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.

Busy

It's been a pretty insane week for me. Let me list what's been going on (and what's coming up) for those who are less than well-informed as to my antics.

Saturday July 21: release of Harry Potter 7
Sunday July 22: my sister arrives for a week-long visit
Monday July 23: the usual trip to Zapata's for free booze with my sister in tow
Tuesday July 24: my birthday!
Wednesday July 25: finalizing my costume for Friday
Thursday July 26: arrival of my old friend Cheryl and preparations for Friday
Friday July 27: my last day at work, Michelle's birthday, our joint birthday party
Saturday July 28: one hell of a hangover followed by volleyball with the sister
Sunday July 29: Michelle's birthday brunch
Monday July 30: sister's departure, preparations for my new job, and Zapata's again
Tuesday July 31: transportation test run for my new job
Wednesday August 1: first day at the new job

It's a pretty well-booked calendar, if I do say so myself. For today's long-winded post, however, I will focus on just one thing: today is my last day at my current job.

This is the first full-time job that I've ever had, and I've been floating around in a surreal bubble of indifference ever since I turned in my resignation letter one month ago. Some that has to do with the fact that I can no longer stand this job, but most of it is to do with the fact that, for the last month up until today, this moment always seemed so far away.

Now it's hear, I've got a duffel bag in the corner of my cubicle, ready to pack up and leave for good.

This all hit me as I was walking up to my building and glanced up at it, realizing that, wow, this the last time I will ever make this trip to this office.

It's a bit of a sad thought, I know, particularly when you never know what will bring me back to these hallowed halls for whatever reason; if there's one thing my parents always reminded me, it was to never underestimate the power of your network of business contacts.

Still, I don't know if I will be coming back any time soon, if at all, so I must say that it is a bit overwhelming, and I'm not even sure if everything I have in the office with me will fit in the duffel bag!

Two years ago, I came to this office to help organize their Global Management Committee Meeting here in Shanghai, a meeting that is held every quarter and that brings the group's CEOs from around the globe to one city for a two-day meeting. It was following this two-week stint that I was offered a permanent position here at the company.

The company was new at the time, so they couldn't hire me right away because I'm not a Chinese national (being British by passport and Hong Kong ID by birth, I needed a work permit, which they couldn't apply for because they had not yet received their full operational license). As a result, I worked at the office's Asia Pacific counterpart Hong Kong for three months, working long-distance on a project for the China office.

November 19, 2005, I arrive in Shanghai, looking for an apartment with my mother and father helping me along. November 23, 2005, I come to the office to report for my first day at work.

What followed was 20 months of what can only be described as an experience I will never forget. From running translations to project management to sitting around being bored out of my mind, this job was quite the learning experience. When it comes to the inner workings of Chinese management and the Chinese market, I gained a lot of very unique insight that I am sure will be invaluable as I continue my foray into China's expatriate workforce.

Even if I'm eager to get out of here and not look back, my heart still finds itself heavy with the sense that I will miss this place and the people in it. The job was never all bad. Indeed, there were days where I came in and left with a smile on my face, enjoying the work I was doing. I do like that the internet's routed through Hong Kong, granting me access to Livejournal and other websites deemed "inappropriate" by the Chinese government. The ease of getting to work, which was a straight shot for me on the subway. The accessibility of cheap places to eat. The fact that, at a glance, no one has any clue that what I'm doing isn't actually work.

I know that, to most people, I'm blowing this way out of proportion, but I feel like a chapter of my life has ended. It was my first job, my first step into working for myself by myself, and I survived and came out on the other end a better person, ready for what comes next.

I'm both excited for and terrified about my new job, one that will eat up a considerably larger chunk of my time, but I think I'm ready for it. Nothing good ever came from wasting away in front of a computer for 8 hours a day. Plus, I'm a fast worker in general…I don't see free time as being too big a problem for me.

So, here's to my old company, with great thanks for everything that they have taught me and all the opportunities that they have afforded me. It has been an unforgettable experience.

I will recount my birthday week after the party tonight, which promises to be incredibly interesting. Cameras at the ready, because it will be a night that I will not likely remember.

