i was a terrible 13 year old

I became obsessed with the Internet at a young age. I used to frequent Sparklife, a forum/blog/website thing associated with Sparknotes. Basically, it's a place where students go to procrastinate but on a platform that seems kinda academic.

My brother was talking about how he wasn't even a real person until 10th grade, which reminded me of my own journey into legitimate personhood. I'd say I self-actualized at around the same time, and I was reminiscing about an article I got published on the Sparklife blog at around that age—you can find it if you try hard enough—when I actually found the old profile associated with the blog. And the comments I used to write. And my taste.

It was like my DeviantArt profile had magically sprung from the dead, reanimated to haunt me with my younger, stupider, horrible-r self.

"It can't have been that bad!" you might say. "You're so cool and funny and articulate now! You're dope!!!" Well, yes, made-up person, I am so dope now, but back then I was a loser. And I was utterly unaware of how lame I truly was.*

So here's some proof:

At the time I was in AP Biology. So like...yeah.

The boy described here eventually would become my first boyfriend, and I would replay this exact moment in my mind over and over again for months. Months.

There were 15 comments in total, but for some reason the website wouldn't allow access to them, even when I logged back in. I will try to find my way back, and if I am successful I will update this post with all the other comments. But, for now, we can settle for some screenshots from my Sparklife profile page:

I TRULY DO NOT REMEMBER LIKING TWILIGHT AS MUCH AS I APPARENTLY DID AND I AM EXTREMELY EMBARRASSED. Also wtf Mr. Woodcock

And here's the punchline:

who even was i.....kill me

a little experiment with my roommate

I'm living with a new roommate this year. Here's a story:

Notes from Pete Docter

Pete Docter (director of Toy Story, Monsters Inc., Inside Out, and a generally adorable human) gave a talk in a nearby church yesterday. He was one of the more pleasant and charismatic speakers I've seen, and he was very humble. Here's some very short notes, typed-up because my handwriting is a cipher understood by only a select few (namely, me, and maybe my mom):

• Strive to create things that everyone knows but no one talks about.
• Every single part of the story is known before the animation.
• Idea -> story development -> writing, script -> character design, visual development
• Characters are compelling when they are relatable.
• For inspiration: make lists, take walks.

A walk to the therapist's office

On Monday I took the bus to see a therapist for our first session. She was very nice and eerily perceptive and I am seeing her again next week.

This is not the first time I've seen something like this. Why is it I always find underwear and dildos on the sidewalk? Are they the toys adults haphazardly discard in favor of shinier objects, or am I prone to stumbling upon the aftermaths of public orgies?

A tearful end to my dull-as-a-fart summer

This isn't the first blog I've started. I will say, though, that this has been the longest writing-based blog I've kept—I don't really count tumblr as anything but a compendium of images I like, or memes I find particularly dank.

I (just now, actually) re-found a blog that I started in the summer of 2013, right before my second year of college. I started it for many of the same reasons I started this one: I have a lot of thoughts about a lot of things that a lot of my friends don't particularly want to listen to (and private diaries are entirely out of the question—I'm sorry—for there is a narcissist within I cannot ignore). Alas, I only managed to maintain my previous blog for a pathetic three posts, one of which was a Tiny Tim video that I called "the greatest thing to have ever existed."

What I found interesting, though, were the parallels between that summer two years ago and this past summer, which has, as of today, officially ended with an airy pffft. I learned a bit of Tiny Tim on my ukulele this summer ("Tiptoe Through the Tulips," anyone? Who wants a cover?), I experimented with photography, and I forced myself to observe suburbia from an outsider's perspective, becoming enchanted with the mundane and studying the iconography of my environment. It was astonishing to reread the second post I made on that blog and realize that my exploration of suburbia was almost a watered-down version of what I did way back then, at 18 years old, now based less in research of cultural predecessors and aesthetic emulation and more in paltry record-keeping. You can read it here, if this interests you. It got nine likes on Wordpress, how fun!

