31. poor eating/sleeping habits = weird-ass dreams.

i rarely remember dreams.

the few i do remember are all strange, vivid, or hilarious.

or all three.

i know that, apparently, i talk in my sleep.

i occasionally manage to laugh myself awake.

sleep with my legs sticking straight up or crossed.

etc.

here are some examples:

1. in high school, while reading The Importance of being Earnest for English, i dreamt that i sat on a pouf at a small coffee table.

the room was dark, except for the spotlight pointed at the pouf across from me, and on a plate of cucumber sandwiches.

i reached out and ate one.

two.

several.

and so on and so forth.

occasionally, a friend of mine - or at least a familiar face - came along and sat across from me, sharing the sandwiches.

nobody spoke.

the guests filed through, one by one.

and that was it.

i've never had a cucumber sandwich in my life.

i'm not even sure if my imagining of said sandwich was at all accurate.

2. i was walking around with some friends.

eventually, a friend pointed out my funny walk.

everyone else chimed in and teased me.

i kept trying to laugh along, secretly hurt.

i said, "Haha I don't walk like that..."

aloud.

in real life.

and woke up when i overheard myself say "that."

3. i ran into someone i know by acquaintance - someone very pretty, relatively popular, though generally absent.

certain events took place that i can't remember, but at one point we found ourselves in a big king-plus-sized bed.

fully clothed, don't worry.

and she turned over so i could big-spoon her.

i seized the opportunity.

though, for some reason, i didn't really know what i was doing.

she gave me instructions and i was eager to follow them.

and that was it.

for the rest of the dream, until i woke up, i dream-spooned.

and that's about the raunchiest my dreams have ever gotten.

4. it took place during WWII.

i was at a concentration camp, as a Nazi, but after witnessing a heinous crime i decided that i was batting for the wrong team.

i resolved to escape the camp and find allies to enlighten them and end the war.

for the majority of the dream, i ran across the countryside, evading dozens of Nazi trucks, planes, tanks, and infantrymen.

5. i was at an airport, trying to check my bags in.

for some reason, the agent kept telling me that the bags couldn't go through.

i got angrier and angrier.

before i realized, "Hey! This is a dream!"

and my bags magically went through.

and then i gloated.

and woke up.

6. i was dead, in heaven, and someone i had feelings for while alive came up and joined me, after getting hit by a car: an accident i tried to prevent and consequently faced "judgment."

as i was the first person she thought of after dying, i was sent to her as her Guide.

i took her around heaven, showing her the ins and outs.

at around lunchtime she said she was hungry, so i asked her what she was craving.

"I dunno," she replied, "Chinese?"

"Perfect! For that we can go to B-Town."

"B-Town?"

"Buddhism Town. It looks a lot like Chinatown."

"Isn't heaven just for Christians and Catholics and...whatever?"

"Well, I mean...heaven's infinite, right?"

"Right..."

"So why can't there just be room for everyone?"

7. i was doing a stand-up gig.

my joke, "Overly political lesbians look at my color and go, 'Ooooo.' Koreans and Latinos look at my gayness and go, 'Eeeesh.' Straight guys take it all in and go, 'YESSSS.'"

i laughed myself awake.

8. i was in a classroom.

everyone else was working on some craft project.

i was listening to a certain someone give something of a lecture at the whiteboard.

the entire board was covered in her handwritten lists and sets of rules.

she cracked tons of jokes - none of which is coming to mind - and when a professor tried to interrupt, i stood up next to her.

she and i teased each other for a little while.

eventually, she rebutted by punching me in the crotch.

i doubled-up in laughter and pain.

a bystander asked, "What happened?"

the culprit replied, "I punched her in her doormat, that's what."

Do people really call it that? i thought to myself, Also, that didn't hurt as much as usual. ...Hey! This is a dream!

i proceeded to laugh even harder.

to the point where i woke myself up.

actually laughing out loud.

---

that's all i've got for now.

i'll keep you posted in case anything really embarrassing comes spilling out of my subconscious.

30. Korean grandmas are a dying breed. Relish those visors and animal print shirts while you can.

i love Korean Grandmas.

especially my own, but generally i find that Korean Grandmas are the kick-ass sort who flip society the bird from behind their too-large shades with their animal print shirts and permanently sour-puss looks.

as if to say, "Epp you, modahn day nohms, I habuh my own agenda. And dis is my regime's uniporm."

the other day, though, it hit me: after the current generation of wise-cracking, battle-scarred grandmas...disappear...they'll be gone forever.

at least in the US.

think about it.

all that sass came from decades of walking through war-torn streets, learning not to give a damn, and perfecting the art of practical "fashion."

the socks in sandals for comfort, warmth, and full range of motion for those toes.

the animal print, for urban camouflage.

the visors, so the sun won't blind them as they get up to their shenanigans.

like scowling at passersby.

muttering Korean obscenities about them.

haggling.

speed-walking.

nowadays, the up and coming generations of Koreans in the US have become way too trendy.

at least, too trendy to even consider tossing away their - i-don't-even-know-what-their-chosen-articles-of-clothing-are-called-because-i'm-so-frumptastic - in exchange for the Korean grandma fad.

it makes me sad to think that my own grandkids (if they're to exist) will never know what it's like to go Ajimah-spotting.

being waved at in that little way only those grandmas can do, where the hand and forearm almost spasm in unison, and the lady responsible purses her lips in what's supposed to be a friendly smile.

no old ladies to reach out, uninhibited, and pat them on the head.

no little 'fros.

they'll all - mostly - speak English fluently.

i feel like i have a responsibility to future children.

like when i'm old, i have to take on the challenge of keeping the Korean grandma phenomenon going.

learn to speedwalk with my hands clasped behind my back.

purse my lips.

wag my finger at questionable strangers.

overfeed my grandchildren.

clap my hands whenever i laugh.

examine things a little too closely, disregarding the concept of "personal space."

i owe it to my grandkids.

no one should have to miss out on the Korean grandma.

this is a call to short, stubby arms.

the kind that are generally stiff, even and especially when they randomly reach out and yoink you into a hug.

