Age 20's and Pink Cupcake Dresses'

Hello, hello all.
I was supposed to write page 200 of my memoir for an honors colloquium class. I decided to write a little piece called, "The Pink Cupcake Dress" and I decided I would share (because I haven't posted much lately.)

I stared at the stranger in the mirror. She looked approximately 24-years old, but her clothes and hair suggested a different age—an age of Barbie outfits, tea parties, and Cabbage Patch dolls. The woman in the mirror mercilessly stared in her dreadfully pink cupcake dress wrapped with bows and dreadfully juvenile Goldilocks curls reeking of hairspray.
It was hard to believe that such a hideous thing could exist without sizzling away the retinas of my eyes. It was even harder to believe that I had agreed to wear it for the wedding. She was getting married. My little (little!) sister was getting married.
It was what sappy movies would call a “whirlwind romance,” and it was what I secretly called a “whirlwind infatuation.” It was exactly the type of love that could only happen to someone like my sister. They first met in the women’s restroom. He accidentally walked in, saw her face as she fixed her makeup, and it was love for him at first sight. He scribbled his number down on a piece of toilet paper as she poked fun at his impossible forwardness and the scruffy, uneven mustache that he called “manly.” When she didn’t call, he loitered around the women’s bathroom for weeks afterwards until they, “by chance,” met again. When she finally decided to give him a chance, she fell quickly and impossibly in love on their first date over caramel macchiatos, biscottis, and a two-hour conversation about nothing…and everything. It was what my sister knew as love, love, love. And it was a honeymoon before the wedding even started.
My mom could never control my sister. She was the naïve, wild child who ran free; I was the backbone of the family that everyone relied on. And when my sister announced she was marrying him at 20-years old, my mom only said, “Wait,” to which my sister replied, “It’s fate.” And we all knew it was too late to stop someone who was already gone, gone, gone.
It was a small wedding. They married under a wedding arch decorated with flowers, and bees buzzed around their heads as they said their “I do’s.” We all toasted to their happiness with sparkling apple cider because he couldn’t stomach alcohol and she was underage. I reminisced of the younger us who laughed at boys rather than loved them and toasted bread for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches rather than to happiness. As she fluttered and danced and drunkenly smiled with happiness, I felt more and more young as I stood alone only with my false smiles, a wine cup filled with an unalcoholic beverage in my hand, and a pink cupcake dress with lace that etched lines against my thighs.

Heartbeat's and Freakdance's

Thump. Thump. For a moment I place a shaking hand against my chest and try to even out my erratic heartbeats. It's a feeling I'm not used to--a feeling both uncomfortable and comfortable. A part of me is scared. My heart feels like it's rebelling against the rest of my body and trying to fly away to somewhere else. But another part of me is reveling in this feeling. I feel strangely alive; a heart sleeping now awakens and (how can I describe it?) freakdances with my ribcage. My breath shudders and I glance back down at the ground as the world sways beneath me unsteadily. My legs wobble. My lips feel dry and I run my tongue against them. I feel perspiration running across the nape of my neck; I feel my head spin madly--whizzing with thoughts. I bite my lip and temporarily close my eyes.

Someone once told me that when you're in love, your heart beats like it's on heroin.

I stop running and run a heavy hand against my forehead. I fall to the grass and look up at the sky. I can't believe I'm running at seven in the morning. I really need to get more exercise. Why am I so unhealthy? Look at my jiggling thighs.

A cloud above me floats by. It looks to me like it's in the shape of a heart.

How to's and Stupid Question's

I was looking up a "How to..." question on google a few days ago. Usually when you type something into the google search bar, other random searches pop up below. I think it has to do with how often the phrase/word is searched on google. For instance, if I type in "Angelina," google instantly comes up with "Angelina Jolie." If I type in "Brad," I'm looking at the words "Brad Pitt." If I type in my sister's korean name, "Hyogene," nothing comes up. (I always knew my sister wasn't popular despite what she thinks--thank you google.)

