Last day of 2011

Oh, wow, guys. Just like that, 2011's over.
Actually, this year went by reaaally slowly for me. 


Buut the end of a year isn't meant for regretting what happened that year! No, that'd totally kill the joy of knowing I'm gonna have to change the year when I write dates! The end of a year is meant for thinking about how to not to stuff you'll regret, and remaining optimistic about the next year, even though, considering you've lived most of your life as an idiot, you're probably gonna regret it as much as the last.


In any case, I decided to make some New Year's Resolutions. 
I've actually resolved to do these things many, many times before, but maybe the fact that failing would mean embarrassing myself in front of the whole (as in, reaaally close to 0%) internet would be motivation to actually keep them! So...


1) I will do my homework the day it is assigned! No more "Meh, I'll do it tomorrow"s for me! No more, "Sh*t, why didn't I do this earlier" regrets! 
2) I will go to bed at 11:30 pm whenever I have the time to! No more will I say to myself, Hey, I've spent the past few months sleeping at 2am! So why not spend a few hours wasting time and doodling! This is gonna be so much fun! There is absolutely no way I can regret this later! But, no, silly me. You will regret this later. So stoppit! 
3) I will clean my room every other week! I shall no longer allow the mess to pile up and pile up for months upon months. My room will be neat, and tidy, and clean aaaall the time! 
4) I feel like I had one more, but I don't remember what it was................


*ahem* 
But, of course, we all know I'm not gonna be able to keep these resolutions. If I were to resolve to keep being an idiot, hey, I've been doing that for years! 
Anyway, I will try my best, and hopefully, at least the sleep thing will stay intact for a while...


So, Happy New Year to all of you. I have one last thing before I close off this post. 


_____________


Crayons and zombies and tigers, oh my! 


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am finally writing this story. I lost my old drafts of it (I don't feel like looking for them) so I will just write it here, on the fly! 


*Ahem* 






Once upon a time, in a city not very far from here, there was a box of crayons that lived in a retail store. The white crayon was the leader of the 12 in that box. When it told them to stay put, they stayed put. When it told them to stay in order, they stayed in order. And all was well. 


One day, a little girl asked her mommy to buy the box of crayons for her. The little girl loved to color and draw very, very much, so her mommy bought the crayons for her. So, when they got home, the crayons saw the world outside of the box for the very first time. It was a very nice world. And when the white crayon told the others to stay put, they did so. When it told them to stay in order, they did so. And all was well, for a while. 


However, the little girl didn't always put the crayons back where they belonged. Some of them stayed for days outside of the box, and sometimes the yellow would be by the purple and not by the orange, where it belonged. Some crayons were used up or disappeared completely. They didn't listen to the white crayon anymore. When it told them to stay put, they didn't. When it told them to stay in order, they didn't. And, so the white crayon was very sad.


What made the white crayon saddest of all was that the little girl never used it. The paper on which she drew was white, anyway, so when she tried to draw on it with the white crayon, she could hardly see the mark. So, she shoved the white crayon back into the box, and there it stayed. 


After a while, all the crayons had left the box. Even the white crayon couldn't stay in it anymore, for it had been ripped apart after the little girl forgot to clean her room for the longest time. When she finally did, she looked for all the crayons except for the white one. Indeed, she thought, she didn't need the white crayon. And so the crayon stayed tucked into the carpet behind the girl's dresser. And all was no longer well. When the white crayon realized that the girl had stopped looking for it, it wept. It wept and wept, until it cried itself to sleep. When it woke up, it found that it was in another world. 


Yes, it found itself in another world, with brighter colors and a higher sky and people who adored all crayons. However, this wonderful world had been struck by a plague. Many of its people had been turned into zombies. The white crayon thought sadly to itself of what it could do, but it could do nothing. After all, it was just a white crayon, who couldn't even draw on paper. 


The white crayon had been taken in by a little boy. His brother had been turned into a zombie, and was never found. The boy's family constantly worried that he would catch the illness as well, but he stayed healthy, and all he wanted to do was find a way to help. 


One day, the boy was taking a walk with the white crayon in he forest. When he was very deep inside the forest, he heard the voice of a demon singing. He crept behind some bushes and watched as the demon danced around the fire, singing to itself. 


The tiger hides in these woods, it sang, the demon tiger with fur as red as the fires of hell. The illness comes from the tiger, but no one knows, no one knows that it hides in the cave by the village.  The demon cackled madly to itself, dancing around its fire. 


The boy heard the demon sing, and ran away as soon as it revealed where the tiger was. He knew that if he were to kill the tiger, he could save the village from the plague. So, after many days of searching, the boy found the cave. Even though he had no weapon, the boy snuck into the cave, and found the demon tiger. 


It was a monstrous beast, with teeth like knives and claws that could carved steel. It awoke as the boy approached it and let out a ferocious roar. The boy could only shake in fear. The grabbed for something to use as a weapon, but there was nothing. The white crayon jumped from the boy's pocket and into his hand.


