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.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
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."
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."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)