Anyways, I typed in "How to" and the most common phrases that popped up were:
1. How to tie a tie -- Perfectly understandable.
2. How to kiss -- ...So I guess that's where good kissers originate from.
3. How to get pregnant -- "Wtf?" No wonder teen pregnancies have been on the rise.
4. How to lose weight -- Every female's dilemma (except for the lucky few who have high metabolism which will probably eventually slow down when they are old -- *crosses fingers)

It's funny to know what the online population is thinking about when they type something into a google search bar. It makes you feel like you're not alone the next time you type in some stupid question.

Couple's and Love Combo's

I went to three amusement parks during my one-month stay in Korea. The first time I went to Caribbean Bay with an international male college student, two middle-school boys, and my little sister. It was awkward because I had never met the student before, and we were all stuck in a two-hour line for one water ride. It was even more awkward because the people behind and ahead of us were couples who were hugging each other and taking pictures of themselves in their swimsuits. We started to talk about college and majors, and when the conversation dwindled away, we started to all play games where we got to hit each other on the wrists. By the time we had finished the ride and were heading off to the wave pool, we were all laughing and attempting to drown each other in the water like lifelong friends. Who would have known that we had all met each other for the first time that day?

I thought it was seriously strange that 85% of the park was swarming with couples who loved PDA. The girls were wearing swimsuits with padding and lace, and some girls trotted around in high heels around the water park. The other two amusement parks that I went to weeks afterwards were the same. Girls went around wearing matching t-shirts with the guy wrapped around their arms. One couple went as far as both wearing cow ears, couple shirts, matching pants, and matching shoes. The whole day felt like dejavu because a lot of the girls looked like each other due to the plastic surgery fad in Korea. I was in line at Lotte World and I could have sworn that these two girls were triplets with this famous Korean actress.

I went to the movie theater with my sister and my male cousin a few days ago. I wanted to order a popcorn and two drinks. Unfortunately, the combo was called "Love Combo." I debated saying "Number Two" to the employee, but in Korea that just means that I have to do a Number Two in the restroom. So I was forced to say "Love Combo" with a flushed face while my sister inched away so it didn't look like we were lesbian.

I think the main reason I miss the U.S. is because America doesn't highlight my singlehood as a negative thing the way Korea obviously does. Everywhere I go I see couples, and it isn't surprising. The girls here trot around in high heels with plastic faces--purely for attracting the male race. One of my friends in Korea even told me that I had one of the most unique faces she's seen--probably because everyone here just looks the same. The stores are filled with couple items; I've seen cell phone accessories, rings, shirts, keychains, meals...

Corndog's and Toilet Paper Roll's

I went to Korea in search of the perfect corndog. I realized the search wouldn’t be an easy one from the moment I landed; the Korea of my memories wasn’t the Korea that existed outside of the walls of the plane. The little corndog stand in my grandmother’s neighborhood was long gone since my last visit ten years ago—replaced instead by larger restaurants boasting neon signs and five story malls filled with people whose pant sizes halved mine (obviously, they were not the type that regularly consumed corndogs).

The days passed and I soon adjusted to small apartments the size of my basement, awkward reunions with family members who seemed like strangers, and demon mosquitoes that made my skin swell into new fingers, toes, and boobs. But it was hard to forget that 50 cent corndog of my childhood because I remembered it as the best thing I had ever tasted—and it came on a stick like a food popsicle.

It was on a rainy day that I saw that orange tent pitched outside a huge mall. The 50 cent corndog now sold for around a dollar more, but the price increase didn’t deter me from fishing out a bill and a few coins from my wallet. I bought a corndog and swallowed eagerly, ignoring the grease covered exterior that was sure to give me heartburn for days afterwards. I couldn’t even eat half of it. The outside batter was dry and stale; the hotdog inside was cold and unseasoned. When memory collided with reality, the outcome was devastating. The corndog was disgusting.