Throw me, said the white crayon, into the beast's throat! I can choke it, and you can escape!


The boy nodded, and threw the crayon at the beast with tears in his eyes. As if guided by a god, the crayon landed in the tiger's throat, and it suffocated to death. In a few days, the boy returned to his village. Everyone infected by the plague had been cured, and were no longer zombies. They could no longer help the ones who had died, and held a funeral for all of them. 


The white crayon lay in the tiger's throat for many days. Finally, when it was at the end of its life, an angel came to it and freed it from the tiger's throat. When it woke up, it was back in the box with the other crayons. They were all in order, and they all stayed put, and they were happy, and all was well. 




______________________


So, yeah, there's the story. I... honestly don't know why it ended like that... I don't know why it's like that at all.... But after what's probably been a year of promising to write it, I wrote it! Yeah, I rock! 


So, uh, yeah. Happy New Years, get out your disaster survival kits and don't drink til you pass out! 

December's almost over.....

And the number of followers I have has inexplicably gone up again. 
Two mysterious people either actually enjoy my writing and would like the opportunity to read future posts or, more likely, they were possessed by some sort of hate demon and/or threatened at gunpoint to follow this terrible excuse for a blog. 


As the list of followers on my dashboard doesn't follow any logical order I can decipher, I can't really tell which of you are new around here, but I welcome you anyway and I thank you for actually liking my writing and thinking, hey, this fellow seems fairly reasonable. I think I'll read more.


Unless it's the hate demon/threatened at gunpoint situation. In which case, I'm very sorry about your predicament and I hope you are able to escape the hate demon and/or suspicious agents very soon. 
_________________________


So, uh...
Including today, I have a whopping 4 days left of winter break. Lovely, that thought. I mean, I suppose it's not such a terrible number... Except I still haven't done any of my homework.
Ahahaha
I should probably get started on that now...
Aah, high school.... such a lovely, lovely thing....


Anyway, the end of 2011 means the beginning of 2012! So, you guys better put together your disaster survival kits! Y'got less than a year left! 






Again, new followers, welcome, and thanks..... (And good luck, which, even if you're not in the hate demon situation, may be useful to you later. Just looking out for ya, 'kay?)

I only have one thing to say about today

And it's that today there is an intense pain in my hip.


We left on a roadtrip to Pensacola Beach a few days ago, and we just came back. Really, all we did was dive two days to get there, comment on the nice view once we got there, took a few photos, and took two more days to drive home once morning came. 


It seems a lot of our holidays are characterized by spending a looong time to drive to where we're going, staying a couple nights without doing much, and then spending a loooong time getting back. So, for a lot of the trips I took, what I remember most vividly is being on the plane or being in the car, and watching the scenery go by like the wind. 


And, so, now, we're finally home and I am at my desk, and sitting with some really awful pain in my hip. I think it's because I never sit right in the car when I'm in the back seat and I'm in there for more than a half hour or so. It really, really hurts. And it hurts when I stand, and it hurts when I bend, and, ugh, I just hope it goes away by tomorrow. 


Anyway, when I woke up this morning, I had the sudden realization that today's Christmas! 
Not really, my brother shouted "Merry Christmas" to all of us when he woke up this morning, and I kept hearing it from people on the trip back. 


I must say, it doesn't really feel like Christmas. That isn't to say Christmas has a certain feel. It's just, I haven't heard too many carols, I haven't even seen 1 complete Christmas movie and despite having several cups of hot chocolate, I've yet to finish eating a singly candy cane. And now my hip hurts. And my hip never hurts on Christmas. Actually, my hip hardly ever hurts, since I'm not even old enough to complain about my hip hurting. 


So, yeah, Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it,
and to the rest of you, Happy Whatever-It-Is-That-Won't-Offend-You
and if you'll excuse me, I must go do something about my hip. 

And as the smoke cleared, he looked up

And he asked: 


Is it over? 




OMIGOD Today was the LAST DAY OF FINALS meaning the LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. 


So, starting today, I am free. Free! Freeeeeeeeeeee!! 


That is, until the third day of January comes around...
Buut that's a whole two and a half weeks away! Next year! So, that's like an eternity, so I don't need to worry about it. 


So, uh, yeah. I just wanted to announce that school is over and I feel happier... than I was when school was still going, so I guess that's an improvement. 


I hope you guys have a great winter break/holiday season if you don't have a winter break and try not to make plans that'll get you killed! 

HOLY COWPIES We're Three Years Old

So, about halfway through my 8th grade year, I wrote some stuff about woodshop safety rules at a high school I was looking at. I probably wrote some other stuff, too, but I wrote it, clicked the big orange "PUBLISH POST BUTTON" and a few days later, someone commented, and then, for some unfathomable reason, decided to follow my blog. 


And that's how my blog was started, three years ago today. 