Grandma - Halmony - even though you can't read English, this one's for you.

for all those little slaps you gave my mom whenever she slapped me.

for being the only adult blood relative i had to tell me from the get-go that i should, "Grow up. Go to collegey. Be comedian."

for being you.

i salute you.

love you.

teach me your ways.

29. just tell him your dad owns a gun. and you're Catholic.

getting away with not kissing your middle-high-school boyfriend for 2+ years is easy when you casually slip into conversation the fact that your dad is in the army and probably owns a gun.

and is, like you, very Catholic.

and probably owns a gun.

being straight was easy.

or acting like it was, at least.

in a way.

acting on my desperation to hide any signs of my gayness wasn't as difficult as it could've been.

"Hey, Vickie, you should toooootally ask Jon out!"

"...Why?"

"Because! He's cute and he toooootally likes you! Like, likes you likes you."

"Huh."

during the next class period, i found my target.

"Hey, Jon -"

"Hi!"

"Yeah. So-and-so said that you like me like me."

"Uhh..."

"Wanna be my boyfriend or something?"

"Yes!"

and that was that.

flirting.

the dating part wasn't all that complicated either.

i kind of liked opening doors for him and paying for his movie tickets.

nor did he seem to mind, though at first he gave me weird looks.

"What, is this weird?" i asked, sincerely.

"Uh. A little bit."

"Oh. Huh."

and we carried on.

in terms of the conditions of our "relationship," being that i was usually busy with swimming and school and violin stuff, keeping him and his angsty hands at bay wasn't much of a challenge.

if anything, as far as i was concerned, i had a new best friend.

occasionally he'd drop hints about things, though, like, "Haha So some of my guy friends said that if they were me, they'd've totally kissed you by now. Like a lot."

"Haha That's funny."

and then i'd remind him about my dad.

nowadays, i do feel guilty about the way i treated Jon.

he was a good guy - sweet, silly, and genuine.

unfortunately, he was a guy and i was a lesbian, so any chances of me completely giving the thing a real go were nonexistent.

i figured that if i was really going to turn straight with this whole arrangement, anything beyond my 1st base (that's handholding) would be a reward for my newfound straightness.

after 2+ years, handholding and occasional pecks on the cheek were as hot as we got.

it hurt a lot, knowing that i made no progress.

and that i must've also been inadvertently hurting someone who was the least deserving of indifference.

and now i'm not only wracked with the guilt of having wasted over 2 years of his prime, awkward, pre-pubescent "dating" years for my own selfish aims, but also with the regret of being way too self-aware and self-conscious to try anything beyond 1st base.

because now i'm fucked.

the least i could've done, i know now, was to figure out how to properly navigate through that whole talking and flirting and dating and relationship(ping?) mess, to avoid becoming the oblivious mess i am now.

so that when a perfectly attractive girl randomly texts, "Hey! I'm caught in traffic right now and would really love a distraction ;)," my first thought isn't, Why the hell is she telling me this? but, Ohmigod, Ohmigod, Ohmigod, she's TEXTING me! Winky face!

or, when i finally do decide to do the pursuing, i don't jump to the opposite end of the spectrum by going with my middle-school-hetero gut-feeling and come off so strong that i scare her away.

women are so much more complicated than guys.

nowadays i find myself so terribly lost and confused and clueless that any prospects that decide to fall into my lap end up slipping through and vanishing into some vacuum for mixed-up words and gestures.

i'm close to giving up.

whenever i fantasize about sparking something up with someone, i like to think that i'm the pursuer.

suave and sophisticated.

witty and irresistible.

and then i wake up and stare for uncomfortably long periods of time or vomit incoherent thoughts all over a promising conversation.

or not say or do anything at all.

just stick with my old standby: quietly pining.

miserably.

i'm beginning to think that i'm hopeless.

always the friend but nothing else because i lack the ovaries and savvy to make things happen.

Big Spoon dreams with Little Spoon attitude.

the best i can do now, i think, is to sit around, clueless and somewhat uninhibited in my hopelessness, and wait for someone to be clear and gameless.

"Hey. I think we should date."

that'd be good enough for me.

except, knowing me, i'd probably still wonder if she's kidding.

hot damn.

i'm pathetic.

[and this post is kind of all over the place. my apologies.]

28. revenge never ends well. sometimes.

very few people have met Mean Vickie.

it tends to take a lot to get on my bad side or to get a rise out of me - usually i opt for passive aggression, like anonymously tripping bullies down the hall or eating the last cream-puff.

rarely do i resort to violence or yelling or petty revenge, because when i do i either feel guilty or get out-revenged.

this doesn't mean that i never get mad, though.

it just means that i usually bottle things up, and the smallest thing can send that cap flying high and let me get sprayed in the face with my own repressed frustrations.

basically, i can look like a real asshole.

for instance:

1. when i was growing up, my mother became obsessed with the idea of me "reaching my fullest potential" and attending Juilliard or becoming some kind of world-renown violin genius.

as such, she took to forcing me to participate in Mommy-Daughter Practice sessions: 3 or 4 hour-long periods of me practicing my violin under her supervision while suffering through endless shouts, slaps, and rants about why i was a terrible violinist.

they were painful.

neverending.

and afterward i always found myself in ratty shape, eyes blotchy and clothes sopping with sweat and tears.

i was never in the mood for anything apart from locking myself away and gorging donut after donut.

so one day, after a Session, as i was making my way up to my room, and when Annie decided to make some snippy remark about my violin playing, i finally snapped.

hard.

to this day, i can't even remember Annie's exact words.

all i can remember is feeling something in the pit of my stomach explode and spread to every inch of my body, reaching down to my bow hand and forcing it to fling the long, sturdy wood and taut horse-hair down on my sister's arm.

after the quick, loud THWAP of contact, there was a brief moment of stunned silence.

we stared at each other.

i couldn't believe what i had done.

i'd never so much as poked anyone before, let alone tried to actually cause harm.

she started to sob.

i continued to stare.

panic.

our mother rushed in, a worried look on her face.

she saw that my bow was still slightly raised and shaking.

that Annie was in tears, clutching her arm.

she glared at me and turned to hold my sister.