I went to Seoraksan Mountains a couple of days ago with my family in Korea. Before leaving home, I looked online at the pictures of the resort—the place looked like paradise. I went to the resort with high hopes for the vacation that would last three days. I should have never looked at those pictures. We opened the door to what must have been the crappiest hotel room ever. It was at times like these that I would close my eyes, rub my flip flops together, and mentally scream “I want to go home.” There was eight people sleeping in a room with an air conditioner that decided to turn off at weird intervals, more demon mosquitoes swarming in through a crack in the sliding glass doors, a bathroom with no soap and a single roll of toilet paper, and musty blankets provided so that all of us could sleep on the floor like dogs. To top it all off, the room smelled like dirty underwear. What do you expect when there’s only one roll of toilet paper, no soap to wipe dirty behinds, and bad digestion from consuming pounds of seafood?

On the second day, we all scrambled out of the room and headed for the mountains. When I initially began climbing, I saw strange people going around hugging trees. I wasn’t really sure why (as I had never actually thought tree huggers existed and I myself tend to ignore trees because of ants and ticks), but these trees seemed to be blessed by Buddha or something. After climbing for an hour and forty minutes (at this point, we had bypassed the religious people who were doing more important things like moving on to hugging the rocks and rolling around in the blessed dirt), we reached our first destination (the landmark was a boulder that would budge a bit when people shoved it; interestingly, even unreligious people were amazed by it). At this point, people usually headed down the mountain. A few brave souls decided to make the hour and forty minute trip further up to the peak of the mountain. An old man heading down smiled and told me that the trip there and back would take forty minutes. I trust people too easily. I headed up the 900 or so extra steps and rocks that headed up towards the sky at 80 degree angles. When I looked down, my head spun and my legs shook and wobbled from both exhaustion and fear. By the end, all the climbers were crawling. My body was covered in a sheen of sweat after lugging my hefty body up approximately 900 steps; it was too late to turn back, but I felt too tired to keep going. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that I would reach the top and look down the mountain and laugh at the little people who were climbing up or too lazy to make the trek up. When I finally reached the top an hour later, I crawled towards the edge and looked down. All I saw was fog.

On the four-hour drive back to my grandmother’s apartment, my uncle got the grand idea to visit his dead grandfather’s grave. I’m all for respecting the dead, but unfortunately, I had to pee really badly. There were bugs and I got bitten by a demon mosquito in five places the moment my foot went out of the car. My mom told me to pee on the graves of her ancestors. I declined and held it in for 15 minutes, clenching my buttocks in desperation when my uncle forced me to bow before his grandfather’s grave. I was supposed to be thinking pure thoughts, but the whole time I was thinking of my bladder exploding into a million pieces. When we finally headed down back towards the village and away from the creepy graves, I asked a woman standing outside her house if I could use the bathroom. My need to pee must have showed because she let me use her outhouse. I had to pee in a hole. It stunk and little bugs were flying all over the place, and I was scared one of them would end up somewhere where a bug should never be. I should have peed on the graves.

Visiting the grave of a relative I had never before met made me realize that it was about time I should visit my own dad’s grave. While my corndog of this summer was disgusting, and most likely, had always been, that corndog was delicious to the me of ten years ago. I carried my 50 cents in my sticky little palms, raced out into the sunshine, and enjoyed that corndog while sitting, eating, and laughing with my little sister. As I slept in that hotel room with unfamiliar relatives, our heartbeats starting to pulse at a similar melody, we unintentionally became closer in the morning. When I went up that mountain, the people who sat around me on the peak that day were the only people who existed for a moment. For a moment, we were a people united by sweat and determination. For a moment, we were a people who lived among clouds.