And I wrote pretty much a post a day, and most of it was complete and utter crap. After a while, I posted every few days and my writing became a bit better. Now, I post every month if I remember, and my writing is still crap. 


But, somehow, I was able to get 16 or so followers, and it looks like people actually read my writing. 


And, uh, I guess I wanted to take this chance to thank you guys. I mean, this blog's not a particularly huge part of my life, but I do enjoy it and I do find joy in reading your comments. There's the whole, "This blog wouldn't be here without you guys," which, frankly, is cheesy and not entirely accurate, but, really, thank you. Thank you for having read, reading and continuing to read this blog.


I think I probably missed my blog turning a year old, and then two years, but, hey, third time's the charm! Or something like that, I really don't know. 


I actually don't have much to talk about (then why have you written so much already??) so I guess I'll stop here.


But, again, thanks. 


And I hope you guys will continue to read this blog, but, really, if you do have any intentions to do so, you should get yourselves checked out. 










Just in case I don't post tomorrow, Happy Thanksgiving! 

The only cure for idiocy is death

Okay, okay, this is probably old news by now, considering it's been out there for quite a few hours, but I just woke up less than an hour ago, and I'm just mind-blown.


What... what the hell? What the hell, America? What... I can't even... 


It seems that pizza is now a vegetable. 
Congress has decided that what little tomato may or may or exist on your average pizza (because who knows what shit that's made out of) lets it count towards your daily servings of vegetables. 
Just...
The f*ck? 


Oh, I see. This must be punishment for me stating that I respect America a few days ago. 
I'm sorry, America, I'm sure you know I didn't mean it. 


What were they thinking when they decided to pass this bill? 


Alright, we need to make these kids healthier. How do we do that? 


We could put more fruits and vegetables in their lunches, and quit it with the fast food. 


What? You crazy! Someone shoot that guy! 


I know! Let's just say what they eat already are vegetables! 


Omigod! That man's  genius! Give him an award! 






Cuz, see, it's cheaper to give kids shitty processed no-I'm-not-telling-you-what's-in-it whatsit. Instead of trying to appear as if they're making an effort, they'll just go in a completely opposite direction. What? Raise the standard for lunches in school? What bullshit! Lower the standard, and it'll look like our kids are the healthiest people on earth! Wonderful! 


You know what? This country probably deserves it. 
So, go ahead, America. Eat five pizzas a day, declaring to the world that you do love vegetables! And you will be healthy and proud and wondering why on earth you're dying at 40 of heart disease and diabetes and high blood pressure. 


And go f*ck yourselves. 


We are America and we are proud. 


























Also, does Congress know that tomatoes are not vegetables?

People Say the Darndest Things

(or: Cheese is important to me) 

I am not a very hateful person, I hope you guys know. I am a very angry person, but I usually try not to expend too much effort on hating anyone/anything-- that requires a vast amount of anger over a long period of time, and while that person/thing isn't there. That is energy I could put towards keeping myself alive.

But I really hate this phrase:

“Well, good thing we're in America, huh?”

It's not really that I hate the phrase itself (I'll concede that America's not a terrible place to be) but I really, really, really, really-- I cannot tell you how many “really”s I would need to write in order to express the degree of my hatred towards this phrase, as such a number doesn't exist-- hate it when used under certain circumstances.

I am Korean. In truth, I'd like to call myself Canadian, but when I say that, people ask me, “No, what are you?” as if I hadn't understood the question, when, really, they didn't understand what I meant by my answer (by the way, I am a human. That is what I am) and my response ends up being “I'm Korean” in a defeated tone, anyway, so let's stick with that. I am Korean and, while it's not always a wonderful thing, my reactions to certain events will reflect that Korean heritage. It's no fault of mine; I was raised by two people who grew up in Korea, and they were the biggest influence on my personality in my developing years, so I sometimes act Korean.

For instance, I dislike writing names in red, and I don't consider a slap to the face a light joke between friends. In Korea, you only write a person's name in red if they're dead, and a slap to the face is just offensive. What's wrong with you, American teenagers? I really don't appreciate it. No, none of the readers of this blog whom I know personally have ever hit me, but it seems to be acceptable to some. The fact of the matter is, I am uncomfortable with both, and sometimes I just feel the need to bring it up. No problem, right? I was raised by Korean people, and in Korea, these things just aren't done. All good so far, right?

But, whenever I try to bring these up, whether I'm telling a friend not to write my name in red or asking them not to hit me in the goddamn face (they've since stopped, but the use of the phrase hasn't gone away), the response I get is never a polite, “Oh, sorry about that. I'll try not to do that from now on.”

No. The answer I get is invariably, “Well, good thing we're in America, huh?” followed by an optional “USA! USA!” depending on where this exchange is taking place.