"Was da mattah wiss you, huh?!" she screamed.

i didn't know.

"Why would you do somesing like that?! How could you do somesing like dat?!"

i didn't know the answers to those, either.

all i knew was that Annie was still sobbing, and that i was the one responsible for it.

"Go to yoh room!"

i couldn't move.

the weight of the guilt rooted me to the spot.

"Go to yoh room!"

finally, i started to come to my senses.

i started to turn to leave.

and then i saw it.

between two sobs, Annie took a breather.

looked up at me.

tearless.

she smiled.

winked.

sobbed again.

our mother held her tighter.

just two thoughts went through my mind: the first, BITCH; the second, Well played.

i went upstairs without a word.

2. i've never been in tune with today's flirting methods.

that is, at least, i've never been caught up with my contemporaries.

i'm usually several years behind.

i didn't pick up on the whole "tease your crush" thing til recently, which was why in the 7th grade, when a boy took to tripping me up in the hallway or calling me names or randomly punching or shoving me, i didn't feel flattered.

i felt pissed.

day in and day out i dealt with his taunts.

after several weeks of this, i found my outlet.

in my media and technology class, our teacher assigned us a publishing project where we'd use a story-telling software to write and illustrate a short story.

overestimating the time we had to complete it, i figured i'd use this as an opportunity to let out the demons before actually writing something to turn in.

thus began the telling of Poor, Poor Jimmie - my first-ever short.

i got a little over-involved.

poor, poor Jimmie, i decided, was in such a state because - well - nobody liked him.

he lived alone in a shabby apartment, not even a cat or dog or hamster to keep him company.

when he woke up - late, because he was a lazy-good-for-nothing - he found that he missed the bus to school.

in fact, while waiting on the curb, in the rain, without an umbrella, several passing cars managed to splash copious amounts of gutter-water on him, drenching him from head to toe.

he immediately caught pneumonia.

he needed to get to the hospital, but he didn't have a car.

he started walking.

occasionally, passersby would shake their heads and turn away as, even through the rain, they could tell that he was smelly.

no one helped him.

i can't remember all of the details, but i do remember that at one point, as he tried to cross the street to get to the hospital, he was hit by a bus.

an ambulance picked him up and took him to the hospital.

where nobody visited him.

The End.

by the time i finished the story, and illustrated it, i found out that i had run out of time to write an actual passable one instead.

i was forced to hand in Poor, Poor Jimmie.

for a week or so i was on pins and needles, fully expecting to be sent to a counselor for my dark and dirty work.

but the day the teacher handed the project back, on the very last page i found, "A+ Great writing and illustrations! ...But who is this poor, poor Jimmie?"

i never explained.

3. i have a theory: when you finally come out of the closet, you experience your truest phase of adolescence, no matter how old you actually are.

this theory is intended to justify my brief descent into pettiness.

but.

sometimes women just drive me nuts.

last summer, my ex (then, my girlfriend), a friend, and myself made our way cross-country, in a jeep, to the east coast.

we were in close quarters for a long time.

too close.

we grated each other's nerves.

but the breaking point didn't come until later on.

i drive like a grandma.

the fastest i'm willing to go is typically just 5 above the speed limit.

which wasn't that acceptable to my then-girlfriend.

"Everyone's passing us," she'd say, over and over again, "You can go a little faster, you know."

i chose to ignore this.

seeing as how i could barely drive properly at 5 above, there was no way in hell i was going to up the ante.

plus, given my horrible string of bad luck, there was always the chance i'd be the one to get pulled over.

but she kept urging me to speed up.

"Ugghhh," she'd groan, "We keep getting passsssed."

after what felt like hours of this - after trying to curb my own want for retaliation by inserting teasing or explanatory remarks - i finally caved.

"Fine!" i cried, pressing the accelerator, pushing 15 above.

two seconds later, i saw the red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

fuck.

i pulled over.

laughed.

Kim laughed nervously in the backseat.

the passenger's seat remained silent.

after the cop gave me the ticket and pulled away, i told the others that i didn't want to hear another word about my slow driving.

"Are you blaming this on ME?" asked my ex.

"YES. Well, not entirely. But at least kind of. A little bit."

she didn't say another word for several hours, but scowled all the way to the hotel.

and then some.

as soon as we unpacked the car and settled into the room, she whipped out her diary and scribbled furiously into it.

undoubtedly, about me.

frustrated, i found my journal.

and silently but angrily wrote, "I HAD FRENCH FRIES FOR DINNER. THEY WERE GOOD. MISSING THEIR SWEET POTATO BRETHREN, THOUGH. OH, MY GOD. SWEET POTATOES."

and so on and so forth.

this, apparently, fanned the flames of her fury, because her scribbles became ever more rushed and heavy and shortly after she threw herself into bed.

i followed suit.

poor Kim was already pretending to be asleep.

[hours later, though, the guilt got the better of me and i apologized.

still.

it was kind of her fault.]