Okay, no, that's a lie, I actually don't plan to get THAT trashed, if only to keep from making a total ass out of myself (again). All the same…it will be fun.

(Here's to the Irish!)

Why I'm Awesome (Part 4 of 7,412): L2SPELL

I believe in kids.

This may come as a surprise, but I strive for excellence. I am not a perfectionist, but I believe that if you do not give something your all, you might as well not bother getting involved in it at all. Why do things half way? Why try for a B instead of an A? Why settle for a 3.5 instead of shooting for a 4.0?

When did it become all right to be average? To be mediocre? When did a C become acceptable? Why do the people who get straight A's get ridiculed? Why do those who devote themselves to doing the best they can end up with nothing more than a nod?

Now, before the jocks of the world yell at me, I do not mean this in just a grades-based sort of way. I mean excellence in anything that you set out to do. If you want to play a sport, give it your all. If you want straight A's, give it your all. If you want to write, give it your all.

I would, however, like to focus this particular discussion (at least at first) on a single facet: spelling and grammar.

My fellow SE++ers snicker, as they know exactly what drove me to write about this particular topic. (No, it's not you, Chuck, you know I have a deep affection for you and your spelling habits.)

What I am, my friends, is sick and tired of hearing about people getting off easy for bad spelling and bad grammar. I don't even mean teachers letting these kids get away with it. I mean the language itself being changed to accommodate kids who are just too plain lazy to learn how to spell properly.

"It's too hard to remember," they whine. "Everyone spells it THAT way so I'm going to keep spelling it THAT way (even if it's wrong)." "I've only ever seen it spelled that way." "More people spell it this way than that way." "This spelling makes more sense to me."

Fuck you all.

I and countless other non-native English speakers have worked our asses off to get good at your fucking language…and meanwhile you're going to sit there and whine about how "hard" it is for you to learn when you are surrounded by it every moment of your waking life.

Fuck you and your mediocrity.

When did it become okay to be "mediocre?" When did these standards lower to accommodate people who are simply too fucking lazy to do the work? I blame the baby boomers. My parents were part of that generation, as are most individuals who are now in their 50s and 60s. You had shit handed to you on a silver platter and now you can't stand to see your kids suffer.

When your kid gets a D, you don't yell at your kid. You yell at the teacher for being a rotten teacher. You're happy with just a C because it's considered "average" and you're happy that your kid is just "average." You don't let your kids do the International Baccalaureate program because it's "too hard" and "too stressful."

Never mind the benefits of pushing your child to strive for excellence. Never mind the benefits of putting them to the test when they still live under your own roof, where you are able to hold them up when they fall or guide them when they need it. No, never mind any of it. Let's just say "it's too hard for my C-student, I don't want them to stress themselves out." Lower those expectations, mom and dad, because heaven forbid your child face a single goddamn challenge in his or her life while you are around to help them through it.

Yes, some kids are not A students and they are excellent in their own ways, be it as an artist or an athlete or something else. I respect that. I have mountains of respect for kids who are well-rounded, able to excel in more than one pigeon-holed area of expertise. I myself am very capable of singling out an individual's strengths. It's why I am such a fantastic person to come to when you need an ego boost.

Honest to god, I hate the idea of lowering expectations just to accommodate an unwillingness to challenge oneself. The English language has been mastered by people long before this generation. Why now do you change it and simplify it? What's wrong with this generation, now, that makes it impossible for THEM to learn how to spell properly when all generations before it seem to lack that problem?

Blame the internet. Blame computers. Blame television. Blame ADHD. Blame whatever the fuck you want, but placing blame doesn't change the fact that all you are doing is making it okay for kids to just stop trying. You are making it okay for them not to do the work. You are making them think that the second they face an obstacle, it's okay to ignore it instead of overcome it, because they're going to go ahead and believe that, eventually, someone will remove it for them.

If they suck at spelling, fix the fact that they suck at spelling. Don't fix the language they're trying to spell in. Challenge them. Bring them up to the standard, bring them up past it, don't bring the standard down.