Now, I have no problem with patriotism. People need something to distract themselves with when another society is brought up in the news. But does this have to extend into pride in your ignorance of other countries? Not only are you proud of the fact that you have no idea about the social customs of another person, you refuse to accommodate them. As if your place of birth entitles you to be an ass.

I'm not saying you have to obsessively research the nuanced customs of every ethnic person you know. No, that's led to the War on Christmas and the silent, self-struggle of Christianity in accepting this multi-cultured world, and that's just dumb. You will be ignorant about some things. You are human, and that's okay. I can't say otherwise, because I am also human. All I ask is that if the person is your friend, whom you've know for a while, and has brought it up politely-- politely, mind you-- that your actions conflict a bit with their social comfort, then please, just politely agree to stop doing that, and it'll be fine.

Even if you are polite, smile, nod and say, “Oh, sorry about that. I'll try to stop doing that in front of you,” you will not spontaneously combust.

No matter how you choose to deal with it, do not say, “Well, good thing we're in America, huh?”

(self-entitled little...)

Because, too bad not everyone who lives in America is an American.

Thank you.

In fact, this doesn't even apply only to Americans. All of you. I'm asking this of all of you. Be polite. Just... please. 

_______________

Do you guys think you can handle another rant?

Yes?

Yay!

No?

Too bad.

I got two more comin'. So just skip down to my final comments if you don't feel like reading, 'kay?

______________

There is this delightful girl who is also on staff at my school's magazine. Every morning, when we're told to stand up for the Pledge of Allegiance to this wonderful country of freedom (because, as a citizen of this country, you're obligated to swear fealty to a piece of fabric you can buy for a buck), she always claims that she refuses “to pledge allegiance to a land of corruption.” Sometimes, she'll refuse to stand and get shouted at, either by one of the editors or by the supervising teacher.

It's really a wonderful way to start every other day at school.

It's not. I hope you all could perceive my sarcasm, because I hardly find people or countries delightful or wonderful. If at all.

In any case, I think I would have agreed with her and sympathized a couple of years ago, but now... Now, all the little teenagers screaming for independence and fighting against the norm... I find it very futile, and a little bit amusing, if I'm able to find that much sentiment at 8:30 in the morning.

That isn't to say I don't understand it at all. Even I sometimes find myself dreaming of the freedom of adulthood, though I doubt I'll ever find it. But that's not my point.

My point is that she truly is very sour about it. All she has to do is stand up to show respect. No one's going to shout at her for not saying the pledge-- everyone recognizes that countries are corrupt, anyway-- but it's just the lack of respect.

Do I respect America? I may have to give a begrudging “Yes.” Perhaps I do, the idea of it, and it's accomplishments. America's been able to do some great things, some terrible things, and some downright embarrassing things. But it's a country that's populated by humans. What do you expect, eh?

But I am a little sad that she tries so hard to rebel. I'm not trying to be motherly, or patronizing, or snarky (well... not completely. Not towards her, anyway). What I mean is, why does she feel the need to vocalize her opinion of America? Every morning? Even the most adamant patriots recognize that America just sucks sometimes (though they somehow feel a sort of misplaced pride in it).

Again, she doesn't have to say the pledge out loud. She won't get in trouble for that. She just needs to stand up and think about how intelligent she is for not being fooled by the media and politicians.

Besides, it's not like she'd really be pledging to a land of corruption. The pledge is someone swearing their allegiance to a flag and what the flag represents. And the flag represents freedom, and equality through struggle. So, in pledging allegiance, she is not swearing fidelity to a country of oafish politicians, massive consumerism, football and fat kids. She's swearing allegiance to a magical land where everyone's equal and healthy and happy and loving. In this country, democracy works, and people aren't subconsciously unforgiving racists, and everyone loves each other. Money grows on trees and every week, cake and pie and cookies fall from the sky onto millions of kind, accepting, intelligent, and artistic individuals who are productive and innovative.

It's like Oz, or Narnia, this wonderful country of America.

So don't be afraid to pledge you're allegiance. It's all a farce, anyway, but it's nice to pretend.

_____________

I came upon a rather unsettling discovery yesterday, and even now it makes me feel ill.

Loss. I feel loss, like something that was vitally important to my childhood was wrenched away from me while I wasn't looking.

The discovery?

American cheese isn't real cheese.

Ha! Just kidding!

The joke here is that I totally mean it.

I feel like I've been lied to. By an entire country.

Okay, so, yeah, I grew up in Canada, that magical nation just north of the good ol' US of A, so maybe I should've known this, as Canada's really just a lesser-known version of America, but this really hit me hard.

American cheese isn't real cheese. You know, it can't legally be sold as cheese. In the US. American cheese cannot be sold as “cheese” in America. No, it has to be labeled as processed cheese, or some other term that lets people know it's not real cheese. Did you know it's called plastic cheese in the UK? That sh*t ain't real cheese.

