Colored Ink
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miss something? check the archives about me name: n/aaliases: kit (and various iterations thereof) age: 21 location: oakland, ca hobbies: anime, manga, comic books, reading, writing, doodling, video games likes: all of the above, being lazy, mushrooms, animals, food, laughing loudly in public, SUSHI dislikes: nuts, stinging/biting insects, religious fanatics, violence, olives contact: coloredink(at)gmail.com wishlist playstation 2car a good night's sleep money stress-free life trigun long colt keychain hardon-kardon speakers 19" flatscreen monitor world peace realistic wishlist transmetropolitan vol 5-6, 9-10long-term obsessions comicsslash writing reading music animals life and living current obsession(s) supernaturalhouse m.d. veronica mars temeraire currently reading the earthsea trilogy by ursula k. leguincurrently watching smallville (3.4)farscape (1.) stargate: atlantis (1.7) scrubs (2.1) hana yori dango (20) utena (23) witch hunter robin (18) rose of versailles (19) matantei loki ragnarok (15) scrapped princess (14) sailormoon live action (25) supernatural (hiatus) house md (hiatus) veronica mars (hiatus) |
Sunday, September 3, 2006 [link] 04:48 p.m. listening to: "Iowa" - Dar Williams I woke up too early this morning after four hours of restless sleep. Too much drinking occasionally causes sleep disturbances. I looked at my blog earlier today and it was like reading a small, angry, despairing message from another self. I was not in a good place last night/this morning. I've never drank to the point where I didn't actually remember the events of the previous night, but occasionally it seems as if those actions belonged to someone else. Just now, I wrote two lines and erased them. I've become conscious of the occasional desire to censor myself, knowing that other people are reading this and, possibly, worrying about me. I don't desire secrecy; I find refuge in words. Words are cathartic, a release. It's a way of committing things and making them real. I can no longer ignore them when they are in black and white. I don't want people to worry about me. So, this is it, then: I have not been in a good place recently. It comes and goes. Sometimes I forget; other times I want to throw things, break things, punch things, escape into chemical oblivion (this last worries me more than all the others combined; surely I have more compelling things in my life than this?). I know, I know, I know that it's all in my head. That doesn't make it any less volatile. Last week, I sat down in front of my therapist, and she asked me, "Why did you come back to therapy?" "I don't know," I said. "I mean, how do you know when you're done with therapy?" She smiled and nodded. "But I've been feeling pretty good, lately," I said. So, uh, I was probably wrong about that. Sunday, September 3, 2006 [link] 02:08 a.m. listening to: nothing Mmmm. I think I'm done with drinking. (Sometimes I feel like other people are suns, they have entire worlds, and I'm just a planet, orbiting. No, sometimes I feel like fucking Pluto. I'm not even a planet anymore.) (Christ, I should go to sleep and possibly never drink again.) Thursday, August 31, 2006 [link] 07:37 p.m. listening to: "Iowa" - Dar Williams I'm still thinking about law school. I have to admit, money is a big draw. The idea of being able to own property, being able to buy a nice car, not having to worry about food or utilities or--it awakens this sort of desperate hunger in me. I'm prepared to cope, if need be, living in less-than-stellar accommodations for the next however many years of my life (I remember shivering on a train platform; I remember eating stale bread from behind a bakery). But--I don't really have to. I want to be able to own a house. I want to be able to buy gourmet food. I want furniture that wasn't dragged in off the street. I want a lot of things. "But of course," I said dryly to a journalism colleague of mine, "knowing myself, I'd end up working for Legal Aid and not making any money anyway." "Mmmm," she said, not disagreeing. "But I think a lot of people go into law school thinking that," she pointed out. "They go in thinking, 'oh, I'm going to do good things!' But then you come out hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, and you think, 'Oh, I'll just put in a few years at a corporate law firm, pay it all back. . .' And then you become accustomed to the lifestyle." She trailed off and shrugged. I thought of Mercedes, French restaurants, the smell of money. Even after you pay off your debts, I thought, you have a new debt. "Yeah," I said. "That's true." Friday, August 25, 2006 [link] 09:20 a.m. listening to: nothing I dreamed last night that I was in the Middle East with my aunt, visiting my Arab boyfriend, I guess. My aunt encouraged me to buy a