The kids can do it. The only reason they think they can't is because everyone is too busy making excuses for them. Push them, and kids will always fucking surprise you. Parents, do you really have that little faith in your own ability to raise a child that you don't think they can handle something like the IB? Sure they'll bitch and complain that it's hard, but that's why you're there. You're supposed to tell them they can do it, that they have the ability to do it. You're there to show them that yes, it's hard, but when they finish it, they will finish it as a stronger person, better prepared to face what comes next (in the case of the IB, that would be college).

One day, life will throw something nasty in their face, and you won't be there to help them through it. Do you really want that kind of situation to be the first time they feel like they can't take something on? Help them now, support them now through their challenges so that when you're gone, when they're out of the nest, they are better prepared, better armed to tackle life's bullshit.

Huh. Talk about a passionate and preachy digression. My apologies. I know I sound elitist in those previous paragraphs, but this is what I will tell anyone who thinks their kid "can't hack it." I believe in your kids. Why don't you? But back to the topic.

Sure, spelling is a small facet of a much larger issue, but it alone is a stellar example of the kind of thing I'm talking about. No one asks for A's. It's okay to be second instead of first.

As long as you gave your best, sure, you can be proud of that. But you better swear that you did in fact do your best, that you did in fact give it your all, before you look at that silver medal with pride.

Saying that you did your best, that you did everything you could, is a pretty far cry from actually doing it.

Nothing, nothing worth having ever comes easy. I don't want to think about what the next generation will be like if they believe otherwise.

Aqua

I am in a very strange mood today. One might call it an almost ethereal apathy, where I have a hard time caring about anything but in a much deeper way than the statement itself suggests. I'm not just separated from everything, but I am, essentially, completely insubstantial to the things that are around me. I'm not sure I've ever felt this way before, but basically it involves me spacing out frequently, not really listening to what the people around me are saying, having no opinion on the subjects at hand, saying very little, and speaking very softly.

It's pretty much the anti-Vivienne, right there.

Needless to say, this serene state of indifference does not last very long. It was over pretty much the moment I stepped on the subway this morning.

What does it take to spawn the anti-Vivienne? The Nikki to my Jessica? The Sara Kerrigan to my Queen of Blades? The Jekyll to my Hyde? While you may sit there in your throne of literary superiority and point out that Jekyll and Hyde were not "good and evil" (respectively) so much as they were simply two extreme representations of the same man, I'll simply say that, um, yeah. Get out.

On a very pleasant Sunday morning, I awoke at the alarming hour of 9:17 am. Being that I had not gone to bed until 4 am after another typical Saturday (even though there's nothing typical about seeing the Transformers movie a second time), this was disconcerting to me…until I noticed the brilliant sunshine beaming through my curtains.

Instantly, I picked up the phone and sent a text message to Michelle and, for the first time in known history, woke her up instead of the other way around. This message asked if she'd be up for going to a place called Mandarine City (no, there is no spelling error there, that is what the place is really called). She told me she wouldn't be able to join me until later, but sent me the address and all that fun stuff like the excellent friend that she is.

What followed was an ill-conceived mass text-messaging of most of my regular crew members, many of whom were either still asleep or already at work and thus unable to call in sick on such a rare, beautifully sunny Sunday in Shanghai.

I snuggled in bed a little while longer, enjoying the sunshine, then got up and proceeded to deplore how my outfit for the day looked on me. It was, suffice to say, a less than glorious sight…but it would be well-hidden.

At 11:55 am, I was in a cab with Mylynn, the very first person to text me back with a reply. Being that we live five minutes away, we shared a cab and went west in Gubei for approximately 38 yuan. At about 12:25, we arrived at the Mandarine City outdoor pool.

As some individuals from SE++ and elsewhere know, likely via the AIM attack I received shortly after waking up that morning, that day was my first day in a bikini. It was, simply put, a mind-bender of a self-esteem issue for me, what with my self-consciousness consuming me from all angles at once, forming a veritable, collapsing vacuum around me. It took a lot of effort and distraction for me not to change into my usual one-piece bathing suit instead of the bikini.

The reason why I've never worn a bikini until now, if you are curious, is more a practicality issue more than a self-esteem one. I was a competitive swimmer for about 15 years of my life, so whenever I hear "pool" or "beach" I think "swimming!" A bikini is not exactly the most practical item for the job.