I mean, I never liked American cheese that much anyway-- I prefer white cheeses, myself. But I've always thought, you know, that it was an actual cheese, or maybe a type of cheese. There are different types of cheddar, right? I thought it was like that. I thought it was a type of cheddar with freedom and fireworks and reality TV and unicorn sh*t mixed in, you know?

They recently added a deli line to my school's cafeteria. Like, the ladies take bread, put some turkey or ham or chicken on it, cheese, slap some lettuce, tomatoes, onions, some mayo if you're weird (I like mayo) in front of you. And they put it under a panini press and it's legit food, and it tastes like food. Quality stuff, as far as cafeteria food goes. And the most popular cheese to put on these sandwiches? American. (I usually go for provolone or mozzarella. I have seen a couple people who don't know what provolone is. Am I weird for letting that bother me? You know what? Leave me alone.)

I always thought it was a nice patriotic gesture. American kids eating American cheese, and all is right with the world. And it is, in a way. Processed meat stuff, processed bread stuff, processed soup stuff, processed I-don't-know-what-the-f*ck-that-is-maybe-you-shouldn't-eat-it stuff. It's very American, okay. But if you're going to put a nationality in the name of of a food, it's like you're trying to define that nation's cuisine, and, in a way, the nation itself, through that food. French bread, Swiss chocolate, Belgian waffles. Good stuff, all of it.

But then you've got American cheese. Processed whatsit made of milk, some semi-edible by-product a farm sold for cheap and whatever was on the floor that didn't have eyes and wasn't moving.

So, it turns out, Kraft's patriotic, trumpet-filled marketing campaign wasn't just a ploy to exploit the people's love for their country. “Kraft, the American cheese” is truly American cheese.

America, land of the free, home of the brave, country of democracy and capitalism, victor of wars and second to no country.

America.

Land of processed cheese, and we are proud.

But, seriously, no. Don't call it cheese. It ain't cheese. Call it sandwich slices or processed dairy product-- whatever the cheap stuff has in fine print. Because that ain't cheese and I will not stand for it.

FINAL COMMENTS.

SKIP TO HERE IF YOU DIDN'T FEEL LIKE READING THAT CRAP

So, I will pretend as if I have more than, say, three readers (if that) and ask you guys to comment on any (or all) of the following questions:

a) What kind of cheese do you like best? It's okay to say American (EVEN THOUGH IT'S NOT A REAL CHEESE).

b) If you don't like cheese, tell me why you don't. In case you're answer's something like, “It smells,” tell me about an embarrassing incident that involved cheese. Or any incident. Just comment.

c) What terribly politically incorrect/socially unacceptable atrocity have I written this time? Feel free to ignore all rules of grammar, punctuation, spelling and capitalization, and use as many internet abbreviations as you wish.

d) Should the name of this blog be changed to “Complaints and Grievances”?

I don't think I'm an otaku. Also, some grievances

Hi.
It has been a while.
So, hi. It's... um... been a while. 
So... yeah. 


Um, and the first thing I will do sine coming back to this blog will be... complaining. As I always do, and as you can tell by the title. 


I went to tae-kwon-do for the first  time in a week. It was also the first time since elementary school that I almost threw up. My eyes were watering and everything. But I hadn't been there in a week, and I've been sleeping pretty badly the past few weeks, because of a mix of homework, tests and just plain bad judgement. However, because we didn't spar today, I was not in an awful mood after, and so I am able to enjoy my Friday. 
____________________




SKIP THIS IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ A RANT!!!!!!!!!!!!


You know, I realized today that I am probably no longer an otaku. Yes, I have a collection of manga and I like anime, but I watch maybe two episodes once a week. Pathetic, I know, but it is still enough for me to call myself an otaku, since I still enjoy talking about manga. However, the biggest indication of my otaku-self dying came today during lunch.


Some girl from the Japanese Club (that sounds a bit bitter, but I am a bit bitter towards her for reasons other than what I am about to relate to you) asked one of my friends if she liked Pandora Heart. She said she loved it, and they launched into a heated conversation about it, and for whatever reason, I was locked out of it even though I love that series to f*cking death. But that's not my point. She said, dramatically, looking off into the air just above her head:
Gilbert is my favorite anime character ever.


Which is fine. Gil is adorable and he deserves that. But. Oh, but, she didn't pronounce his name as "Gilbert." She said it as "Giruberuto," as in the romaji for it, or how it would be pronounced in the Japanese language.


Now, I understand that Pandora Hearts is a Japanese manga created by a (talented) Japanese women and published in Japan, but Gilbert is a western name. Just pronounce it as it's supposed to be pronounced. You wanna put a Japanese accent on a Japanese name, go for it. I will love you to death for it. But Giruberuto? No. Just, f*cking....


And this was what told me that I am no longer an otaku. A year ago, I would've been fine with it. I would have understood it; it would have made sense to me. That's the scary thing. A year  ago, saying his name like that would have made sense to me. But today I just wanted to scream at her for it. The *****ing weaboo. That was what I thought.