rocket launcher in order to revenge myself on this one bomber who'd bombed several large European cities and Washington D.C. in the last week. Unfortunately, aiming with a rocket launcher is much more difficult than it looks, and I killed a Muslim woman instead. Horrified by what I'd done but terrified that I'd be caught, I dumped the rocket launcher in a trash can and fled. I considered blaming the incident on my boyfriend, but I'd never wiped the prints from the rocket launcher; all I could do was hope that someone else would take it from the trash can and use it for some nefarious deed, therefore erasing my participation from the matter. I have no idea what this means. Thursday, August 24, 2006 [link] 12:55 p.m. listening to: the due South theme Windows won't start and now I need to reinstall. DDD: Saturday, August 19, 2006 [link] 08:20 p.m. listening to: "Dear Chicago" - Ryan Adams My mosquito bites still itch occasionally: brief and sudden, catching me off-guard every time. I don't expect them to still itch; it's been days, after all; the older ones are scars by now, and the newer ones quickly getting there. But they still itch on occasion, and then I scratch, and the metallic-copper scent of blood remains on my fingertips. The mosquitos got me pretty bad. I complained bitterly on occasion, and my aunt scoffed at my weakness. I put Tiger Balm on my bites and stopped complaining. Then she saw the constellation of bites on my left thigh and exclaimed, "Wow, they got you pretty good." "Yes," I said. "What'd you think, that I just wanted attention?" "I thought you were one of those people who, you know, get worked up over really small things," she said. The phrase she used in Chinese was, "afraid of death." "Hunh," I said. The next day, a terrorist plot was foiled at Heathrow airport and liquids and gels were banned from carry-ons. I couldn't take my hydrocortisone or Tiger Balm. The plane ride was insufferable. Friday, August 18, 2006 [link] 04:06 p.m. listening to: nothing I was dicing an onion for the pasta, eyes welling up painfully, when I realized that I actually did want to cry. I ignored the urge, wiped my eyes, finished dicing the onion, and tipped it into the sauce. I sliced three tomatoes, a bunch of parsley, snapped the asparagus, and then went and took a shower, where I still wanted to cry. Crying in the shower is melodramatic, though I can see the appeal; it's cleansing. You're done crying, the water washes it all away, and you rinse out your hair. Except I didn't actually cry, because crying isn't something you can turn on and off like a lightswitch, although it might be easier if it was. I'm depressed, and I don't know why. Maybe it's hormonal, but I've never been prone to sudden moodswings before, so why now? Thursday, August 17, 2006 [link] 10:49 a.m. listening to: "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight" - R.E.M. I'm walking along the street on the way to the bank when a red sedan pulls over to the curb. The driver rolls down the passenger side window and yells something out at me, presumably asking for directions somewhere. I can't hear him, what with Counting Crows in my ears and all, so I pull the earbuds out of my ears and move to the car. "Uniforms!" the man enunciates very clearly, tugging at the front of his shirt. My look of incredulity--clearly, the man thought I didn't speak English or something--apparently passes for blank incomprehension, because the man repeats himself, louder, and points down the street. "Uniforms?" I repeat. "Er, what kind of uniforms? School uniforms?" Complete sentences appears to inform the man that yes, I do speak English fluently, and he says, "Medical uniforms and stuff, it's on this street somewhere?" "Uh, there's nothing for the next few blocks except wedding shit," I inform him. "Like, tuxedos and crap." He laughs. "All right then, thanks." After my futile trip to the bank (they were unable to exchange my foreign currency there), I went to Rite Aid to purchase painkillers because someone out there decrees that if you do not have painkillers, you will very shortly need them. A middle-aged Latina woman stood next to the register; I inquired as to whether or not she was in line, and she held up a roll of film and began babbling Spanish to me. "Uh," I said for what felt like too many times that day, "I have no idea what you're talking about. "Ma'am," said the cashier. "Ma'am!" That got the woman's attention, and the cashier pointed somewhere over my right shoulder. "Anna will help you." The woman scurried away. "That was. . . totally random," I said, putting my painkillers down on the counter. The cashier laughed. "I know, you were probably all thinkin', 'do I look like I speak Spanish?'" Thursday, August 17, 2006 [link] 07:35 a.m. listening to: nothing I'm home, and I'm making pancakes, and it's