Speed Limit's and Dead Bodies'

I was on 100 today; like any other Saturday, the roads were buzzing with cars racing at least 20 mph above the listed speed limit and suddenly crawling 20 mph below whenever they saw red and blue flashing lights. I hate when that happens. The person in front of you sees a police car, they slam the brakes, the tires start skidding across hot highway pavements, and all of a sudden, the inside of your car smells like burning rubber and old fart. Talk about negative externalities.

The roads were littered with dead bodies. The dead bodies of poor, little animals that had found its way out from the haven of the forest and onto the open road for a suntan. When summer begins and the critters start popping out from nowhere, I would stare at the dead chipmunk, deer, and occasional beaver in disgust and almost hit another car while entranced by the tiny corpse with its intestines spewing out of its gut. After the first week of summer though, the dead bodies become normal accessories to the road - nice additions to the highway's streetlamps, trash, and occasional bum.

However, today I saw something I hadn't seen before. I saw a little squirrel that had its tail run over by an uncaring driver in the middle lane of route 100. Unfortunately, its god must have been cruel because it was still alive. It struggled to crawl out of the middle of the road and back to its natural habitat. The stupid animal didn't stand a chance. Moments later, it was attacked by another car, and its short life was ended as it exploded into a hundred little pieces across three lanes of the highway. For some reason, I wanted to cry for the animal that had dared to venture out among mankind. I thought about the baseness of kicking a man when he's down and frowned. But the thought was just a brief flutter across my mind.

Menstrual Pad's and Pineapple's

It all started with a shower. It's always in the shower that I think of the latest blog topic. I must have mulled over at least 30 different topics throughout the past few days, but I've been too lazy to actually write anything. I call it summer laziness (it exists - just like summer love, summer flings, and uh, summer vacation). Just yesterday night, I woke up while dreaming and sent myself a text message - as only a loser like myself would do: "Sometimes I think the spoken word is more intimate and beautiful than anything a silent body can express. But this is only sometimes. And usually the body involved is a corpse." I don't know what I dreamed about that night, but it must have either involved the words "I love you" or dead bodies.

I was very productive today. I woke up, watched TV for several hours, and ate to my heart's content. I've realized that today I followed a man's philosophy: eat, sleep, and play. But I did have a very interesting conversation with some friends after those three previously mentioned tiring activities. We realized yet again that we were one of the most dysfunctional, dynamic duos ever known to mankind. I told my best friend that I'll compose a list of the strange things that have occurred with her someday. Some of these things include (but are definitely not limited to):
1. We saw a guy walk into the girl's bathroom. And run out.
2. She has slipped on throw up in a Macy's dressing room.
3. I have driven into a wall and hit a parked car while she was in the passenger seat.
4. She has wiped gum of her shoe with a menstrual pad in my handbag.
5. We have gotten stuck in an elevator together.
6. She has spewed liquid on my face from her mouth while laughing at what I said. Twice (one of those times involved today).
7. GPS has failed on us while we were three hours away from home.
8. I have painted her nails with nail polish from a Dunkin Donuts floor (yes, that was today).

I went to Safeway with my sister later that evening (after dropping by Kohl's so my sister could buy "I need them, or I'll die" skinny jeans and after I went to B&N to buy three more of Sedaris' "I need them, or I'll die" books). My sister tried to sample some pineapple they had on a table (it was Safeway's grand reopening) when this black man stopped her by swooshing her greedy hands away with his arms. The guy was wearing a Chef's hat, but my sister had mistaken the guy from the back as an Indian man with a turban on his head. I wasn't really paying attention, until the man (who was actually an employee) asked me in a heavy accent, "Are you a MAHHHHHN?" I stared at him stupidly for about ten seconds, wondering to myself if I looked like a man to him. He then said again, "Are you a MAHHHHN?" in that retarded accent. He sounded Jamaican from the way he said man. I stood there insulted and said, "Am I a man?" My sister than whispered next to me, "He asked, are you a minor?"