Am I making too big a deal about this? I'll say Kinomoto Sakura or Kurozaki Ichigo with a Japanese accent. They're Japanese characters with Japanese names. But Mochizuki Jun meant for Gilbert to be pronounced as f*cking Gilbert. Mimicking the Japanese accent like that is, frankly, patronizing and a little bit insulting, isn't it? I understand that anime fans love Japan and, for various reasons, want to act as Japanese as possible, but, really, must they? 


Do you have to add "nya!" or "day-soooo" or "kuh-waaah-ee" to every sentence? Do you have to use "baka" at any opportunity to insult somebody, and then laugh at them because they don't watch anime or read manga or interact with anything remotely Japanese and thus have no possible way of knowing what it means? Do you have to worship j-rock and visual-kei like sun gods and does every second you spend reading have to be manga? 


Because, I am (was) an otaku. I watch(ed) a ton of anime. I learned Japanese and am proficient. I learned a f*cking thing or two about Japan and I can accept a Japanese person being not awesome because, frankly, the majority aren't. Which is the case with any nationality; I am not bashing Japan in any way. I like very few Japanese artists. I also read. Real novels. Like, upwards of 200 hundred pages, real literature from various countries. 


What really worries me, though, is the realization that, Oh sh*it, otaku-ism has probably been like this. For a while. I just never noticed. I went through an intense weaboo phase, but it went away by the time I reached high school. But it feels like the world I chose to assimilate myself into , the world I chose to put in effort to understand has, in fact, all been a farce. People who like anime are not multi-culturally minded. They don't like putting more than a certain amount of effort to learn new things. They're frikking morons. Maybe it was because I avoided uber-Japanophiles like the plague, but I never noticed it until now. They're all just a bunch of rebellious teenagers who want to stick it to society. They want to say "Oh, I'm so open minded I watch animes and I loves Japan and its awesome and I wanna live there and be a mangaka cuz my parents and classmates are all close-minded idiots but looky here I'm watching anime like an individual! **** yeah!" 


But they're not. And everyone's like this. Sure, most people grow out of it, but why must it be to this much of an extent for such a long time? Do they not realize how stupid they sound, even to fellow otaku like me? 


So by the time their awful conversation ended, I decided.
I don't want to be an otaku anymore.


From now on, I am a casual anime fan who's watched a few series. And that is all, and I will be proud of it.


END OF RANT
_____________________


When I was buying lunch a couple days ago, one of my classmates kept trying to talk to me. He said, "it's called small talk."


I really need to work on my social skills...






ALSO
I am teaching myself how to juggle. I can almost juggle three balls. As in I throw each of them once, catch them, and then realize I'm not coordinated to keep going from there. I am working on it, and it is very fun.


I am really, really sorry about this post. More of it was complaining than I meant for it to be. I am so, so sorry. 


And I probably won't be back for another three weeks. 


Again, I am so sorry, readers.


I'll try (again, TRY) reaaaally hard to write something more intelligent next time. I promise, okay?


Okay. 

Not opinionated enough

I haven't really looked at my blog in probably close to a month, even though something akin to pride doesn't want me to admit that.


Anyway, it has come to my attention that I now have 16 followers.
Wow.
Last time I checked, I think I had 12 or 13? 
So, uh, I can't really tell which of you are new, since the list of followers on my dashboard doesn't appear to be arranged in any logical way, so, whoever you three are, welcome!


I honestly don't know how long you've been here, but I'm sorry for having not noticed you til now... Heh heh....


Um, so, you've probably looked around and read a few of my (mistake-riddled, rambling, thoughtless, opinionated...) posts and you haven't been scared off, so that is probably a good sign. 


Thanks for following, and, again, I want to reiterate that I will not be held liable for any mental conditions that may have been caused by reading this, including (but not limited to) acute and chronic cynicism, extreme exasperation, uncontrollable anger, and total loss of faith in society.


*Ahem*


Anyway, I'd love to stay longer, but I still have an editorial to frikking rewrite because it's not opinionated enough.


Can you imagine? Me, my writing, not opinionated? 
AHAHAHAHAHAHA
I can imagine that reaction from one particular follower, though I'm fairly sure he doesn't read this anymore. Which would be totally cool; it's not a bad thing at all. 


But it may be because I suck at saying no and was assigned an article on something I couldn't give a **** about. I couldn't even force myself to be biased after hours of research. 


Still. Can you imagine?


Not enough opinion...

Day one: Wonderful

Just... 
I don't even...


School.


Today was the first day of school.
And it was awful.


I mean, it certainly wasn't the worst possible day in the world, but it was much, much worse than freshman year. So much worse. 