27. i have weird thoughts.

i've been going through my mini-journals, trying to dig up something of a comedy bit i could offer up to my loyal readers.

nothing terribly long or detailed caught my eye, though - at least, nothing intentionally funny and long and detailed - but i did come across various random ideas i thought i'd share to pass the time and avoid studying.

here we go:

1. My mom's nickname in high school was Barracuda.

Mine was Waddles.

Something skipped a generation.

2. I really don't like that whole "Butch/Femme" thing.

Mostly because I have no idea which one applies to me.

I'm like a Butch/Femme combo.

Homeless.

A Bumme.

3. For the joke about The First Time: Gestures.

Slowly start reaching hand out as if to grab something, at last second, just after finally touching whatever, suddenly pull away.

Scared.

"Oops! Haha! ::shudder:: Oops! ...Yours or mine? ...Hahaha...?"

[Proceed with awkward, ashamed gestures.]

4. I hate being in the friend zone. I mean, if there's one thing I like about myself, it's my taste in women.

But hot damn.

And you get so desperate you start doing desperate things.

Like playing chauffeur or buying them things.

Being their wingwoman.

That's probably the worst, actually.

Except, luckily for me, she has no idea that I'm actually a terrible wingwoman.

5. PMS Goggles.

6. ...Also, last night's dream featured an all-out spoon-fest with ____ ____.

Random, but lovely.

Until I woke up to find out that none of it happened.

Still, though.

Dream ____ ____ knows how to cuddle.

7. Speaking in terms of spoons.

I'm way too effing lazy to be butch or femme.

I'm okay with just being bumme.

Fetch.

A surprise big spoon.

8. Waiting for Godot spoof: Waiting for Jaffar.

Magic carpet.

9. Hm. I should try to find a way to unite Drunk Vickie and Sober Vickie.

Confident Vickie and Lame, Whiny Vickie.

Gross.

I'm lame in real life.

10. Whatever [in regards to being called a "perv"].

Last week I totally considered spooning as "getting some."

11. "Playing for teams."

The lesbian team playing in flannel jerseys.

12. BAH.

13. I didn't know I was weird 'til my mother told me.

14. I come from a long line of terrifying women.

And I take after my dad.

15. Impelled to write a short story entirely in my mother's voice.

Which might accidentally become an entire novel, given the superfluous verbal additives that're sure to arise.

16. My "game" is more like Parcheesi.

Seems like everyone else is playing Halo.

17. I like how Disney thinks it got the whole Asian peoples covered with Mulan.

They needed about 20 movies to show us the different kinds of white people who're out there, but Asians needed just one.

26. i'm the Toro Slut. and hugging leads to sex.

i know i must be bad in bed because the cuddling that ensues afterward is my favorite part.

i'd do anything for a good cuddle.

the sex part is really just the vehicle to get me there.

"Wanna go back to my place and...cuddle? Oh, you wanna have sex first. Well. Okay."

i mean, i don't have much experience to base this on.

i've been with 2 people, kind of.

still more than my 2 sisters combined.

which actually makes me the Toro Slut.

2 more and i've got my parents beat, too.

not that i'm creepy enough to keep up with these stats.

unfortunately, the second i turned 20 my mother transformed into an awkwardly explicit stranger who advised my sisters and me to, "Not wait until marriage. Oh my gahhhh. Biggest mistake."

this was a complete turn around from the person who, after catching Olivia hug her 7th grade boyfriend, sat down with my dad and warned us that, "Hugging leads to sex."

our dad cried.

Sex is evillll, i gathered, so i knew i had to avoid it at all costs.

i used to count hand-holding as its own base.

1st: hand-holding.
2nd: kissing.
3rd: touching.
Home: it.

and i felt this way until my second year of college.

i didn't get to my 2nd til i was 19.

but then i started spooning.

er, got over my fear of spooning.

because, for all intents and purposes, spooning is the laying down version of hugging.

[insert story of first spooning experience.]

so once i got the hang of it, i was hooked.

but then i found out that it wasn't that easy to come by.

being that, for the typical person, spooning comes as a consequence of other, less-innocent acts, but for me is the overall purpose for those less-innocent acts, i'm kind of an outsider.

i don't know if i've ever had that feeling of wanting to "sex" someone.

when i first saw Easy A, i thought to myself, "Oh, man. I bet she'd be a really great little spoon."

it's weird how strong this need to cuddle is.

i'm cuddle-horny.

corny.

"Boy, would I wanna cuddle HER bones. Just get right up in there and SNUGGLE."

my libido is stupid.

or it would be if i had one.

meanwhile, i have to get over myself and accept that, when i go out to clubs or parties, not everyone i meet is gonna be all up for hooking up in a purely - literally - Biblical sense, where legs are clapped shut and the only thing i'm looking for is a good cuddle.

25. i'm hotter than the platypus.

one of the meanest things anyone's ever told me was when my ex, during a talk about talking, said, "I don't think we need to talk. Just the physical stuff - being around each other - is enough."

i mean, knowing her, she meant it in a romantic kind of way, but for someone whose biggest fear is not being able to say the things that're on my mind without sounding stupid, for someone who wants to finally be able to open up and share things with someone who's more or less obligated to listen, that's a pretty crappy thing to hear.

it was weird when i found that out about myself.

i never really saw myself as the kind who would be the one in the relationship to want to talk.

the Little Spoon.

but throughout our relationship i found myself saying things like, "Don't you wanna talk about it?" and "We never talk! Let's share things!"

after a little while, hearing my echo, i realized, "Hot damn. I'm THAT lesbian. Crap."

i wasn't always like this, though.

when i was little, i was perfectly happy being the quiet kid.

i didn't know i was weird til my mother told me.

then again, she had my sisters first, so it wasn't a huge surprise to find that my shyness threw her off.

she was used to getting calls from elementary school teachers who explained, time and time again, that my sisters were way too chatty and knowledgeable for their own good (as they were both the kind to tell the others how babies were made and how babies were unmade. abortion. in the 2nd grade.).

when i came along, she was sure the calls would stop.

as a baby, i never so much as whimpered for food.

so one day, when i was in kindergarten, and a teacher actually did call home, my mother was taken aback.

she came into my room to talk to me.