Mylynn and I arrived at the pool, bumping into a friend of hers on the way in, and already there is my ever-faithful favorite, Mr. Romain Hefti himself, already enjoying the water. For several moments I stood by our table, hesitating, not really wanting to take off my T-shirt or undo my sarong, but at length decided to just rip it off like a too-sticky Band-Aid. Within 30 seconds of the removal of said outer armor, I hopped into the pool.

It was glorious. Prior to that moment, it had been upwards of about two years since I was last in a real pool, and I had forgotten just how happy being in the water makes me.

Many people, I have heard, tend to identify themselves with a single element more than others…possibly Captain Planet style sans the superpowers and screwed-over-South-American. Mine is undoubtedly the water. As I said to Romain yesterday after admissions that it was gonna sound "really cheesy," in the water is where I belong, and realizing that at a time where I am finally happy with the kind of person I've become…it's a lethal combination that throws a rather large boulder of regret right into the pit of my stomach that whispers, "you should've gone with your first instinct and been a marine biologist or an oceanographer."

I cannot tell you how amazing it was to be in the water again. I felt at home, I felt safe, I felt powerful. Within an hour I completely forgot I had previously been in a state of self-conscious anxiety and just enjoyed the water. Being underwater, feeling it hold me tightly yet gently, the way nothing else ever could, brought me an inexplicable feeling of tranquility and happiness.

As I repeated several times that day: "do not underestimate how much I love the water."

(To some extent, it is also the reason I love rain, be it a drizzle or a thunderstorm. I love the ocean for a myriad of reasons, one of them being that it is essentially a massive body of water.)

In the water, I am far from master or commander, but I can hold my own. I am an excellent swimmer, though years of neglect have caused my lung capacity to shrivel somewhat from its former asthmatic glory (little known fact: I was asthmatic when I was younger and I basically beat the crap out of that infliction by swimming it to death), so I can't swim with nearly the speed or power that I could before. My form, however, is pretty much just the way it used to be, though with some additional drag since the girls were not restrained under the cover of a one-piece bathing suit.

We spent about 5 hours at the pool (Remy and Melanie joined us a little bit after we arrived), with me being in the water for at least 4 hours and 45 minutes of it, only getting out to check my cell phone. I used the excuse that I wanted to hide my hideous abdomen from the world, but really I just wanted to stay in the water as long as humanly possible. I will admit that even when the others were ready to leave, I was not…I wanted to stay much, much longer.

It was with a heavy heart that I departed, and once I stepped out of the shower and sat on my bed, I felt a wave of depression wash over me. I know it's weird beyond even my own standards, but I can't explain it. I wanted to go back and jump into the water for just a while more.

Following the depression came this sense of great detachment described in the opening paragraphs of this too-long rambling. All through dinner, at which I met up with my friends once more, I was removed from the conversation…aloof, wistful, as it were.

I just really miss being in the water, being in a place in which I feel safest and most alive. I can't wait to go back.

Why I'm Awesome (Part 3 of 7,412): BITCHES

My family is why I'm awesome, but apparently not everyone seems to think so. It has recently come to my attention that some people think that my mother is a bad mother. These people are, allegedly, expatriate mothers who live in Beijing and whose kids attend international schools in the city (not unlike the one from which I graduated).

While I was advised by my very wise and mature sister to just "let it go" because our mother doesn't give a rat's ass what these people think, it's been burning a rather large hole in my confrontational, too-large brain.

Let me fill you in on exactly why they think my mother is a bad mother. Ready?

BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T FOLLOW MY SISTER OR ME TO COLLEGE.

When my sister told me this I did a very loud "wait, WHAT" into the phone that I think scared my neighbors.

Excuse me, holier-than-thou judgmental floosies who spend all their time shopping while their husbands work and their ayis do all the cleaning…when was going to college with your kids the mark of good motherhood? Because I'll tell you what…it sounds like the mark of good apron-strings-getting-a-bit-tight-around-that-neck-there-hood.

Yeah. You wanna judge MY family? Here's a little of your own fucking medicine.

If my mother went with me to college (which basically means she moves into the city I'm studying in and lives there…or that she visits me every damned month or something), you know what? Then I WOULD call her a bad mother because she won't GIVE ME MY GODDAMN SPACE.