one of those days where it's just fucking great to be alive. Tuesday, August 15, 2006 [link] 07:55 p.m. listening to: nothing Leeching off wireless at the Shanghai Pudong airport. God, I don't know which transit nightmare is worse: this one, or my trip back from Berlin. I'm never letting my father plan these trips again; instead of purchasing a multi-city ticket where I fly into Shanghai and return from Kuala Lumpur, he got two round-trip tickets, which necessitates returning to Shanghai from KL and extending my transit time by half a day. RETARDED MUCH? I was barely able to sleep at all on the Malaysia airlines flight, what with the thirst and the dry and the being woken up for meal (I hate the new restrictions so, so much). Then I had to wait in queue so long to get my passport stamped that by the time I got to the baggage claim my bag was no longer there. I waited in the line of eternity at baggage inquiries, was informed that my bag was at carousel 14, discovered a lot of Dutch people removing their bags from carousel 14, returned to baggage enquiries--and found my bag there. At this point I was really very tired. I have a surplus of RMB, so I thought I'd check myself into a short-stay hotel, where they rent you a room by the hour. I could take a short nap and shower. Unfortunately, while the reception area of the short-stay hotel is in the airport lobby, the hotel itself is beyond security--which necessitates checking in, which I couldn't do yet because my flight wasn't for another six hours. I managed to grab a short nap on some chairs (they don't have armrests, which makes stretching out fairly easy). Unfortunately, said chairs are metal and the airport is very well air-conditioned, and afterward it became clear that no more sleep would be had without some kind of cover, which I lacked. So I decided to see if free wireless could be had instead. And here I am. I want to go hoooome. Monday, August 14, 2006 [link] 08:08 a.m. listening to: nothing I want to be home so much it hurts. But where is "home," really? Malaysia feels a little bit like home: there's food, family. But I can't be myself here, not really; I'm always someone else's child, the American (and I'm pretty sure that being queer here is illegal). I had a conversation with someone recently about being adrift, not having a home, and the sort of existential crisis this creates. I assured her that I knew exactly how she felt. Sometimes the temptation is strong to just get out, fuck this, fuck all of this, just leave. Just start walking. Just hop on the first Greyhound bus in the station and start over somewhere else. It's not like there's anything keeping me here. But I know, and I know that I know, that doing something like that wouldn't make me happy. It's not like I'm afflicted with any particular sort of wanderlust; the past year has shown me that I get tired and heartsick from travleing. It's just my insidious brain, whispering that everyone leaves me in the end, that no one really cares enough to stay, and so why shouldn't I leave, too? I don't know what I'm looking for; maybe I'm looking for some place to belong. Maybe I'm looking for something or someone to tie me down. I need roots, an anchor, or the next breeze will just carry me away. Wednesday, August 9, 2006 [link] 10:53 p.m. listening to: nothing Malaysia is approximately 60 degrees above the equator, which means that it's fairly warm all year round. Tropical. But it's not the heat, really, it's the humidity. The air clings to you in a sticky film. Sweat collects behind your knees and beads on your upper lip. You end up taking cold showers two or three times a day and changing your shirt every two hours. I lay in my air-conditioned room yesterday and listened to the musical, wailing call to prayer. I miss America. I've been ill, and slowly getting better. It started as a thick, wet cough when I got on the plane in Shanghai, turned into sniffles and aches and pains and frequent trips to the bathroom (oh Lord, I hate squat toilets). I just got my appetite back yesterday, and it was exciting and glorious to feel actual hunger after days of treating delicious tropical cuisine as a chore and an obligation, eating because I knew I needed the calories more than because I derived any actual enjoyment out of it or needed to. My parents are pressuring me to go to law school. My father not so much because he's always more or less let me do what I want, but my mother thinks I should go into politics. My aunt wants me to become a teacher. None of them think I'm capable of making my own decisions, of making a living. We've had many circular arguments that leave me exhausted and angry. I want to yell at them, why don't you have any faith? Why? Didn't you raise me? Don't you think you instilled any sense in me? Lack of faith in me is a lack of confidence in