It's amazing how little we change from year-to-year, how the moments we experience, the books we read, the people we meet seem insignificant at the time but quietly become the core of our personhood. Our identity seems less based in conscious decision and more in subconscious, sometimes insidious coalescence of little moments and trivial decisions, and meaning can only be ascribed after the fact with wisdom and self-reflection on our side. I could never have guessed, in the moment, that Nabokov, Eggleston, The Waves, Arcade Fire, even Tiny Tim would become my own cultural keystones I'd refer back to again and again and again. When I was growing up—in my early adolescence—I took care of replaying and remembering the moments I felt were the most dramatic and life-changing. I could track, by the year, the boys I liked, the friend groups I made, the classes I took as milestones in my personal development. But ever since I graduated from high school, change has seemed far less intentional—I more or less let life happen to me, and I don't take much time to think of what I may remember in a few years. As a consequence, then, there's a certain youthfulness, a wide-eyed idealism that I've at once grown weary of and come to mourn.

There's a comic that Jenny Yu, tumblr-famous illustrator and comic artist, made a few years back that really spoke on this feeling in much clearer terms than I could ever hope to produce.

NOT MY WORK—Jenny Yu's lovely work

Anxious Summer Rituals

1. My morning schedule depends on the weather. If it's bright, I tend to wake up late, preferring closed blinds to blinding sun. If it's cloudy, I tend to wake up early, preferring contemplation in bed to sleep. This rhythm happens unconsciously. I feel more human and more vulnerable when the sky is grey; I don't like how pleasant weather necessitates a pleasant emotional response. I like staying inside where the fan blows and I can stretch my legs this way and that, alternately laced through the footboard and over and through bedsheets, dangling perilously from my mattress, twisted sideways while I lay supine. I like reading articles on my phone before I physically leave my bed. I like to wake up slowly.

2. Every few days Brian will come over to my house after I finish dinner. It's around 8pm, and I'm bored. There hasn't been much to do this summer—I've been exceptionally lazy, preferring the mildly air-conditioned interior to the almost-certain-heat-death exterior. Sometimes we take a walk around the block if I'm already wearing socks, though I'm usually not because my feet get sweaty. I enjoy these walks, though, even if they're infrequent and I'm initially reluctant.

We watch no fewer than three episodes of X-Files. With my laptop, we move from my bed to my futon to my bed again, but facing the opposite direction, bringing in cooler pillows. I'm in my pajamas, and he's unbuttoned his shirt because it's too hot. In between episodes I play on my phone, hoping for something more exciting to materialize. I think of past summer nights where we waded in the dark through tall grass, inhaling fresh air and mosquitos in equal parts. I think of when we lay together on the driveway, our faces turned sallow under humming streetlights. I don't want to be obtrusive so I silently watch and click "next." He leaves at midnight with a tiny hug and I run upstairs to wash off my makeup.

3. Every afternoon, coming back from summer school, after eight hours of near-constant artistic production, I treat myself to something sweet. Dark chocolate covered mangoes, an ice cream bar, a lemon Fiber One square. Lately, though, I've preferred Chinese buns—lotus paste—because they are white and warm and soft and small—and they are harmless, I'm sure. Cupping the bun in my hands, I make my way upstairs, reeking of stress and fear, anxious for respite. I plop onto my bed, and it's 5:45pm, and I'm fully clothed.

Because I steam the bun in the microwave, I have to unravel it from a hot, wet paper towel. I usually burn myself on my fingertips or on the roof of my mouth. Sometimes, after I eat, or while I eat, I close my eyes and wish for sleep, though it rarely comes. Sometimes I watch YouTube—vlogs, mostly. Sometimes I enjoy the bun in silence. I will lay my laptop flat on my belly and let it warm me, even though it's summer, even though my bedsheets are flannel, even though the fan is blowing and I'm sweating. There is a mirror across the room that reflects, when I sit upright, a pallid image of my face. When I slump down, though, low enough that my neck compresses into a roll and my head and torso become one, my laptop screen obscures the periphery, and my line of sight is flooded by the blue-white glow of my computer.

two women I dreamt of last week

1. When she was 13, she cut off her waist-length hair to donate to children with cancer. Her hair had been growing for years and felt substantial in her lap, separated from her head, coiled thickly like a rope. She was left with a bob and considered herself neither a better nor worse person—her charity was instinctual.