Seriously. Is this mentality prevalent? Because it would drive me up the fucking wall if my mother lived in the same area as me while I was studying abroad for college. That's where you learn to take care of yourself, to be independent…not to mention participate in certain activities that mommy and daddy just don't ever need to know about.

I went overseas to do something for myself, and I did it all on my own, and the feeling that I know I did it on my own is priceless. Are you really going to rob your own children of that feeling of self-accomplishment?

So Beijing expat mothers, while you ladies have your kids living in your basements at age 30 because they never learned to feed themselves or pay their own rent, or leeching off of husbands to survive…I will be living on my own somewhere in the world, emotionally stable and independent, and I will fly my mother out to visit me wherever I am, or I will visit her wherever she is, and it will be a kickass time because she will know that every accomplishment I ever managed to pull off was thanks to her.

My mother knew when to let go. Just because you don't know when to do the same does not make her a bad mother and hand to god if I ever hear of anyone ever telling her so again you are going to hear from me.

In the meantime, I pity your kids, because they probably hate you for always being in their space and not letting them go and live their own goddamn lives, free of your coddling and stifling and selfishness.

Let them the fuck go. God. It's no wonder there are so many pussy momma's boy men running around nowadays.

To wrap up, let me reiterate.

To any mother that thinks my mom is a bad mother: here's a giant FUCK YOU, keep your judgmental bullshit to yourself. My sister and I turned out fantastic. Why? Because instead of worrying about how OTHER parents raised THEIR kids, our mother worried only about raising HER OWN kids to the best of her ability.

Which I imagine is far superior to anything a whiny little expat wife can manage when all she's gonna do is sit around and act like a self-righteous bitch.

Fuck you.

Why I'm Awesome (Part 2 of 7,412): ABCs

A - merican accent
B - ritish passport
C - hinese face
D - cup
...
E - xplosive
F - rugal
G - amer
H - ong Kong-born
I - nternet junkie
J - etsetter
K - ittens!
L - ush
M - ultilingual
N - arcissist
O - bstinate
P - ersuasive
Q - ueenmother of dorks
R - ayne Heartsong
S - exual deviant
T - hird Culture Kid
U - nreticent
V - olleyball!
W - ordsmith
X - men fanatic
Y - our bestest friend ever
Z - esty

No this wasn't some lame-ass meme. I seriously sat down and just came up with it. The one that took me the longest was Y.

Why I'm Awesome (Part 1 of 7,412): TALK

If you've spoken to or interacted with me for longer than 10 minutes in just about any setting outside of business, then you've undoubtedly heard me boast, ruthlessly, about the perfection of my hair. It really is the most gorgeous thing ever. I can't even mess it up without my hair returning, of its own accord, to its silken state.

Now, that is the only thing I am particularly vain about, as it is the only part of my body about which I have never been insecure. I love the shit out of my hair. Most of my physical vanity comes from my hair. Sometimes I'll hate my face or some other aspect of my body…but my hair has never been on that list.

As for my personality, there are only two things that I know are my biggest strengths. The rest…well, let's say that even on my best days I can feel shitty about some of the things I say and do.

One of the strengths that serves me best is my ability to verbalize just about any thought, emotion, or idea. That is, I am very capable of putting things into words, whether spoken or written. I think I have my outspoken nature to thank for that. I have always been very good at expressing myself, though I never really noticed until recently, when I was told by business contacts and relatives alike that I am very good at getting my point across.

A lot of it, apparently, has to do with the fact that I love to talk and write. On top of that, I have also had the privilege of communicating with people from a wide variety of backgrounds (socioeconomic and cultural alike). It becomes easy, then to shift and adapt my intonations, slang, vocabulary, and humor to best accommodate the people with whom I'm communicating.

The strange thing is that because I am capable of making this shift, people accuse me of being fake…because I act differently in front of different people. Here's the funny thing, dear naysayers of mine: you will often find that it is not only necessary, but prudent to approach different people different ways. I am still me, across the board, I am just finding different ways of expressing my one personality.