yourself. Believe. Believe. Believe. Sunday, August 6, 2006 [link] 04:36 a.m. listening to: nothing Malaysia totally wins because it has my British hypoallergenic shampoo that somehow manages not to smell medicinal OR like tea tree oil/lavendar/grapefruit seed extract. But Malaysia just wins in general. I tend to favor cities/countries that have a more relaxed pace of life without being apathetic, which is why I don't particularly care for cities like New York or Rome and love cities like Berlin and Granada. Malaysia exudes that kind of casual attitude, like, "this is life, this is good." I'll be spending most of my time in Kuala Lumpur this time around, it seems, which is a little disappointing. KL is fine, but I prefer Kamunting, which is where my aunt lives now. It's sleepy and small and bucolic without being stiflingly boring, somehow. I don't know. Maybe it's the presence of family. Wednesday, August 2, 2006 [link] 08:24 a.m. listening to: nothing I wanted it to rain. The air for the past couple of days stuck to the skin and beaded on your face. Today, the sky was pale and dim, and on our way to the thousand-year-old banyan tree I spotted the kind of thick, towering clouds that heralded a thunderstorm. Sure enough, lightning growled a few minutes later. We came out of the silver caves into a downpour, and I looked up at the rain and laughed and laughed and laughed. There aren't any proper summer thunderstorms where I come from, the stuff of metaphors and simile: "as brief and violent as a summer thunderstorm," and "smelled of ozone and summer thunderstorms." Sure enough, the rain stopped a few minutes later, leaving the temperature twenty degrees cooler. The rain started again about an hour later, after we discovered that our show was canceled due to a power failure. We managed to secure a refund and a ride home, and I stared out of the window the entire way, heavy-lidded but struggling to remain awake in order to catch another glimpse of a jagged stripe of lightning raining down behind the hills. Tuesday, August 1, 2006 [link] 07:48 a.m. listening to: nothing I think I'm the only person I know who's been to China and hated it. Granted, this opinion of China is heavily colored by how incredibly ill I became on my last trip; plus it was the middle of winter and pretty damn cold (in Hangzhou, at least). Now that I'm in Guilin and just had a pretty good day filled with lots of scenery and sightseeing, I'm feeling a little more forgiving. China is just so. . . it embodies all the reasons I left Los Angeles, really. The cities, at least. It's large, crowded, polluted, apathetic. This is such a gigantic country, with a quarter of the world's population, and yet somehow there isn't enough room for me. The busy cities are so commercialized and tacky (the Chinese have found some really horrifying ways to commoditize their culture/heritage/history and sell it to tourists) and yet, people still live in remarkable squalor and poverty. Not that these things aren't present in the States, but man. . . that's why I moved. Tuesday, July 25, 2006 [link] 10:07 a.m. listening to: nothing I just ate the most buttery bran muffin ever. I'm not sure if that was supposed to be healthier than the poppy seed muffin or what. Monday, July 24, 2006 [link] 09:05 p.m. listening to: "Butterflies" - David Garza I had a vague idea this morning that something was going to go wrong with this trip, and naturally my head filled with all sorts of horror: everything from terrorist hijackings to engine problems. I shrugged it off as pre-trip jitters, but couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. I made sure I had my tickets, my passport, money. . . "Um, ma'am, where's your visa?" the airline employee asked, flipping through my passport. Oh, shit. In my defense, all my recent travels have been to countries that don't require visas, and my father handled the visa for my last trip to China. Still, though, it was an unforgivable oversight on my part. My awesome cousins called the travel agent and rebooked my flight, and I'll have a visa and a new flight on Friday. And I get an extra few days in the States. Huzzah. Wednesday, July 19, 2006 [link] 07:22 p.m. listening to: "Irgendwie, Irgendwo, Irgendwann" - Nena I've spent the last two days packing. It's very frustrating because there are some things I simply cannot pack until I get back from San Diego, and that's when I'll have approximately one evening to pack half the things I need for China. Then, when I get back from China/Malaysia, I'll have two jet-lagged, exhausted days in which I get to unpack and repack everything for school. Oh my God. Why do I hate myself like this? I don't want to see the inside of an airport EVER AGAIN after the nightmare that was getting back from Germany. Augh. |
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