We chuckled about that after receiving our complementary pineapple slices. But I was still secretly nurturing the wound I had received from thinking that someone had thought I was a man.

On a side note, don't you think it's weird that when people laugh so hard they cry, but when people cry so hard they laugh? I was thinking about that while in the shower today.

Honest Abe's and Michael Jackson's

Today I decided to go to a cheap Chinese buffet with my sister and grab a bite to eat. It was one of those rare rainy days—you know, those days when you want to eat a lot of everything, but you don’t have a whole lot of cash in your pockets.

I was in the parking lot looking for a parking space when my neck suddenly cricked towards the right in a funny position. Now, at this point, I’m like “What the fuck just happened?” After straightening out my neck to twist it towards the left, I realize that a crappy 2005 Pontiac had hit my crappier 2007 Honda Civic on the side. Not only that, but the car began to slowly inch away from the scene of the crime. I sat in the car for a moment or two and then rushed out, planning to yell, “Who the hell do you think you are?! Don’t even think about getting away, asshole!” I’m not usually one to cuss—but I was super pissed off that the guy was planning to make a run for it. I knocked on his car window as I got pummeled by the rain, but I stopped beating the window with my fists when I saw the guilty individual inside the car. It was this pathetic, lonely looking old geezer with a beard, glasses, and complete in 17th century attire. He looked kind of like an aged version of Abe Lincoln, and my heart melted instantly at the sorry sight. After meeting the famous, dead celebrity, I quelled my anger and waited for a sincere “I’m sorry” or a simple “Are you okay?” from Honest ‘Ole Abe. “Hi, I think you hit my car?” The man replied and jeered with pointed eyes: “I hit your car? I didn’t feel a thing.”

The admiration I had once felt for our “honest,” former president dissipated. At that time it seemed fitting that Abe was assassinated because he must have been an asinine ass just like his long lost clone. As I stood there with my hand on his car window, he opened the door in my face, scoffed at the Asian witnesses, and walked out of the car. He walked towards my car, looked at the damage, and said, “Hm…it looks like you can just buff it off.” I looked at my severely scratched car and gawked at the guy’s bearded face. Almost immediately I noticed his ugly pitted face, his scrawny limbs, and that evil glare in his dead eyes. With his limp, oily gray hair and beard, he looked like a strange mixture of an Amish man, a creepy pedophile, and an undiscovered species of vermin rolled into one. As I imagined horrible events involving him and Michael Jackson, I gaped and then found the effort to mutter, “Look at your car. It’s obvious you hit mine.” He peered at the damage on his car and said nonchalantly, “Oh, that was there all along.”

What the fuck. I like old people, but this man wasn’t a senior—he was more senile than anything else. In the car, my sister had about the same look of disbelief as I had on mine. When I said I would file a police report, he said that I didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked for his policy number and driver’s license and wrote down the information. As I proceeded to call my mom, he grunted repeatedly, “Can you hurry up?” and laughed snidely at my apparent nervousness while I hastily wrote down the information on the back of a mapquest map. Moments later, he snatched back his information and sped away, almost hitting another innocent car in the process. Meanwhile, rain poured down on my head, and I mulled over when I could eat my Chinese food and the condition of man’s humanity.

Sex-uhhhh's and Love's

I was blessed to be one of the lucky few to have the "talk" with a parent. And better yet, I am part of the 0.0001% minority to have had the "talk" in public. Usually, these talks begin with an uncalled-for silence initiated by a comment such as "When did my little girl become a woman?" Then, this silence is followed by an even more humiliating comment such as "When a man loves a woman..." -- and it's at this point that the teenager walks slowly away saying, "I know, I know!" and/or covering her ears and singing childishly until the conversation is over. It's all fine and good if all this "sex" talk is occuring within the home. Even then, the word "sex" should be replaced with the more conventional "it," "sleep with," "make love," and "that thing" between parents and children. And even inside the walls of a home, these words should be whispered like a forbidden taboo in order to prevent siblings from hearing (as if they don't know already). It's like an unwritten rule not to mention sex. I mean, kids know how they were born. They know their birth isn't attributed to storks, magic, and cabbage patch kids. But of course, I guess my mother never got that unwritten manual when she became a parent. My mother has a talent for making an already awkward topic skyrocket into a new level of superawkward.