"Beekie?" she said, sweetly.

"...Yes?" the unusual gentleness in her voice was a little unnerving.

"Ah you unhappy?"

"...No...I don't think so...why?"

"Yoh teacha call to tell me dat she's worried because uh you habn't said a word in 6 months."

Is that strange? i thought.

"Beekie," she started again, "You hap to staht talking, okay? Oddawise people gonna sink yoh weird. Nobody like shy people, okay? So work on dat."

i was horrified.

it didn't help that, as i was growing up, i had my sisters to compete with.

they were flippin' verbal beasts.

they've always had something witty or passionate or eloquent to say about anything you could think of.

they can make a flippin platypus sound poetic.

no offense to the platypus.

but i mean.

i'm hotter than the platypus.

on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the platypus and 10 being, like, Kate Winslet, i'm at least a bulldog.

like a 4.

but maybe i'm not giving bulldogs enough credit.

the way they walk.

always like they're headed someplace with a purpose.

doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot.

my walk's a little less doot-doot-oriented.

for as long as i can remember, really, i've waddled.

less a doot-doot and more a whop-whop.

i don't hate my walk anymore, though.

not as much as i did when i was a kid, anyway.

little kids are ass-holes.

i used to get teased to no end.

kids'd follow me around the playground, mimicking my walk.

call me Waddles.

i'd always play and laugh along, like it didn't bother me, but Little Vickie had feelings, too.

once, when i was about 10, my dad noticed that i looked a little down.

"Whatsamatter, Vickie?"

"Oh, nothing," i sighed.

"C'mon, you can tell me."

"Well...I waddle."

"...And?"

i sighed in despair again.

"Go on," he added, hastily.

"The other kids tease me, but I can't help it."

"Oh, well, Vickie, that's no big deal. You know, one of the greatest comedians of all time waddled."

being that at this point i'd already been telling anyone who'd listen that i was going to grow up and be just like Ellen Degeneres, this was a pleasant surprise.

"Really?!"

"Yeah!"

he went out and rented Charlie Chaplin's The Gold Rush and watched it with me.

the second that little tramp waddled his way into frame, i knew i was in love.

that i'd found my kindred.

i was obsessed.

the following Halloween i dressed up as the tramp.

all of the kids in the neighborhood had no clue who i was, but the old people treated me special.

slipped me extra candy.

gave me high-fives.

greeted me with a, "Hey, Charlie!"

things were going great and my waddle was the last thing on my mind.

until i got to the last house.

the little old lady who lived there greeted me with a big smile and, like the others, several extra Snickers.

i was feeling good.

i turned and made my way down her path back to my parents.

"Hey!" she cried, suddenly.

i turned back around, expecting more praise.

"You even WALK like him!"

i don't think she knew it was unintentional.

for a second, my heart sank with the memories of my playground bullies, but then i remembered my Chaplin.

and waddled on.

24. holy libido!

it's embarrassing, that fluttering feeling i get in my tummy when i'm Googling and catch things like, "Emma Stone is a lesbian."

guilt.

and hope.

but.

i don't know if i've ever had that feeling of wanting to "sex" someone.

when i first saw Easy A, i thought to myself, Oh, man. I bet she'd be a really great little spoon.

my libido is stupid.

or it would be if i had one.

sometimes it feels like i gotta Pokemon that shiz.

catch it, i mean.

evolve it.

give it a cute name like Libidomon or Friskymon and bust it out of an undersized ball when the right grooves are playing and for the kind of person my Gym Leader warned me about.

...in the meantime, i have to get over myself and realize that, when i go out to bars or parties, not everyone i meet is going to be all up for hooking up in a purely - literally - Biblical sense, where legs are clapped shut and the only thing i'm looking for is a good cuddle.

it's weird how strong this need to cuddle is.

i'm cuddle-horny.

corny.

so much so that when i see someone like Emma Stone i say, "Boy, would I wanna cuddle her bones. Just get right up in there and SNUGGLE."

hot damn.

maybe i should pay someone.

23. side effects of old journal entries: flushing, a bad case of the heebie-jeebies.

i'm finally coming to the end of my first-ever completed journal.

last night, i decided to go back and revisit some of those undoubtedly cringeworthy notes, jokes, and, yes, even lyrics. i also decided it was high-time i share some with you.

feel free to laugh and/or hold them against me.

here we go:

1. the first entry

Attempt #? at trying to start/maintain a journal.

-> Optimism: thinking, against all odds, that my life will somehow be interesting enough to fill these pages (or, at least, more interesting than before).

Maybe if I do this my way (just for me), it'll be better.

And someday I will sell it for MILLIONS.

[insert 2 poorly drawn dollar signs in green and with "3D" shadowing] -> (sidenote) I'm going to start doodling, too, so when people discover this in the future they'll think, "My God! An artist, too! So trendy! She must get all the ladies!"

[break]

Theory/Fact:
Any/all famous artists, no matter what their actual histories must have been, can always re-evalutate [->(sidenote) I can't spell, though "evalutate" does have a nice ring to it)] and reimagine their pasts. And they do. Should, really, because, let's face it: the biggest trend I see (or pretend to see) is that truly great artists were once HUGE weenies.

It's inevitable.

Non-weenies can't produce great art.

They have no need to.

In every artist's past, there is a bespectacled, buck-toothed, awkward teenager, itching to get a mini-journal published.

FACT.

[break]

I'm probably mostly kidding about this, though. About the money and ladies thing, I mean.

[end.]