I have math first thing on A-days. Wonderful. I actually don't mind that, but it's too damn early to think! Anyway, most of the class consisted of people from summer school. I may have talked to one or two people in summer school, but one of them is in another period and the others are waaay on the other side of the room. We have assigned seating, but it'll change, so maybe it'll be okay. Or maybe I'll make friends with the people at my table. Pfft. 
But. 
Since we were going to every class, we were in first period for 20 minutes. I decided to write up some character sketches since we weren't doing much. But then I realized. One of the characters I was about to write up had the same name as the guy beside me. So I had to quit writing out of embarrassment. It's really no big deal, but I hate having characters with names of people I know. 


I knew a couple people in most of my classes-- check that, I knew many people in most of my classes but I dislike almost all of them. It's terrible being antisocial, since I can't even work up the effort to pretend I like talking to them. 


Also. 7th period.
My homeroom teacher from last year is a sophomore english teacher, but for whatever reason, he also has a junior english class, and I was put into that class. Since I'm always put in 7th period english and I had a friend who always had that class that period, it was my only chance at having a class with a friend I could talk to about manga and yaoi and shit.


But.


She was in a different class.
And I do not like the students in my class one bit.
And all the noise from that class gave me an awful headache (which still hasn't gone away, thank you so much, fellow juniors.) 




So, my brother entered high school today, and his only problem seemed to be boredom. My only problems were crushing disappointment, loneliness and an awful headache. 


I hope you have a wonderful high school like, Bro. Enjoy it for the both of us. 














To end on a brighter note, apparently someone from my homeroom caught my brother running around the courtyard this morning, arms outstretched and yelling like a maniac. He does this. And he does worse. Often. 


So, all in all, today was wonderful. 
I hope you all have had a wonderful day, too. 

Dun dun DUNNNNNN

Oh. My. Divine. Entity. Of. Questionable. Existence.


School starts tomorrow.
I am slightly terrified.
But partially because I haven't felt that "Daaaannggg summer is soooo looongggg.... When's school gonna staarrrtttt?" at all this summer. Usually by this time, I'm like, I don't wanna admit it, but I can't wait for school. |:<


Right now, I just want two more weeks. Not two weeks of work my parents told me to do, but two weeks of time wasting and sleeping.


Cuz I've had approximately three days total of doing nothing but wasting time and sleeping. 




Also, I'm pretty sure that crayons/tigers/zombies story ain't coming. Not this summer, anyway. I'm sorry. It'll come eventually. Someday. Someday, that story shall come. 


___________________


I really want to do a short comic about motorcycles. But. I can't draw motorcycles. At all. But I shall try. 


I also realize that maybe I should try writing stories in a realistic setting for once in a while. Stop doing fantasy and try out realistic fiction for a change.












Maybe. 
Someday.

I am a pansy (also, sorry about the lameness)

Since I've gotten my orange belt in Tae-Kwon-Do, I have to now partake in free sparring so I can practice all the techniques on a real person.


This started a couple weeks ago. I struggled into my arm pads and chest protector and stared nervously at the black belt across from me. 


The instructor barked a sharp "Begin!" in Korea, and I realized.


I am a pansy. 


I don't like hitting people. I don't. I don't care if they have protective gear on, or if my wussy kicks wouldn't do any damage if they had them off. I don't like hitting people.


Because I am a pansy. 


I just thought I should get that out there.


____________________




I was (and still am) working on a continuation of that short story from the last post. It takes place four years after the event of that story, and that's pretty much all I will say about it.


But struggling to write part 2 made me realize...
I don't know how a 12-year-old thinks. Or acts. It's been, oh, three and a half years since I was twelve. Do I remember how I was back then? Not really. I was kinda depressed and kinda cynical and kinda nothing like the narrator of the story, so that really doesn't help me.


So I wrote a first draft, and I liked it. I ran it through my mother, and I asked, Would a 12-year-old do that? (Sorry, no spoilers)


She looked at me and said, Would a 12-year-old do that? 


I thought.
And realized... No. A twelve-year-old would not do whatever it was that he did, unless he was a serious case of arrested development. He still seemed to be eight-years-old. 


So, in a fit of self-directed rage, I tried to write a second draft.
 And I realized.
No!
Now he talks like he's 16. 


And so my struggles continue.






Also, school starts on Monday! Whoo hoo! 






















Just... kidding... I didn't....


I didn't mean that.

A Hawk Named Toad

(ALSO: This post looks pretty long, but I was just cheating cuz i wrote a story O: )


Ok, I know I just posted yesterday, but I woke up today at 6 am and ate breakfast for the first time in close to a year.


I just thought that should be noted.
While I was awake at 6am, I wrote a short story. 2 of them. One of them was crap and the other turned out okay. So, I am going to take a gamble and put that second story on this blog and hope no one hates me for it. It's a really stupid story. But I thought of the idea one day when coming out of the shower (which is when many great epiphanies are had) and...


Actually, I just thought it would be cute if in some story or other, there would be a character with a pet hawk and, for whatever reason, that hawk's name was Toad. So I started the story in a way that begs for a continuation and, depending on how the two or three people who read this blog react, I may or may not continue it and put the messy result here. 


