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.