2. my current situation

1. At USC, biding my time.

2. 20 years old, 3rd year of college.

3. In a relationship??!!!

4. Getting in touch with my pissy side. Unfortunate timing for my first-ever girlfriend.

5. Hungry, waiting for her to wake up so we can have what will, at this hour, be lunch.

6. Loving the fact that the "artistic" aspect of this journal is failing so wonderfully. Although, the ink blot stains on my hand make me feel so much more artistic and creative and bohemian, which is good enough for me.

[break]

I'm not a very good person.

At least, that's what a number of people who are currently in my life must be thinking.

I am, actually, very flawed.

But who isn't?

So cliche, but so true.

I don't even know why I'm ranting about this right now, actually.

[end.]

3. painfully embarrassing lyrics

"Heavy Heart"

Inky hands scratching away
Making the words I can't say

Your love isn't lost on me, darling
I'm just in an unworthy state

But this love makes my heart heavy
I can't stand or see or speak

For your own sake, darling
Try to run away.

[and the alternate lyrics:]

You're locked up in a prison cell
I wanna set you free

Got the key here in my pocket, love,
Now make like a tree and leave.

...hahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

oh holy Jeebus.

that was painful to read.

you're welcome!

22. sex is weird.

i'm actually not gonna start this post off with sex.

the title was just a ploy to reeeeeel you in.

and you see, it worked!

perv.

(fear not, though: awkward observations about sex are to come.

...hahahaha.

...gross.

sorry.)

anywho!

what i will start off with is the fact that my triple-threat status as an ethnic, queer woman gets a lot of weird reactions.

brown and yellow people take one look at my gayness and say, "eeeeeeesh."

gays/overly politically correct and activist lesbians take one look at my iffy hue and go, "oooooooo."

straight guys look at everything and say, "YESSSSSS."

hm.

i've never really understood that whole "straight guy fascination with lesbian sex" thing.

maybe it's because, for me, the mystery's gone.

er, actually, the mystery is still very much there, as the reality of the situation is that sex is downright confusing.

don't get me wrong, i hardly regret anything.

it's just.

hot damn.

my first time was...right.

we'd talked about it, prepared for it, we really cared about each other, we were sober...

it was right.

but holy Jeebus.

there were moments when i kind of wished i was at least a little drunk.

had some liquid courage.

didn't apologize every few seconds for being awkward or doing awkward things.

didn't make things more awkward than they needed to be by apologizing for being awkward.

straight guys/guys in general don't know how easy they have it.

lucky douches.

if there's one thing i've learned in the past year, it's that women are weird.

and complicated.

and the fact that i'm one of them doesn't make things any easier.

if anything, it's more terrifying to think that the other person might be able to read my thoughts or something.

or might know or understand something about me that i don't even know or understand.

women are weird and complicated and scary.

i would know: i come from a long line of them.

and i take after my dad.

[to be continued. sorry for the abrupt ending.

that's what he said!]

21. i am a grown-up.

oops.

i don't know how it happened.

when it happened.

how or why i let it happen.

it just happened.

not "just" as in i only very recently made the jump from perfectly, acceptably a-little-too-nerdy Harry Potter nerd to a kind of weird, gerascophobic dork with zero intent to let go of nostalgia; "just" as in the Forces That Be must've had all of this in mind from the very beginning.

and there's nothing i can do to stop it.

this isn't necessarily a bad thing, i guess.

i mean, i definitely wouldn't've wanted the agonizingly self-absorbed and emo teen years to have gone on any longer than they did.

...although i would've preferred a little more time to develop my awesome.

or at least to find it.

seriously.

if there's one thing that's unnerving about this whole grown-up business it's that i have no idea where to draw any of the new lines.

like the line between what's Cool and what's Too Cool for Someone My Age.

or the line between Age-Appropriate and Creepy.

lately i've been taking into account, more and more, the things that i say and think and do.

the kinds of things that i was sure made me, me, but now, i worry, make me wildly immature:

1. my undying love for Harry Potter.

2. my undying love for bad jokes.

3. my unlimited supply of graphic tees (according to friends, this is why i still get carded at movie theatres).

4. my tendency to giggle a little too much at inappropriate times.

5. my relationship issues/indecisiveness.

6. my Goonies poster (which features The Truffle Shuffle).

7. my cringeworthy journal entries.

8. my tendency to pine and whine about "crushes."

9. the fact that i get "crushes."

10. my favorite words: douche and fancy.

11. my booze-induced hiccups.

12. my tendency to blush when talking to someone on whom i have a "crush."

13. my use of "on whom," which only speaks to my need to dazzle "adults" with my "grammar."

14. the fact that i just made myself laugh with the overuse of quotation marks.

15. Mariah Carey's "One Sweet Day" is one of the top 25 played songs in my iTunes.

---

but the more i think about this - as i write this blogpost (so i apologize if the sudden shift in this posting is as jarring and poorly timed as that unfortunate age-up) - the more i begin to justify my actions and interests.

and maybe that's the key to successfully crossing through the sacred gateway that is Adulthood?

not the changes in said actions and interests, but the reasons behind them?

or at least the way you re-word said reasons for actual grown-ups you run into at actual grown-up parties.

for example:

1. the Harry Potter series very warmly, creatively, and accurately expresses the ever-essential themes of growing up and unconditional love and its triumph over all evil.

...and i can't wait to read it to my future children.

because they're children's books.

and i don't still read them for myself.

unless i'm just, you know, re-jazzing up the idea of reading it to my future children.

and only then.

2. hipsters think bad jokes are hip.

because commercial people just can't appreciate them.

3. ...skip.

4. sorry, i was thinking about something very legitimately and age-appropriately funny just now.

5. i transcend society's idea of monogamy.

and i really don't like contributing to capitalist-driven economy that is based on arbitrary "choices."

