Why I'm Awesome (Part 7 of 7,412): MARSHMALLOW

Before I get going here I'd like to say something to my compadres at Social Entropy ++:

• I miss each and every single one of you little shitsmokers, my new job is keeping me super busy


• I'm really sorry I won't be at PAX, it's killing me to know that it's this weekend and I won't be there


• I can't get on AIM or MSN at my new job, I can only use Skype, so stop crying at me you blubbering vaginas


• I occasionally check the forums but those chances I get are view and far between… I can't post much at work and after work and on the weekend I'm busy having a life that involves my general aura of awesomosity being shared with people who can enjoy its presence in exchange for many hugs


• ABLOOABLOOABLOO


• Okay now I'm going to go back to acting like I'm better than all of you because I have a spiffy job a bitchin' bod the best hair in the world and basically everything that you don't have ready GO

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

I started out this tirade of 7,412 obnoxiously long blog entries with a not-so-brief explanation of one of my two main strengths. These two strengths, as I mentioned before, are traits of my personality that I have found great confidence in, which, if you know me at all, you'll realize is a pretty big deal for someone as self-conscious and doubt-ridden as myself.

That first strength, you may or may not recall, is that I am very able to express myself. No matter how abstract, I can put just about anything into a verbally communicable form. I love that I have this skill, as it makes me a good communicator, and I do it well.

The second strength is that I can take good emotional care of myself. Generally speaking, I know exactly what I need to do to get over a rough patch in the heart zone.

Whether it's a bout of overwhelming depression, cuss-laden rage, or even just bouncy happiness, I'm generally able to make the most of it all without much outside counseling.

I know when I need to talk it out, when I need to shout, when I need to sweat it out, when I need to numb it, enjoy it, thrive on it, ignore it, suppress it, write about it, bitch about it, confront it, etc. It took me a long time to get to this stage, too. A lot of it comes down to a familiarity with oneself and, perhaps above all, honesty.

I've had to admit many things about myself, almost all of them negative in nature. I am stubborn, hot-tempered, loud, stubborn, validation-seeking, foul-mouthed, stubborn, pissy, whiny, bitchy, stubborn, obstinate, hard-headed, adamant, pigheaded, tenacious, and stubborn. (You might notice an ongoing theme there, I'm not sure.)

More than anything else, I am a stubborn person. When it comes to controversial debate, I may be convinced to accept a different viewpoint or even change my existing one, but this is only after I have ensured (with a tenacity that the Chan Clan is infamous for) that my point has been heard…without any chance of misinterpretation. When it comes to my emotional well-being, it's an arena wherein you just won't survive.

When I'm happy, there is very little that can stop me from being happy until I am good and ready to let the outside world come in and beat the crap out of me like it does to all of us. Likewise, when I'm depressed, I need to just sit there and BE SAD for a while before I will even entertain attempts to cheer me up. Most of you know what I'm like when I'm pissed off, but it's the same basic principle: I will go ahead and be pissed until I am damn well ready to not be pissed anymore.

How I handle things while being in an extremely emotional state is my true skill, because it ensures the longest recovery time for the so-called "bad stuff."

For example, if you go back several/many blog posts, you'll see one entitled "What Happened" or something to that effect, which is me talking about what is nowadays referred to as the "subway incident." I was pissed beyond reason and upset and I knew what I had to do to get over it as humanely as possible while sparing my landlord the need to clean up bloodstains from punching my fist into a wall a few too many times.

First thing I did when I got home was, well, slam the door a couple of times and perhaps smash the palm of my hand ridiculously hard into the wall of my bookshelf, just to get some pain going there. Then I picked up the phone with trembling fingers and pressed and held the number 2.

Michelle answers the phone, I tell her what happened, and with her ever-glorious understanding of what it means to be pissed off, basically egged me on in my violent, loud, and utterly unreasonable tirade of death threats, disembodiment designs, and a slew of swear words that make what I say on a daily basis the stuff of babies and rainbows and puppies and marshmallows and lollipops. She knew as well as I did that I just needed to be angry to have someone there to hear me be angry.