From a three-quarter angle and with a neutral expression, she looked classically elegant, with high cheekbones and wide green eyes and dark, tapered brows. Her nose was uncharacteristically prominent, though, with a small bump at the bridge, providing a masculine aspect to an otherwise lovely, forgettable face. This gift she received from her Persian-Jewish mother. She had a pronounced philtrum and sharply tapered cupid's bow that revealed, when smiling, a brilliantly white set of gaped front teeth—this was inherited from her father. Though wealthy, she was never interested in braces; she cared little in how she looked, so long as her hair was out of her eyes and her legs were unbound by cloth.

She'd traveled to twenty countries by the time she turned 15, and in each country, she bought a dress and a book. Like a less vehement Savonarola, she too hated the philosophical implications of materialism and vanity—it contrasted with her philanthropic nature. But she didn't consider the dresses souvenirs or pretty little things; they were instead indelible vessels for memories, symbols of her narrative; they were exceptional. (She also kept a journal so as to not forget, to make tangible her soul.) She limited herself in other things—only purchasing practical, durable shoes; only wearing inherited jewelry; only buying, no matter how musty or mysterious, books written in a language she could read. She bought dresses that were culturally significant and comfortable enough to run around in. She preferred silk or muslin—singularly colored—and fitted bodices, a-line silhouettes, swirling arabesques, thin straps tied loosely around her waist or neck. She was short, so she liked long dresses—billowing fabric made her feel as grand and revered as a slender Corinthian column. Her favorite dress was from Suzhou, and it was dyed a deep blue—so deep, in fact, that cleaning required hand-washing in saltwater, lest the brilliant indigo bleed, then fade.

By 17 she'd gained weight in her hips and breasts and could no longer wear the summer dresses she bought in Rome or Lisbon—nostalgic, she would dip into her wardrobe, flipping through fabrics like diary pages, warmly recalling breezy days of bralessness. By 21 she thoroughly filled out, her biology settling on a petite, womanly form. She hadn't travelled since she started university, and the dresses of her youth hung limply in the dark, relics of halcyon days.

2. She speaks fluent Russian. Her hair is thin and light, and easily holds a curl. She didn't start wearing makeup until she was 19, and even still it's only eyeliner, mascara, and tinted lip balm. Her cheeks are plump and rosy and smooth, with pale freckles and fading acne marks stippled across the bridge of her nose (and some on her forehead). In a graceful feminine curve, her nose slopes upwards, and her mouth and jaw protrude past her forehead, creating a pout in profile. Her shoulders and wrists and neck are small, but her thighs are thick and hips ample—her bottom half perpetually lags behind her torso. She has only a few articles of clothing in her wardrobe, and most are thrifted or hand-me-downs from her mother and cousins—brown or grey or blue-black cottons. (In the back of her closet is a sack of neon-colored polo shirts and alt rock tees from her early adolescence.) Her jewelry and shoe collections, however, are glamorous and elegant and vast. Pieces dangle or shine or both; all are well-maintained. Her favorite (and least worn) is a pair of llama earrings from Etsy.

Her translucent skin belies structural fragility but reveals her priorities—she's easily irritated and doesn't much care for food. She feels adequate at many things (history, literature, music), dreadful at some (math, chemistry), and superior in none. Her internal universe is confusing and neurotic (she wonders if anyone will ever find her spectacular, she wonders if her independence is a facade for unrelatability and emptiness), and so she prefers stability in her surroundings—lemon yellow, eggshell white, desk plants and 96-point Futura stability.

She crops her hair short and straight and plain to avoid attention from men and women alike. She knows she's three short steps from stunning but prefers a look independent of mainstream beauty. She dreams of a young James Dean but thinks more fondly of Dwight Schrute. She loves her nuclear family and has exactly two best friends whom she talks to four times a year—once on her birthday, twice on each of their birthdays, and Christmas.