I used to hate the fact that you have to change the way you express yourself depending on the setting, because I used to believe that you should be able to be yourself in the purest form. I no longer believe this. I now believe that your personality encompasses how you present yourself to different kinds of people…in fact, in front of different people, a specific method of communication can actually get your personality (i.e., your beliefs, ideals, behavior, sense of humor, likes, dislikes, nature, etc) across even BETTER than another method.

I'm not saying that I enjoy saying things I don't think or support. Like most people out there, I hate saying things I don't mean, whether it's sucking up to a boss or agreeing with a business partner on something just for the sake of getting the deal through…or saying certain things just to impress someone. This is NOT what I am talking about here.

What I am talking about is your presentation, intonation, approach, word choice, and diction. The way you communicate, in other words. You can have a single personality while communicating in a variety of ways with a variety of people.

It is because I am capable of this adaptation, of identifying when and how to get my point across in the most efficient possible in any setting, that I would say that, yes, I am very, very good at expressing myself. My personality is very much the same across the board…it's just HOW I choose to show it off that's different.

Of course, it helps that I am articulate and have a well-stocked vocabulary, but even in Chinese, a language in which I find myself limited in terms of spoken communication, I am still able to express my meaning through a combination of intonation and body language.

No matter the form of communication and no matter the person with whom you are trying to communicate, there is always a combination that works best.

I firmly believe that in any exchange, the burden falls to the person speaking to properly send out the message. Sure, some of the responsibility falls to the listener to pay attention, but most of it comes down to how the person speaking chooses to get the message across (including managing to maintain the audience's attention).

My other strength, I'll talk about some other time…sometimes it's nice to ponder just what it is you're good at, because more often than not I find myself focusing a bit too much on the things that could be improved or the things that I outright dislike about myself.

Ah, self-therapy.

Ramblings of a Madwoman

I've actually had trouble writing any sort of blog or journal entry, believe it or not. Hell, last night I even sat down, pen in hand and journal in my lap, trying to scribble something meaningful down. Naturally, that goes against a lot of what a journal is there for.

I don't believe forcing yourself to write a journal entry will have the effect you want. You can't make yourself write anything meaningful or interesting, you should just start writing and see where it takes you. I don't know if you've noticed but that's basically what I'm doing right now. I spent the last week or so rummaging my brain for good "topics" to write on and sadly I never made it very far with any of them. It's one thing to have a topic materialize out of what begins as the first few thoughts you pluck out of your head.

It's another to sit down and try to write, at best, what will only end up being a marginally entertaining essay about yourself.

Yesterday I came down with a bad case of food poisoning that can be attributed to "bad ice." As Robert/FF correctly assumed, it is indeed an infamous water-borne stomach bug that is prevalent in unfiltered water. I am doing better now…still a bit frail (haha, me, ME, frail, HAHA) and recommended against eating solids or cold foods or spicy foods, but better. Well enough, in any case, to have to come to work.

Then again I did spend most of the day at home and playing Planescape: Torment (woohoo it doesn't crash anymore but I still cannot get Sybil to reward me for sneaking out of the Tenement…oh well I'm in the Modron Maze now holy fuck I forgot what an XP farm that place is). The longest stretch of sleep I got was two hours long…everything else was, well, rudely interrupted. Plus I jumped on webcam with people I haven't been on cam with for a long time, so that was pretty nifty.

For those who are curious (and awesome enough to be in the know), I am playing through PS: Torment for the first time as a Mage, and my party consists of Dak'kon, Morte, Annah, FFG, and Ignus. I've never used Ignus before so I'm gonna keep him around until I can get Vhailor…though I've never used Nordom, either.

I wanna go ahead and say that this week so far has been wretched for my health. Friday night was Remy's 7 Deadly Sins costume party, with a picture of my costume over there on the left (as at the time of this blog's posting). If you and I talk a lot, you know what happened. If we don't talk a lot, then um, well, basically Friday night was the drunkest I have ever been, to the extent where, after a certain point in time, I do not remember a goddamn thing.

Saturday morning saw an early wake-up and one-hour bus ride out of the city for beach volleyball. For this particular leg of the trip I was still drunk, and upon getting off the bus my hangover started settling in. After downing some water and playing for a while, though, I was fine…but not for long. A combination of excessive heat, leftover alcohol in my system, sweat, and sun all culminated in a whopper of a migraine at about 5 pm (which, thankfully, was about the time we were due to leave the place). I went home, showered, and pretty much made an effort to rest my head. I can't really complain about Saturday though…out of the 29 people who went to volleyball, only 5 of us were girls. I was very much enjoying the view.