It's not about logic, it's not about comfort, and it's certainly not about making sense. So amidst cries for castration and various methods of asphyxiation, Michelle threw down her agreement and, without saying it outright, her understanding that I just needed to be pissed. I love her for it and it's why I called her first.

Next, after hanging up with Michelle, I pressed and held the number 3.

Romain picks up and I fill him in on what happened, this time with a much more tearful accompaniment. Death threats ensue yet again, some of which probably made him a tad bit uncomfortable since I was basically mentioning male genitalia every other second, but this time with more of an emphasis on making ME feel better about what happened. My conversation with Michelle was more of a "how do I make this guy suffer as much as possible" deal.

This conversation was slightly longer since, as is expected of Romain, he laced a bit of "ok let's make sense and start calming down here a bit" into the phone, which ultimately had its effect. I took a shower and then picked up the phone one more time, pressing and hold the number 7.

As I talked to Chuck, I was much, much calmer, with minimal swearing (by my standards) and a much more rational recount of events. I asked if I could sleepover at his place, and in his very maternal way he said yes and offered to take good care of me. I went over, hung out with him and Romain and Michelle (who brought a bottle of Bailey's because she is just awesome) for the evening, eating an inordinate amount of American junk food and overdosing on cheese-in-a-can, having milkshakes at City Diner, and spent the night in Chuck's spare room.

Black Hawk Down, a violent movie dotted throughout with really hot men in uniform, was just, well, a perfect complement. The next afternoon saw a healthy three hours of volleyball, where the remainder of my rage was channeled out of me in the form of physical abuse on a bouncy ball that really never did anything to hurt me.

By Monday at Zapata's, I was pretty much fine and in a manageable enough mood to talk about what happened in a calm and conversational manner with my closest friends. Still a bit jumpy and nervous while on the subway, but nevertheless able to function as a wholly sane human being.

Breaking down this example, I took hold of my anger in stages that I knew would be most effective for me to get over what happened. Of course, this would never, ever have worked without the company of my friends. Of course, this also meant that I had to know them well enough to know how they'd respond to the incident and know if it's the kind of response I wanted. I bottled up my need for a physical outlet until Saturday, where I knew a good round of balls-to-the-wall volleyball would be just what I needed to get the last of the bad blood out.

This isn't to say that the friends not mentioned in this post were not also amazing in their support and love, because it really meant a lot to know that so many people cared. Basically, what I mean is that I know what I need in a support system to get over a trough in the utterly irregular (and often unfair) oscillations of life's pendulum. I would imagine that me behaving the way I did with other friends might've resulted in a ruined friendship, not because those "other" people are bad friends, but because of my own personality (and their reaction to it).

I have a very volatile temper, which is just a nice way of saying I'm a bitch with an anger problem. Not everyone gets to see me at my worst because I simply don't WANT people to see me at my worst. Sure I know most of my friends would never judge me, but for my part, the worst part about being caught in a round of utter depression or extreme anger is to know that people have seen me that way (and might react badly to it). You could say I fear that people would think of me as being weak because of it, but really, it's that self-conscious stuff I've said before.

Let's put it this way. At my absolute worst, I worry that my friends might actually end up afraid of me. I don't mean that in a "teehee you're so scary teehee" joking kind of way. I mean that in a "holy shit this bitch is fucking nuts quick hide the knives" kind of way. I worry that people might shy away from me in fear of ever seeing me in such a state ever again.

It's because of that that I refused to see anyone until I was already calm. Shouting on the phone is bad enough…it's another for someone to be there and see me when I'm in such a rage.

I wish I were exaggerating but I'm really not. At my very worst I am almost always alone in person. My bitchy behavior that is visible on a day-to-day basis…you all know that that's just how I am. I am very seldom truly vindictive when I behave that way. No one, absolutely no one, has seen me when I have been truly, righteously angry. I doubt anyone ever will.

That's anger, I guess. Sadness is different. Depression depends on the circumstances that brought it about. Sometimes, I want to have people around me to hug me or comfort me. Other times, I want to be alone to cry it out for a while, then maybe talk it out later.

I know exactly what kinds of outlets I need whenever I hit a rough spot, and it's not the same for all cases. I call it a skill because, based on my own personal experience, a lot of people don't know what to do to get themselves out of their own emotional traps. I honestly don't know how I know what to do…I just do. Instinct, maybe.