She started the talk with "I can see your boobs." At this point, I stared down at my barely existent cleavage and shrugged. My mother then stated loudly (as only the Cha family can do in public): "All guys want one thing. They want to have sex--uhhhhh." Due to my mom's korean accent, she had split the one-syllable whispered word into two loudly stated words. She had captured the essence of the word sex by following it with a heavy uhhhhh.

I don't really want to go into the details of what she said. Because that would possibly not make you want to have sex. Ever. For example, imagine your mother saying the word "anal sex" and try not to barf. During that time, my body movements and expressions consisted of erratic twitching, excessively sweaty palms, and other unnatural combinations of squirming and paling.

Lately, I've been thinking about love, and unavoidably, the topic of sex. A friend once told me that when a person is in love, their heart beats like it's on heroin. At that time, I thought that it was strange that a person's body could respond so unnaturally to love--so much so that their emotions change them physically. ---- I thought about it for days afterwards. And I came to an even stranger conclusion. Maybe sex is love. Maybe people can't experience love until they have sex. Now, I know this sounds like I'm either advocating sex, becoming a sex-crazed maniac, or that I'm just plain barbaric. But, perhaps love was created in order for humans to have sex and make babies. Perhaps that's why we fall in love -- in a tangled mess of hormones and physical and emotional responses. And if that's the case, love undoubtedly exists. I thought about the times that a simple brush of the hand or a close hug would jump a normally pumping heart or stir a sensational warmth throughout the body. Then I thought about sex; people are connected almost everywhere to that other person -- both inside and out. I thought about the intense feelings that would flow throughout the body. Their heart would...well, beat as if it's on heroin. Maybe that's why sex is called making love. Because maybe, in the end, sex is just love on high.

*I haven't posted lately because I've been going to college orientations and vacationing with my friends. I got a sunburn at Ocean City. It hurts when I put clothes on. I'm thinking of joining a nudist colony.

Lesbian Grandma's and Bra Strap Molesters'

I've always considered my life to be somewhat on the "boring" side. And because of my innate fascination for drama and exaggeration (my friend always tells me to divide whatever I say by three to get the truth), I try to find random hobbies in order to spice up a conversation. I learned how to knit a sock for a cell phone. I can solve 1000 piece puzzle in two days. I'm trying to play the acoustic guitar so that I can live up my secret dream of being a country singer. Sadly, these things collectively make me sound like a lesbian grandma.

Anyways...

I went to Honda with my mom today for an oil change and tire rotation. Now, for most people, this would be a simple and mundane task. Try going with my mom. People automatically hated us right when we walked into the waiting room; I made loud slapping sounds with my flip flops, and my mom jabbered loudly in Korean while gawking at the people inside the room. I've noticed that when a person speaks a foreign language in a room full of the nonbillingual, a mutual bond of hate towards the "immigrant" is created among the "natives." I think people automatically assume we're insulting others in "our language," but who knows? To them, I'm just a stupid immigrant with annoying flip flops. When my cell phone rang, I answered it even though a huge sign stuck on the wall declared: "Please No Cell Phones In This Area." Of course, I've never been much of a stickler for the rules in public (plus, I probably looked like I didn't know how to read English), but I decided to shut up before someone hurled a newspaper across the room (the most likely candidate was the man with the puke green Crocs who glared at me with squinty eyes while crushing his coffee cup). Not that I have anything against puke green Crocs. It's just that it's beyond me that people will want to wear puke-colored footwear thats full of holes like a type of funky-smelling cheese. Afterwards, I decided to open a book like a normal person. I was reading, "Me Talk Pretty One Day." Ironically, the gramatically incorrect book title made it seem like I was reading a book for--err, people who answer the phone with a "Yello? Me no speak Enguhleesh." Just when I was getting into the book, my mom started slathering lotion all over her hands. When she offered me some, I realized that the product was hair gloss. She had bought hair gloss thinking it was lotion.