6. because i'm so grown up and "with it," this poster is okay because it shows that i have a fun side.

7. what cringeworthy journal entries?

8. bitches trifle.

9. skip.

10. "the fact that my favorite word choices are non-sequitur makes me unique and edgy."

11. eff you!

12. blaming the booze i am adult enough to consume in public places.

13. i read.

14. see #4.

15. that's how long ago my youth is.

and so on and so forth.

convincing, eh?

(in all honesty, this is a very select and small sampling of all of the things i'm sure don't do much for the elusive Grown-Upness.

(but maybe, on a more serious note, maybe the more grown-up thing to do would be to take all of this for what it is, and accept me for me.)

by jove! you've just witnessed some life-learnin' magic!

so did i!

magic.

...gotta go read.)

20. people have weird thoughts.

i'm currently writing a screenplay-ish-type-thing about cankles.

cankles, you ask?

yes.

one of the most arbitrary physical traits that beautiful people seem to obsess over when looking for something to obsess over.

the basic plotline for this story centres around a newly thin young woman who, after going out for a celebratory shopping spree and tattoo, comes home to see her own set of ankles featured on a late-night news story about the spreading epidemic that is cankles.

is?

are?

i hate grammar.

anywho.

in honor of this soon-to-be-finished-but-actually-started-once-this-writer's-block-disappears, i've decided to lay down a number of weird insecurities i've encountered in my shortish, longish 21 years of living.

some of them might be my own.

in fact, yes.

most of them probably are.

1. stinky feet.

i have notoriously stinky feet, but no matter how many de-odorizers i apply, the stench perseveres.

which is why i tend to sit cross-legged at other people's homes when i'm shoeless.

so now you know.

2. being bendy.

i don't know.

whenever i feel like i'm in dire need of impressing someone, i feel the need to show-off my bendiness.

like that one time in middle school when i wanted to impress a girl at a sleepover and volunteered to sleep in a very cramped closet when it was decided that there wasn't enough room for everyone on the floor.

luckily, no one took me up on it.

but i mean.

i still felt bad about not being able to show them how bendy i was.

3. having disproportionate limbs.

yes.

this one isn't necessarily mine, unless you count my need to mention my large love-handles at least once in awkward conversation, but i have been made to lend a patient ear to those who are deeply concerned about the lengths and dimensions of their body parts.

i don't know if i just lack that special skill to see just how much shorter or longer certain arms and legs can be, but i honestly can't even see it most of the time.

4. two of my toes on my right foot are practically melded together.

not webbed.

but my middle toe and the one closest to the pinkie pretty much bend into each other.

almost like they're spooning.

when i was little i was so insecure about this that i tried to train my toes to separate.

i'd hold them apart.

or put a ball of tissue between them.

they still spoon, but now i can do this weird trick where i can pull them apart into what looks like piano hands.

piano toes.

and now i have to worry about people knowing about this...

5. not having anything witty to say.

i hate it when that happens.

i feel like i'm letting people down.

and when i find that i have nothing wittastic to say, i tend to laugh louder than i should and say something awkward and obvious, like, "Exactly," or, "Word."

or i just repeat the last comment in different words.

i'm pretty sure i have a special talent for making people feel slightly uncomfortable.

6. my left toes are clearly longer than my right toes.

yeah.

that's all i have to say about that one.

7. i'm a hypocrite for having mentioned my toe lengths not too long after talking about people's weird obsession with limb length.

8. when other people have weird talents that i don't.

or talents that're weirder than mine.

like completely bending a hand backward so that it touches the wrist.

or touching the tip of the nose with the tongue.

when i was about 5 i started to train myself to do the belly wave like Garth and the ear wiggle like my dad.

i even went so far as to teach myself to do the wave, wiggle, and a number of other tricks at the same time.

at the dinner table.

9. sloppy eating.

in fact, when i'm eating i'm so deeply concerned about how messy i am that i end up making even more of a mess.

in a way more awkward way than need be.

like when i try to not slurp up the noodles, i just end up trying to do this odd maneuver of leaning too far over the dinner table trying to politely bite through the too tough noodles that end up on either my face or my pants.

10. my sleeptalking.

apparently i do it.

and i'm always so worried that i'll reveal or say something about someone in close proximity.

or reveal one of my secrets.

or something in my subconscious.

like how deeply concerned i am about Ellen Page's potential lesbianism...

and that's about all i've got for now.

i'll be sure to update this list as soon as i've thought of more.

in the meantime, if anyone has a request or an idea for an insecurity i can write about, feel free to fill me in!

i might even start taking requests at this point.

seeing as how i'm blocked up and whatnot.

seriously.

if you've got writer's laxative to offer up, dish it out.

bye.

19. being yellow and brown means i get to pick and choose.

childhood was a confusing time for me.

and for others.

am i brown?

am i yellow?

Samoan?

the only real conclusion people have been able to draw about me is that i'm not white.

sometimes i'm tempted to start a betting pool or one of those carnival stands for rounds of "Guess My Race."

it took a long time before i realized, "Hey, I'm the future."

but it wasn't just the Bennetton coloration of my skin that drove me nuts: it was what was supposed be going on under the surface, too.

what do yellow people do?

what do brown people do?

again, it took just a little while before i was able to come to terms with the fact that i could choose.

here's a list of apparent Yellow Dos and Don'ts:
1. doing math.
2. doing science.
3. playing violin.
4. not driving.
5. not whispering.
6. not letting things go.
7. haggling.
8. not waiting.


and here's a collection of Brown ones:
1. low-riding.
2. cat-calling/making white women feel uncomfortable.
3. being in a place where i don't belong.
4. not doing math.
5. not doing science.
6. not practicing safe sex.
7. dancing.
8. not speaking English.

hmmm.