Thing is, it's different for everyone. Some people need to talk it out. Some people need to have it out. Some people need to cry or scream or punch it out. Many times, people do not need what you think they need, no matter how well you think you know them as a person. It comes down to the individual and, as I said, I guess a lot of it means you have to be really honest with yourself: what kind of person are you?

I could go a bit farther and say that the way you handle your own emotional states (or, better put, what you need to recover from emotional duress) tells a lot about the kind of person you are.

I'm an incredibly sensitive, insecure individual (to an almost alarming degree, if you really got into my head) who wears her anger on her sleeve as a shield to cover up all cracks and soft spots. There isn't a thing I wouldn't do for most people, but I don't want them to know that. Oh, it's true: I'm a steel-coated melted marshmallow.

Rub that fact in my face and I'll take it out on yours.

Keeses.

Why I'm Awesome (Part 6 of 7,412): NUMBERS

So you might wonder why there are only 7,412 parts that go into explaining the full scale of my awesomosity. That's right, I said only. It is, as opposed to popular belief, not an arbitrary number.

I was going to do something mathematically nifty, like how 13 is most people's unlucky number, right, and since I am so fantastic that I cancel out all negative effects of negative objects, you split up the 1 and the 3 in the number itself and also the value of the number 13. Breaking it apart, you get 1, 8, 5, 3. Why? 1 and 3 from the 13 get split apart so they're on polar ends of the number. 8 + 5 = 13, and I chose those numbers because they are two lucky numbers in Chinese culture, 8 because when spoken aloud it sounds like the word for prosperity. 5 because it means self or "me" and it can also mean "nothing," which I then interpret as me being equal to nothing.

So that gives 1,853. Multiply that by the number of people in my immediate family, including myself, because we are the core parts of what makes me awesome, and that's four. 4 x 1,853 = 7,412.

I was going to do something like that but then didn't.

7,412 actually comes from three very important numbers: 7, 4, and 12. All three were my numbers when I played volleyball.

12 comes last because it's technically the least important to me. I was this number because at the time, the International School of Beijing didn't have custom uniforms and I was a fatass to end all fatasses. The uniforms the school DID have were scaled by size, so 1 was the smallest and 12 was the largest. Iping, if he's reading this as he damn well should be, is well aware of how this works. Andie, too, of course, and the rest of the 1999-2000 ISB Volleyball Team.

4 is next because it's my first ever volleyball number and, therefore, slightly more important than 12. When I first joined the 14-and-Under Volleyball Team at Brent International School, Manila, 4 was the number assigned to me. I don't remember why or how it became mine, it just kinda showed up on the back of my first ever volleyball jersey. Like 12, I was 4 for just one year.

7 has always been my favorite and most important number, not because it tends to be the favorite of many other people. For a long time before I even started playing volleyball, I liked that "seven" contained a V right smack dab in the middle of the number, it was the month I'd been born in, and mostly I just liked how it showed up a lot in my life. (We lived in the 7th floor in our apartment in Hong Kong, we lived at house #167 in Beijing and 1 + 6 = 7, 7 days in a week, etc.) As far back as I can remember, it's been my favorite number. There was even a period of time wherein it was my nickname. People would call me "Sev" or "Seven" instead of "Viv" or "V" as per usual.

(It was a bit weird, I'll admit.)

Volleyball is more than a way for me to keep in shape while escaping the excessive boredom that accompanies a trip to the gym. It gave me confidence and saved me from what would otherwise have been a dismal, empty stage of my life.

It is as large a part of my personal therapy as writing is. It was once the crutch for my self-esteem, being the only thing I was good at in high school, the only thing I was even marginally respected for. Now it keeps me in shape, helps me let out my frustration with work or with life, it's an avenue through which I meet all kinds of people, and it brings a smile to my face just to be playing a sport I love.

I hate the gym and I hate exercising alone. I would prefer to play a sport with a team.

I hate being bad at a sport and I hate losing. I would prefer to play a sport that I'm good at and have a chance of winning.

SOLUTION: volleyball.

