week. I don't remember the past week. I don't think I want to.

Math final: 98.57
Semester grade: 96.62
I'm going to miss this class. It is by far my favorite, even though I'm barely conscious throughout most of it. The sophomores in the class have been my classmates for 5 years and counting. For the first time, I've had to study for math (the horror!!!), which although demoralizing, is a lesson I'm glad I learned before Calc BC. Oh calculus.

AP Gov final: 83
Semester grade: 92.25
Sure it was fun listening to my extremely intelligent and cynical teacher rant about stupid people. But its social studies. And sometimes, especially in the end, I just don't give a care. Sorry. This is also the first B I've gotten on a final. #YOLOjkjkjk.

Bio final: 89.68
Semester grade: 90.58
I give no cares. It is over. I will not touch biology for the rest of my life.

French final: 98.74
Semester grade: 93.17
I like older kids. The juniors especially. They at least make for entertainment in this otherwise very dull and uninspiring class. The project was very frustrating, but I mean. 98.74. No complaints. GOOD LUCK, PREGGO TEACHER. May the odds ever be in your baby's favor.

Art final: 100
Semester grade: 97.99
There was no final. This class was very tiring, but it really got me in the head. I guess art isn't a good path to go down... I lack a lot of passion. And patience. And talent.

Physics final:  93.9
Semester grade: 91.49
This was a very tiring class. I never once paid full attention, mostly because it was basically physically impossible for me not to fall asleep whilst blankly gazing at anything in the front of the room. But I made it. I almost didn't think I would (that's what having a C for most of the semester does). To God!

PE final: 95.56 (what is this...)
Semester grade: 97.43
I've enjoyed this class of potheads, preggos, and other people who can be described in profane ways. I would have to meet these people sometime. Why not in gym class.

Enjoy these numbers. Not even my parents have seen my exact grades.