So. 
Here's my crap story.
Also, it's about eight-year-olds (more accurately, about the main characters when they were eight.) I had also planned on giving their names but then I forgot about it because I'm a f***ing idiot. But I think it reads fairly well without the names anyway. If (IF) I ever continue it (which, frankly, I probably will, but I probably won't let it see the light of day) then the names will be given.


Also (again), the paragraphing will be a bit weird because most of this is dialogue, so I decided to group together a bunch of lines. Just assume that they always take turns speaking and the person who did the action just before the dialogue is probably speaking first.  
Looking at it again, it really is mostly dialogue... O.o




_____________________________


A Hawk Named Toad

I first met him when I was about eight. In fact, it was my eighth birthday. My family had been planning to throw me a birthday party in the garden but work had prevented either of them from coming. I'd escaped my grandmother's consolatory tea party-- a tradition from when I turned three-- to the hills outside my town.

My entire world was made up of a large town enclosed by huge walls. I never even considered the possibility that there could be anything beyond those walls for many years.

“Have you seen Toad?”

I looked over to the scruffy-looking boy who'd climbed up my hill, a bit angry that he was disturbing my solitude.

“No, there aren't any toads around here. There aren't any ponds, stupid.”

“Huh?” The boy scrambled to me and sat. “No, I don't mean a real toad. I'm talking about my pet hawk.”

“Then ask if I saw a hawk, stupid.”

“But his name is Toad.”

I mulled over this for a moment. It made little sense to me. “So, he's a hawk.”

“Yeah.”

“But his name is Toad.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Even though it's a hawk and not a toad.”

“Yup. You catch on quick.”

“Why?” Even after saying it out loud, it made no sense to me.

“Uh... I dunno. I mean, I found him last week when I was looking for toads,” he amended quickly when he saw my glare.

I stared at the grass at my feet and picked at it.

“That's stupid.”

“You say stupid a lot,” the boy said.

I stared at him.

Just then, there was a high-pitched squawk in the air. A small brown bird of prey circles over us.

“It's a hawk! Run away or it'll take your eye out!”

“Now you're being stupid.” The boy stood up and the hawk landed on his arm. “You wouldn't take anyone's eye out, would you, Toad? Not unless it's a bad guy, right?”

I stayed seated but on my guard. “How can you tell that hawk from the others?”

The boy thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “I just know. Toad is Toad. Other hawks are other hawks.”

The boy took a bug from his pocket and held it to the bird's beak. I shuddered as it snatched it up, still wriggling and alive, in its beak.

“That's gross!”

“Quiet, he's eating. There's a good Toad. You're gonna have to find more food yourself, though. You can't rely on my forever.”

The boy petted the bird's beak and it squawked happily. I stared at them with some envy. I was supposed to be having fun a good time, not this scruffy kid from no where!

“Oh, I gotta go. Uncle's gonna get angry again.” The hawk flew from the boy's arm as he walked down the hill.

“Hey!” I called after him, “Today's my birthday!”

The boy paused and half turned toward me. “Happy birthday! How old are you?”

“I'm eight! When's you're birthday?”

The boy's eyes widened, and dropped to the grass. He scuffed it with a shoe. “I dunno.”

“Do you know how old you are?”

“Not really. Probably around your age.”

“I got it!” I ran down to him and took his hands. “Today's your birthday, too! Happy birthday!”

He smiled. “And how old am I?”

“You're eight years old, too! Congratulations!”

He smiled again and laughed.

“We gotta sing!”

“What?”

“When it's someone's birthday you gotta sing!”

“What're the words?”

“Something like... Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Sing along!”

“Is that it?”

I nodded furiously and dragged him back to the top of the hill.

“Happy birthday, happy birthday! Happy birthday to you!”

We fell to the ground laughing.

“You're an awful singer.”

I laughed again. “Well, we got plenty more birthdays, so I'll get better.”

“Haha, you bet.”

We lay sprawled in the grass like that for hours, a hawk named Toad circling above us in congratulation. 

________________________

I saved this for last because it's not important and I bet you've all left by now.

In elementary school,  I wrote a book of poetry with a friend.

Actually, I wrote all the poems but two. O.o 

I actually wrote a lot of poetry in fifth sixth grade, which is strange because I don't think too much of poetry now. 

Anyway, I was looking over it recently and I just wincing at the awful emo-ness of my eleven-year-old self. 

However.

There are fourteen pages of poetry. The first seven or so, I remembered the bitter self-entitlement behind every word I hit onto that word document so long ago. 

But then.

Come page eight or so...

I didn't remember writing those poems.

At all.

Reading them over once or twice did nothing. I had no recollection of those poems. Not even small phrases. I vaguely wondered if maybe some little elf had hacked into my computer and wrote the things but from the style they were definitely mine.

I just hope that never happens to me again.