So at this point you are probably still marveling at how I pulled a mathematical explanation behind a number that I chose completely at random out of the crack of my ass so you're very likely not paying buttloads of attention to what I have to say about volleyball.

Now you're thinking about butts.

Mission accomplished.

Why I'm Awesome (Part 5 of 7,412): SARA

A couple of years ago, on a much older blog written by a much younger me, I recounted an incident that happened when I was in Hong Kong one Christmas. I'll recount it here, now, for the purposes of introducing a topic inspired by something I saw on the bus on the way to work today.

For those of you are familiar with Hong Kong, I was in Causeway Bay with my mom and sister, picking up snack foods to populate the over-priced minibar at the Excelsior Hotel (oooh fancy). Our destination? Wellcome {sic}, a very popular supermarket that, like most supermarkets and convenience stores in Hong Kong, accept the Octopus Card as a form of payment. For those not familiar with Hong Kong, the Octopus Card is a store-value card that can be used to pay for any form of public transportation in Hong Kong and can also be used at places like McDonald's, Wellcome, 7-Eleven, and the like. My former boss in Hong Kong could use it to get into his building and had it automatically charge up with money from his credit card whenever the balance dipped below HK$50. Spiffy.

But I digress.

While at the supermarket and possibly wondering if I could finagle an extra-large package of my favorite fish snack (don't ask if you don't already know what it is) out of my mother—in spite of the fact that I was 20/21 years old at the time—I happened to overhear a little girl's voice crying, rather shrilly as most such children do, "Mommy! Mommy! Moooooommmmmmmeeeeeeeeee!"

At first I passed off this assault on my aural senses as a typical child whining about how Mommy wouldn't get her an extra set of batteries (because I was standing right next to a giant rack of Energizer and Duracell products at the time) or whatever it is kids nowadays whine about not getting enough of. At length, however, my instincts told me to at least spare the little girl a sympathetic glance.

It was then that my astute observation skills noted that she was alone, with no one resembling her "Mommy" in the vicinity. She was a little brunette girl who could've been Canadian or American judging by her accent (which wasn't exactly discernable through the onslaught of hiccoughing sobs), probably four years old and not very much higher than my knee. She was clutching a stuffed toy of what looked like a mix of a rabbit and a pig and her face was in tears…not of the crocodile variety, but the red-faced kind that basically spelled out the fact that she was scared out of her mind.

Acting immediately, I knelt down in front of the girl and asked where her mommy was. I looked her in the eye and gave her a little smile and, after she'd calmed down enough to look at me, put a reassuring hand on her shoulder (I only touched it, I didn't grip it). She told me her Mommy was lost and she didn't know where to find her. I tucked a lock of hair behind the girl's ear and told her that I'd help her find her Mommy if she could tell me what she looked like. Brown hair. Pink shirt. Long and wavy hair. Kinda tall. Not particularly helpful but getting her talking was naturally the best thing to do as it calmed her down some.

My mother and sister appear by my side with a timing that only the Chan women can pull off, and I fill them in very quickly and they both go off to find a woman matching the little girl's description.

My own task? To bring the girl to the checkout counters and find someone who could announce into the loudspeakers that the girl was lost and waiting near the entrance. I put a gentle hand on her back and started guiding her through the crowd, and as we walk I let my hand dangle down beside her. She took it and squeezed it really tightly, not wanting to let go. (You NEVER take a child's hand if you do not know her; you let your hand hang there and let her take it. It's a comfort thing. Some kids get really scared at that kind of thing and the last thing you need is someone flying off the handle when they're already terrified.)

I keep her talking, asking her very general questions as we walked, all the while my eyes keeping a look out for a pink shirt topped with wavy brown hair.

We're pretty close to the checkout counters when a woman comes by, looking frantic. She looks down at the girl, then up at me with wide eyes. The look she gave me in the split-second I saw it wasn't very kind…it was the "who are you and what are you doing with my daughter let her go this instant" kind of look, as though I was some kidnapper looking to make it out of the store while tricking the girl in to a false sense of security.

The girl instantly runs over to her in relief, and I explain simply that I found her daughter alone and crying and was worried about her. The girl adds, "The nice lady was helping me look for you, Mommy."