Moments later, my mom started hitting her thighs in public. Why? She claimed that molesting her thighs would make her lose weight.

When I finally left Honda (feeling embarrassed and oddly humoured), we picked up her friend. I was wearing a tanktop that revealed my bra straps. Both of them started talking about how "in the old days" and "in Korea" girls would never walk around with their bra straps showing. All the while, they were snapping my bra straps against my back like it would make a point or something. Honest to God, I think I have battle scars from the bra strap molesters.

Stuffed Foxes' and Plain Jane's

Yesterday, the world felt smaller. Even before yesterday, Ellicott City had always seemed like a small place. People are always running into each other at weird places, and surprisingly enough, I hate meeting people at unplanned places. People are either always trying to avoid eye contact, pounce others from behind, or declare that the chance meeting was serendipitous. I've even ran into a guy I knew in the girl's restroom at Barnes and Noble. My friend and I stared at the male presence from the bathroom sinks, and when the guy finally realized where he was, he ran out with his arms flailing embarrassingly in the air. I mean, I'm sure that the guy walking into the girl's bathroom at the exact moment I was washing my hands after doing my business means that he's my future soulmate. I mean, how could he not be?

Anyways, yesterday (after an uncalled mishap with Verizon Fios) I was forced to endure twenty four hours of no phone calls, television, and the World Wide Web--I felt like the world revolved around my room in my house. For a while, I was a hermit. That is, until I couldn't stand it any longer. I headed for my friend's house. His neighborhood was sleepy--sleepy sunshine melted off slanted rooftops--but, his house was awake. The dogs barked when I walked up; I smiled and waved, but they growled in response. After I headed in, we sat like awkwardly comfortable friends as he practiced plucking guitar strings while staring at a shifty-eyed man playing guitar through a computer screen (my friend called it an "interactive" experience) and I roamed around the house like a tourist (some of the stuff I found include a stuffed fox, a clock in the shape of a pink guitar, and random coal on top of the television). It felt like I knew my friend's family personally just by browsing through the contents of his home. The remainder of the afternoon proceeded not as planned (nothing usually does), but I think it worked out perfectly anyways.

That evening, my mom's friend's younger daughter ran into my room screaming, "Mollypoo!" About 4-5 years back, I had joked around and said my name was Molly to two young girls when they asked me what my name was. They believed me, and the name stuck. Now, even though they know my real name, they still like to call me Molly. I still get thank-you and Christmas cards adorned with the foreign name. It's strange, but I've always been unsure of being a "Yegene." There's the presumed assumption about a person's personality just by the name: a "Plain Jane," "Virgin Mary," and "Bitchy Blair." I have had the pleasure of defining my own essence because--what the hell is a "Yegene?" And further yet, what the hell is a "Molly?" All that comes to mind is fat and the SAT word "mollify."

2+2 equals 5's and the Goons Get-together's

Ever since I graduated, my mom has been more lenient--that is, my curfew has been extended from 8:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. As a plus, she refrains from calling me a minimum of twenty times; today, she only called me five times. After surprisingly meeting "the gang" at Soft Stuff while with my family, I went to the house of one of the members of "the gang." In truth, he's only an acquaintance even though we've met several times now--we don't really talk until we're forced into the same room with a couple of mutual friends. Even then, our one-on-one conversations are probably limited to "pass the hot sauce" and "where's your bathroom?" It's all very funny because before I left, my mom asked me if she could go along (to which I responded with awkward chicken movements and incomprehensible clucking noises). She wondered what the kids nowadays do for fun.

