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.