Sunday was pretty tame, though I ate a shit-ton. Brunch with my favorites, then over to Romain's to wade our way through a little more Prison Break. (Seriously guys, what the hell do you see in this show, I don't get it. Sure the dude is hot but that doesn't mean the show can't suck ass.) Then, later that evening, came Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, which I saw with the crew (or most of it).

We found out early on that the Chinese version had sliced about 30 minutes off of the front of the movie. If you've seen the whole thing, what we saw as an opening sequence was a black screen, a 5-minute spoken summary, and then it opens up with them in the ice floes. It was, simply put, extremely disappointing.

The thing is that I'm not gonna go ahead and say the Chinese government was censoring anything. I'm gonna go ahead and offer up my two hypotheses: if they remove those 30 minutes, they get more showings because most movies in this country are 2.5 hours in length, tops. Alternatively, by removing those first 30 minutes, it makes the movie harder to pirate, and I shouldn't have to remind you that pirated DVDs are a big deal here in China.

Minus that hiccup, however, I found the movie to be quite excellent, which makes me want to watch all three movies again, back-to-back, pretty soon. I noticed the pendants almost right away in the second movie, though I'm sure I'm not the only one. (I make a big deal out of it because I had to point it out to my sister…even though Lilz had seen the movie tons of times more than I had before I even saw it once.) Awesome ending, overall an entertaining movie. Definitely blew those other miserable excuses for trilogy-enders (Matrix Revolutions, here's lookin' at you) out of the goddamn water.

I never thought much of Orlando Bloom's looks after LotR, but I gotta say that that boy makes one excellently sexy pirate captain.

Moving right along Monday was pretty normal too, though because of Friday I didn't drink nearly as much as I normally did. Just a couple of margies, and only because it was pretty freakin' hot that night. And man was there some amazing eye candy at Zapata's that night. It's gonna be a long three weeks, compadres, that's all I gotta say, hahaha.

Enter Tuesday morning at about 6 am. I wake up in an excruciating amount of abdominal pain. And so begins my saga against bad ice, which I fought off with an inane amount of water and Planescape: Torment.

I still haven't heard back from the new job, which I feel is my cue to start officially looking again. It's a pity because if they said yes I'd be all over that in a minute, but I guess things just got a bit too hectic for them. Ah well. My resume still looks sexy and there are still people out there who haven't seen it yet.

That was a pretty dry update, if I do say so myself. Then again, it does follow a series of very upbeat, egotistical ones wherein I basically told you that I was the best anything ever and that I was amazing at everything I did.

Here's the irony, though. On Monday night, I fell victim to my ultimate vice: a guy that I'm attracted to but consider way out of my league. This happens all the time. As some kindred souls were sweet enough to point out, yes, I know I have all the "necessary equipment," but that doesn't get rid of this mega-mental block I have in my head. If I perceive a guy to be ridiculously gorgeous, I have a hard time being my magnetic, charming self around him. I get all shy and hesitant and self-conscious and then I generally start to ramble on about random things. Yes, I guess you could call it intimidation.

I think in my head it goes something like "why do you even bother he's probably got a hot chick in his sights already" or "he can do so much better than you" or something silly like that. Now I'm not saying hot guys are all shallow…I definitely do not mean that. What I'm trying to say is that I'm a crazy person.

The most psychotic part of it all is that I know all of this is madness but I can't stop myself from thinking it and it is extremely hard to overcome. I can't even say I've been getting better! I mean I can hit on guys just fine, but that only applies to guys that I perceive to be in my league. When it's someone I perceive to be way OUT of it (even though realistically my league probably doesn't have many exclusions at all), I turn into a verbal-diarrhea-spilling toolbox. I become a total tool. Socially inept, even. I say silly and stupid things because I'm too busy second-guessing myself.

So. Frustrating. RRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH someone smack me in the back of the head and loosen up that block because dammit it is gonna kill my game.