After I came home twenty minutes after my curfew, she promptly proceeded to come into my room, plop on my bed, and question me about my whereabouts. Who is he? Is he Korean? He's in college? Where? What's his major? What do his parents do? Is his house big? As the conversation drew closer and closer to nonrelevant subjects, I could hear the gears in her head snapping into place to produce a flawed equation in which 2+2 obviously equals 5. What will you do if he asks you out? After a brief moment of there she goes again I loudly replied, "If he was interested, it would have happened a long time ago."

It's even funnier that all we did at his house was play rock band: I took over the drums (on easy) and the guitar (on medium), Claire wailed out on the mike, while the guys rocked out on the remaining guitars. Funnier yet, our asian band was called "The Goons." The characters we created were awkward masterpieces: our main singer had red eyes, the main drummer was the size of a hippo, and one guitarist had pink hair while the bass guitarist with the neon hair was obviously anorexic.

After the conversation with my mom, I thought about how "the gang" became "the gang." Before we were all really just loser-ish. None of us were in stable relationships; the relationships we had with each other consisted of sweaty hand-holding and innocent conversations at bookstores. We were bound together by our mutual failures and a fervent dedication to getting into a good college. Today I wonder why we are still together. We've all changed in one way or another. And I'm not just talking about my hair and/or the changing fashions from comfy T-shirts to stiff shirt dresses. The things that had once bound us together are gone. Some are in so-called "perfect" relationships and others have no one, while a few outliers are into hook-ups and booty calls. Some of us are in college while the rest are going into college. We are now bound by nothing except for the fact that we had once known each other during more loser-ish days.

BFF Jill's and Number One's

Truthfully, it’s really weird to be blogging. I’ve never considered myself the “blogging type.” In my mind, the bloggers inhabit the secretive online world of “blogtopia,” bonded together by the World Wide Web, really thick glasses, a passion for ranting, and the tendency to type rapidly in a foreign language composed of “lol’s,” “lmao’s,” and “my BFF Jill’s.” I, on the other hand, take comfort in my periods, hahaha’s, and grammatically correct sentences. I don’t really think I’m the ranting type. It’s weird blogging, but it’s even weirder to rant to a computer screen; after all, a computer screen is incapable of nodding in understanding to my frantic typing and weird hand gestures. And if I did rant, I would probably rant about jelly bellies, a.k.a. my weight, and douchebags, a.k.a. the male race…which would make me sound oh-so pathetic in oh-so many ways. In fact, the only reason I decided to blog was because of my best friend Claire. She has a way of convincing me to do things I would probably not do if I was 1. sane and 2. one of those cool, networking types. But the reality is that I am probably partially insane and partially loser—since I don’t fit well into those aforementioned two categories.

On a lighter note, graduation—the so-called big day—came and passed a few days ago. It rained, which defines my life perfectly. I wasn’t surprised. I was actually grateful it wasn’t like—raining loads of bird shit. That would have sucked. I will always remember my high school graduation. It was a day that is absolutely unforgettable. Besides the running makeup (from both tears and the rain) and awkward hugs (due to everyone wearing what Claire calls jester’s costumes), it was the first time in my life where I seriously had to use the bathroom and I was prevented from doing so. I crossed my legs the whole time, my body shuddering from having to do a number one. When I finally walked onstage, I think my bladder had inflated into the size of a boulder-sized balloon. The announcer pronounced my name: “Yay! Gin!” which was pretty good considering I’ve been called “Yeggie Veggie,” “Yijin Pidgeon,” and “Yaisin Raisin” during my elementary to high school years. Despite the celebratory cheer to gin, I heard my family and friends scream in the audience when I walked out awkwardly smiling with my two left feet. I didn’t trip (but now I wished I had done the cha-cha at the end of the “runway”). It was a day when I finally felt absolutely free.