The mother looks up at me and, this time, gives me a grateful smile and a rushed thank you. They bustled out of the store and I haven't seen either of them since.

Today on the bus, I saw a young woman get out of her seat to let an older woman sit down.

What surprised me wasn't the fact that it'd happened, but that I was surprised that I was surprised. (INFINITE LOOP)

When did we forget to be good Samaritans? Coming from the biggest bitch on the block and possibly one of the most sarcastic, cynical families on the face of the earth (minus my mother, who through it all has always maintained a very level-headed and fair view of life in general), I know this is a pretty large pill to force down your gullet but stay with me here.

When we were younger, in kindergarten and grade school, we had all these little lessons. From Aesop's Fables to your sweet little teacher, you were told to share, to be nice, to smile, to have fun, etc etc etc. When did we forget all that? When did it become okay to stop doing those things just because "no one else does them or will appreciate them?" or because "if I do people will walk all over me?" When did those reasons start shutting up your conscience?

I say this not to be preachy, but because I know I am guilty of the same. I very seldom go out of my way to do something nice for a stranger just for the sake of doing something nice. In a city like Shanghai, your deed will very likely go unnoticed, unappreciated, and forever mark you as a doormat. It's not what you would call "worth it." And I'll be perfectly honest, the fact that it has to be "worth my while" for me to do something nice absolutely disgusts me. When did I get this way? Is it because I've been exposed to a harsh, uncaring bitch of a city like Shanghai that has forever disillusioned my view on the human race?

If I were to consider giving up my seat on the subway or bus for an elderly person, anyone who has spent any time in Shanghai will know that there's going to be some other jackass trying to weed their way into the seat, even though you intended it for a senior citizen. What would then ensue is a shouting match that ultimately does nothing but get you riled up. Not the best way to start your day, eh?

Let's take it an additional step back, to Hong Kong, circa December 2004. It wasn't the holiday season or anything like that, it was the fact that there was a crying little girl in a giant, high-traffic store all by herself in a city where people basically suck a giant shit-ton of ass. (The imagery here is stunning, I know.) A little girl alone in a store? Even if she hadn't been Caucasian I would've thought the same thing: kidnappers or some other form of asshat scumbag.

You can call me paranoid all you want, but that would simply mean that you just don't know Hong Kong like my family does.

Beyond the worry that the girl was in personal danger as well as scared that she would never see her Mommy again, the Mommy's reaction was something that got my gears turning a little more rapidly.

Of course she would assume I was a bad person, out to snatch her daughter and not look back. In Hong Kong, it's not because I'm Chinese. It's because I'm a stranger. And all "strangers" in Hong Kong basically suckass. It's a ridiculous air of mistrust that permeates the entire city from the Island to Kowloon, regardless of political, socioeconomic, or professional standing. I'm guilty of thinking this way, too.

My problem is that the logical reaction for the mother to have was to be wary of me. Why couldn't she assume the best of me? Give me the benefit of the doubt before giving me the stink eye? Thing is, I know the answer because, putting myself in her shoes (a feat I am so capable of doing), I would've very likely reacted the very same way.

Did I mention I was also disgusted with the fact that no one else had stepped up to help her right away? That everyone else just ignored her the way I did at first? Did I also mention that the fact that I just admitted to thinking the worst of people, even though that same attitude was thrown at me?

Nowadays it's so hard to just do something nice or think the best of people because you get so weighed down by the people who disappoint you or, worse, hurt you. You look at around, you see the very visible bad stuff, and it just gets to you. It's hard to do a nice thing when no one else seems to want to bother. (Notice I didn't say "right" thing, I said "nice" thing. It's not about right and wrong. It's about being a good Samaritan.) In a given day, I can riff off a list of all the shitty things I see in this city. I'm sure many other people in similar circumstances could do the same.

But how often do you sit back and take note of the good stuff that happens? The only reason the bad stuff sticks out is because it's so obvious and visible and, well, it pisses you off. I want to believe that, not unlike the probability of dying in a plane crash, you are a bazillion times more likely to spot the good in people than if you just step back and look at the big picture. You focus on the bad? On the disaster itself? Sure, you'll end up a cynical asshole like me. But for every bad deed you see, maybe try being fair to your own sense of well-being and try to notice when the good things happen, too?