the selection here is pretty much just a small sampling of the things i've observed and been told while growing up.

so which ones apply to me?

do i get to pick and choose?

do other people get to pick and choose?

it certainly felt that way when i was little.

if i got anything lower than an A on a test, at least a couple of people would say that i must've been having a brown day.

if i managed to do well, people assumed it was because of my yellowness.

seems to me like there's something of a contradiction coursing through my veins, making up my double-helix.

if i follow the lists above, i could very well be a loud-mouthed, impatient gangsta who also happens to be a virtuoso.

or a medical student with hydraulics and a sex offender record.

and things got even more complicated when i threw the lesbian thing into the mix.

can i really care about the environment while driving a low-rider SUV around LA?

would my yellow-driven need for perfection really go with the laidback, hippie-dippy hipster feel of my 21st century lifestyle?

do parasols really go that well with wifebeaters and tattoos of obscure musical and literary references?

i'm at a loss.

18. i am The Debauchatron.

i love Rush Limbaugh.

The Rush.

whenever he talks about my people(s) i get the feeling that i'm secretly in possession of awesome superpowers and unwavering perseverance.

as a triple minority - that's a queer, multi-racial woman - i'm also a triple threat.

quadruple, if you count the liberal thing.

apparently, the world is my baby seal and my penchants for women, racial ambiguity, and welfare make up a club of evil that's three times the size and weight of the usual brand.

who knows what kind of hijinks The Debauchatron can get the world into? says The Rush - the only man/superman with the ability to send my cohorts and me straight to Lim-baugh.

what with my superspeed and invisibility, not only can i infiltrate schools and brainwash children into queerness, but i can also run brown people across the border and into the workplace!

...or, at least, into obscure, menial jobs that go unseen to the untrained eye.

i should get a cape.

or at least lose the love-handles so i can fit into some spandex.

17. i come from a long line of terrifying women. and i take after my dad.

long time, no talk.

but excuses are like butts, and right now mine's hidden because of its recent descent into flabby unawesomeness, so i'll spare you.

anywho.

lately, i've been learning all sorts of fun facts about my family's history.

my Dominican side has ties to the assassination of Trujillo, and my Korean grandma broke all of the rules.

ALL of the rules.

apart from successfully escaping the clutches of her North Korean captors during the Korean War, she also managed to do much of the same from her adulterous husband.

apparently, my Korean grandpa was anything but faithful to her during their marriage.

he had affairs - Jeebus knows how many - and eventually, he managed to get a woman pregnant.

pissed, my grandmother had him and his mistress arrested - because adultery was against the law in those days - which was unheard of, as it was usually men who turned their adulterous wives in, while enjoying the company of as many women as they chose.

but my grandmother had him put into prison, divorced him, and bent his entire family to her will as she was the one with the money and the power.

"When he's released," she told him and his family, "I will help support him, but only because he can't support himself."

the family had no choice but to do whatever she asked.

so she was a war survivor and a divorcee.

and, on top of everything else, a successful Black Market saleswoman.

we still don't know the details.

all we know is that she also managed to raise my mother: a woman whose nickname in high school was Barracuda.

according to our aunt, my mother was the type who actively disliked just about every boy in school, which in turn only increased her appeal and made said boys want her love all the more.

nothing changed when she graduated and took a job at the US military base near her hometown.

indeed, she had been proposed to several times, and even found herself occasionally serenaded in the Officers Club and bars and the like.

she was the shit.

and, according to her, she knew it.

the only person who didn't seem to know it was, of course, my clueless dad.

"Uh, dat's where YOU get it from," she told me, mid-story.

anywho.

apparently, my mother was confused as to why this one man just didn't seem to like her as much as all the other men she met.

What's wrong with him? she wondered, and, What's wrong with me?

she had to get to the bottom of it and make him notice her.

she tried flirting.

"But he was stupid and didn't notice."

"...I really didn't..."

"So I had to try eben hahdah."

"Yep. She did."

and so she resorted to spreading rumors about how she had a crush on Andy Toro - a rumor she hoped would reach him.

and it did.

"But I didn't really believe it," my dad interjected, "The guys would say things like, 'Hey, man, I heard Ms. Kim wants to have a tour of your tank.' And I'd be like, '...So?'"

and my mom shook her head.

"Useless."

finally, my mom took a more direct approach.

"Andy?" she asked one day, when they ran into each other, "Would you mind teaching me Englishy? My Englishy is uh berry bad."

"Huh?" was all my dad could say, clearly confused, "Um...I guess..."

and after just a couple of sessions, my dad finally came to his senses.

finally, he asked her out.

"Okay," she told him, "But I just hab to uh tell my boypriend I can't see him anymoh."

"...Boyfriend?!" my dad exclaimed.

"...Boyfriend?!!!" i exclaimed, years later.

"Uh huh," my mom went on, "Foh a while I was dating dis man wis biiig glasses, berry tall, berry white, but berry nice. He wanted to get married, but he couldn't marry me while in his kind obah job, so he quit and said we could stay in uh Korea for a few moh years so I could learn better English befoh we go to dah States."

i stared.

"Yeah. I felt so bad when I broke up wis him. I couldn't eben look him in the face when I did it. But aptahword, when we left dah restaurant, I finally looked up at him, and his glasses were so foggy, and I felt so bad, so I just reached out my hand and gabe him a handshake and said, 'Okay! Bye!' And dat was it. Huh. I wondah where he is now?'"

my dad shook his head.

"Yep. And I bet you regretted it ever since."

"...Maybe. hahahaha."

knowing this doesn't make the fact that both of my parents are sure that i take after my dad at all comforting.

"But look at it dis way," my mother tried to console me, "It's actually lucky you're a lesbian."

"...Why?"

"Girls like nerdy, awkward, shy people moh. Look at me and yoh daddy."