U know how it feels like to be a foreigner?
I do, too many times. In a new country, new house, new room, new school.
This particular post's about me being in USA.
Tony and Shaun often made political jokes, so does everyone else in school.
I wont try to be smart to join in. But I feel stupid not understanding their jokes.
What the fuck is Libtard? Liberal Retard meaning?
Whats with all the Obama/Hillary jokes?
All socio-economic issue, climate, movies are good.
But politics is just something I have to catch up with.
Technology too.
C'mon, Im THE Dork....
I remember I used to subscribe to daily papers since I left Indo at 12 yrs old.
I realised this time I didnt since I started Art Center.
No tv, no news paper. I feel like a fucking dumb bitch.
Something has to be done.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Impression
I've always been, pretty much, a happening girl, am I not?
I do, say, think, draw, listen, watch the most bizarre things.
I don't listen to anyone, people don't get along well with me.
Im blunt with my honesty, critical, judgemental, perfectionist.
With the exceptional few friends that I have, I thought very little men can put up with me.
Rasyid cant put up with me cus Im so perfectionist he felt stifled.
Esp when I tell him to not smoke, eat his vegetables, and be more hardworking.
Well, to what extend?
The answer is, to MY extend.
I compare everyone to myself. I thought Im better than everyone else, maybe?
That was so excessive that I think I can humour myself better than anyone else can.
But isnt it nice now that I can laugh at someone?
That makes me a mean person. Poor guy... :(
Im used to adjusting my self to other people's need, this is new, this is nice, comfortable.
Its like wearing a pair of shoe that you dont have to squeeze you toes into, it fits.
I do, say, think, draw, listen, watch the most bizarre things.
I don't listen to anyone, people don't get along well with me.
Im blunt with my honesty, critical, judgemental, perfectionist.
With the exceptional few friends that I have, I thought very little men can put up with me.
Rasyid cant put up with me cus Im so perfectionist he felt stifled.
Esp when I tell him to not smoke, eat his vegetables, and be more hardworking.
Well, to what extend?
The answer is, to MY extend.
I compare everyone to myself. I thought Im better than everyone else, maybe?
That was so excessive that I think I can humour myself better than anyone else can.
But isnt it nice now that I can laugh at someone?
That makes me a mean person. Poor guy... :(
Im used to adjusting my self to other people's need, this is new, this is nice, comfortable.
Its like wearing a pair of shoe that you dont have to squeeze you toes into, it fits.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Still Unable to Sleep
Why cant I sleep?
I only had 4 hours last night. Am I not tired enough?
For many months that I've depended on internet to define my existence, I am finally able to stop.
Old email address deleted, Friendster account deleted, passwords changed, abandoned my blog, stop logging in to MSN feels extremely liberating. Now I have a new blog that I can treat entirely as a diary of uncommunicated thoughts.
Withougt me realising, I've just gotten myself another new account, a Facebook.
What have I done...
What is the use of maintaining something for the sake of other people?
What is the fun of revealing so much of yourself to people?
I should've learnt my lesson.
Anyway, does a short black haired girl in rolled up jeans and black tanktop, barefooted by the beach playing with her dog sounds hot? People should learn to NOT stare, it should be made illegal.
I only had 4 hours last night. Am I not tired enough?
For many months that I've depended on internet to define my existence, I am finally able to stop.
Old email address deleted, Friendster account deleted, passwords changed, abandoned my blog, stop logging in to MSN feels extremely liberating. Now I have a new blog that I can treat entirely as a diary of uncommunicated thoughts.
Withougt me realising, I've just gotten myself another new account, a Facebook.
What have I done...
What is the use of maintaining something for the sake of other people?
What is the fun of revealing so much of yourself to people?
I should've learnt my lesson.
Anyway, does a short black haired girl in rolled up jeans and black tanktop, barefooted by the beach playing with her dog sounds hot? People should learn to NOT stare, it should be made illegal.
Thoughts
3:11AM in SF, in a dark bedroom in my high school PE tees and shorts.
500 fucking miles from Art Center.
2 fucking trip, to and fro LA and SF.
52 fucking bucks for gas each trip.
8 more strands fell off during shower an hour ago.
Why cant I stop counting? Is this an adult disease?
The rough definition of being a mature adult is about understanding values.
But the values are man made. Nothing has value. Value is originally nonexistent.
I sat at the back seat of Sylvia's Accord, slouched down, back against the left side wall (its 2 doored).
The digital clock on the dashboard says 1:08AM. And we are on our way back from LA to SF.
The damp smell of sand and seawater of Santa Barbara still lingers.
An iPod in my hand, I've been the operator throughout the journey, playing bossanovas, indie, and metal.
The freeway was deserted and dark, leaving the summer sky screaming with myriads of stars.
Cramped on the back seat, I let my head lolled to the side, my legs stretched out to occupy the entire back seat, humming and occasionally singing along some of my favourite songs in lazy tone.
Then I felt something under my thigh vibrates.
The back seat has became a mess now with jumbled sweatshirts and iPods.
My phone's vibrating. Ah... another one of those texts from that guy...
Isnt it such an anticlimactic ending for an entry?
500 fucking miles from Art Center.
2 fucking trip, to and fro LA and SF.
52 fucking bucks for gas each trip.
8 more strands fell off during shower an hour ago.
Why cant I stop counting? Is this an adult disease?
The rough definition of being a mature adult is about understanding values.
But the values are man made. Nothing has value. Value is originally nonexistent.
I sat at the back seat of Sylvia's Accord, slouched down, back against the left side wall (its 2 doored).
The digital clock on the dashboard says 1:08AM. And we are on our way back from LA to SF.
The damp smell of sand and seawater of Santa Barbara still lingers.
An iPod in my hand, I've been the operator throughout the journey, playing bossanovas, indie, and metal.
The freeway was deserted and dark, leaving the summer sky screaming with myriads of stars.
Cramped on the back seat, I let my head lolled to the side, my legs stretched out to occupy the entire back seat, humming and occasionally singing along some of my favourite songs in lazy tone.
Then I felt something under my thigh vibrates.
The back seat has became a mess now with jumbled sweatshirts and iPods.
My phone's vibrating. Ah... another one of those texts from that guy...
Isnt it such an anticlimactic ending for an entry?
Friday, August 22, 2008
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