I'm not going to lie here, folks. That's a very, very hard thing for me to believe even as I type it.

People will run down the street, so self-absorbed that they'll push each other over, knock each other out of the way, get in each other's way, cut in line, the whole nine. They just don't care. They do their own thing because hey, they come first.

It's a vicious cycle because that kind of treatment only breeds more of it.

I will probably never stop being a cynic. It's a sad thought, really, but I just can't help but think the worst of people, even when it bothers me that people probably think the worst of me. Even as I try to see the best in others, all I get is grief.

Is it really "today's world" that breeds this in people? The sense of self-entitlement? The self-centered arrogance that comes through in the simple fact that people can't be bothered to just say "thank you" or "please" or "excuse me," no matter how much such a small gesture might make someone else's day? The lack of necessity to pay attention when other people are talking? The motive behind any good deed being a giant slice of selfish self-gratitude?

I don't think so. I think this bullshit has been around forever, but because people are so self-centered they think it's "today's world." What do I mean? When you're young, you're taught all these valuable morals and lessons that you're supposed to carry with you for the rest of your life. But so very quickly, you find yourself looking into a festering cesspool of egotism, disrespect, self-importance, and false pretenses. So you think of the lessons you were taught as a kid, think they're supposed to apply "today" but they don't, and so you assume that something's wrong with the state of the world today. Newsflash: everyone was a kid once, everyone has been disillusioned.

I look around and shake my head at the world around me. My parents look around and shake their heads at the world around them. My grandparents looked around and shook their heads at the world around them. I'm absolutely sure my great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents, all the way back to the butchers of Shandong Province from whom I am descended, looked around and shook their heads at the world around them. (And for the love of god before you whine at me remember that history's just what you read on paper, plus, let's not forget that when thinking about the past, you're usually looking at it through rose-colored glasses.)

The thought of that doesn't comfort me. That doesn't make it okay for us to be this way. All it does it absolutely disgust me. People, past present and future, disgust me. I disgust me. Every so often you find a gem of a person who is truly, truly altruistic, who doesn't give a damn what anyone around them thinks and does something just to make someone else smile. But that's so rare because even the most virtuously good people get taken down so easily by the people around them.

Someone once quoted some saying at me that went "a good deed is its own reward" or some such high-minded bullshit. When I heard that for the very first time, I remember asking, in wide-eyed innocence, why there had to be a reward at all.

Even something so small as remembering some detail about someone is something "nice." It's such a tiny gesture but it makes that other person feel remembered and they feel good about themselves. What's it cost you to remember that someone grew up in Toronto and had a cat named Benny but they had to leave it behind because they were moving to Hong Kong?

What's it cost you to remember anything at all about the people around you, even if you're just meeting them for the very first time? A little bit of attention. Put yourself aside for once and just pay a little goddamned attention to the people around you instead.

Six billion people on this fucking planet, and a significant proportion of them can only seem to give a fuck about one. That's my cynicism right there. Never mind that the guy who just knocked me backwards rushing off the subway was probably trying to get to work so that he wouldn't lose his job so that he could feed his family, right? God I really hate myself sometimes.

What about just smiling at a stranger? I haven't done that in a long time. Not since college. Just smiling at someone not because you want to get in their pants or need something from them; I'm not going to list out the good things that can happen for you if you just smiled at a stranger. I'm not going to say "smile at someone because it will make you feel good, too." I'm going to say, smile at someone because it makes them feel good.

And guess what.

I'm sickened by the fact that right now a string of "consequences" for giving a stranger a smile are running through my head.

Fuck you, human race. And fuck you, me.

PS - See Jaya I totally didn't mention you in this blog thing at all.

PPS - Oops. :D

PPPS - I'm still awesome.

PPPPS - The little girl's name was Sara, she was born in Toronto and had a cat named Benny that she had to leave behind because her family was moving to Hong Kong. She was due to turn six years old on August 15th of the next year, and if my memory serves me correctly and this took place in December 2004, that means she is going to turn nine years old tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Sara.

PPPPPS - 2,878 words.