— the laid.back buddhist —

Things people say

1. Amuse me.

Overheard, and I quote:

“So, do you go to McComas to work out?”

“Fuck no!” She exclaimed in mock righteousness, “McComas is the gym for people who are already in shape.”

Appreciating the girl’s bluntly ironic observations, I laughed to myself on my way out of the classroom. It’s true that people do work-out simply to see and be seen. I mean, I know that my feelings of self-consciousness when walking through the weight training area to reach Studio B where yoga classes are held make me no exception!

2. Appall me.

Overheard, and I quote:

“My boyfriend spends all his time gaming. He failed one of his classes because he wouldn’t stop playing his video games.”

“You don’t mind?”

“As long as it’s not another girl,” She gives a flippant shrug, “I don’t care.”

…uh, WTF. There are so many things wrong with such sentiment, I almost don’t know where to begin. Your (supposedly) significant other has FAILED a class due to an uncontrollable video-gaming addiction and you don’t fuckin’ mind?!

Might I add that this was disclosed during a course about “Addictions and Family.” And I still don’t know whether to feel alarmed pity for a seemingly lack of self-worth or shame for a girl who feels that nothing is wrong with her relationship…that it’s okay to go around publicly admitting it, too! The contextual irony of her statements is already rather appalling, but the feeling that she’s in a relationship-of-convenience is what really appalls me the most.

The way I see it: if a guy would rather continue to spend more time with something (or one) else than with me, I’d dump his sorry ass. Without exception.

My mother used to joke that the Chinese novels my dad loves to read, especially since the internet has increased accessibility, as his “Second Wife.” She won’t get on his case about it unless he overdoes it…

There’s no such thing as balance without moderation.

Certainly, it is one thing to be addicted to something (I’ve several that I tend to rotate between, the current absolutely-must-have being green-tea caffeine in early mornings), but it’s an entirely BAD thing to have an addiction that controls your life.

Hot damn, you gotta love things you can’t help but overhear.

Damn your dirty blonde looks.

Let’s take this moment to psychoanalyze ourselves for a moment, yes?

Speaking in a purely superficial sense, I’ve found myself instantly drawn to 2 types of looks. The first—which shall be oh-so originally dubbed as Type I—is the dark (like, dark-brown to black) and maybe slightly curly hair with brown eyes that twinkle.

Hell yeah, I am completely serious about the twinkling eyes part.

A couple years back, someone once asked me what I thought most attractive about a guy, physically. I immediately replied with, “He has eyes that twinkle.”

“What the?” The guy who asked took his eyes off the road to turn to me and exclaim, “Are you serious?!”

I nodded. In seriousness.

“How do you make eyes twinkle?” He gave a scornful laugh, “Walk around holding a mirror under your eyes? Always be seen in candlelight?”

I responded with a half-shrug, but I distinctly remember how I felt every one of my then 18 years because with extreme effort and embarrassment I bit back the words well, if you don’t know… you obviously don’t have twinkling eyes.

My guy friends always like to tease me and give me shit about this Twinkling Eyes Attraction of mine. Which in turn has caused me to ponder the roots of it. You see, I figure that people with twinkling eyes have great smiles. And people with endearing smiles by default ought to like smiling. And people who genuinely like to smile almost always like to laugh, too. Can you tell where I’m taking this? I like people I can share laughs with…ergo, I like people with twinkling eyes! At least, that’s one theory I cultivate to explain the unexplainable.

But back to the Types.

Type I

After re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo (quite possibly my all-time favorite book since the 8^th grade) over winter break for the umpteenth time, I realized that my long-time girlish attraction to the character of Edmond Dantés could be part of the reason.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Poor girl, Edmond Dantés is fictional, you kindly remind me.

But to my (uhh, generally) sane mind, it doesn’t matter because he’s also insanely hot.

Type II

Ugh. Well, Type II is a recent realization that I’ve developed an inclination towards dirty blondes with a slight scruffy look.

Allow me a moment to sound indignantly stereotypical: ha, me! like blondes?! pffft, as if!

However, one of the voices of sanity in my life confirmed my mounting fears.

“Darmstadt had dirty blond hair.”

“Yeah…I know,” I gave an internal wail of resignation, “Horrible, huh?”

“Well, I like big noses and beards.”

Even though that phase in my life is done and over with, it’s like I’m still judging all dirty blondes through these obsolete “darmstadt” rose-colored lenses. I won’t get new, updated ones until one day, I find myself genuinely falling for another guy.

So basically, it all implies that my basis for attraction depends on those guys I have or previously formed a serious attachment to.

And now before this train of thought turns full-out Freudian on me…

…let’s end this psychoanalytical moment here.

Because I fail at blogging everyday.

As a result (and an answer to Dan’s questions lamentations of why I don’t post as much as I used to), I created a tumblr account during my Judicial Office hours this morning.

…quite frankly, IT ROCKS.

You ought to get one yourself.

That way I can follow your tumbles, and you can follow mine, too…

Everyday Jo - come check out my tumblings!

Demystifying the Romantic Egotist

Sometimes I think I suffer from a Personal Fable Syndrome. Like everything else, it always starts after a tentative self-diagnosis, this time after reading adolescent psychology (holy shit! what if, developmentally speaking, I never really left my teens?!).

Almost 2 months ago, I was (again) asking myself that question while (again) internally freaking out because I could see how the answer might (again) be an “oh, crap!” yes.

Conclusion as of right now? I think I still will always suffer symptoms of the personal fable. The difference being, however, that I gradually learn to be less arrogantly self-absorbed while being more accountable.

That’s the hope, at least.

Anyhow.

From my time away over winter break, here’s the latest top-down self re-evaluation of my life:

On Family. Love doesn’t always equal tolerance. When something needs to be said, who else but the people who’ve loved you all your life to say it? Being the over-indulgent older sister doesn’t negate my guilty feelings from being away from home so much—it’s compounded. And disapproval shouldn’t be smothered in the name of filial piety. The hardest thing was realizing that for the people I love and care about, respect meant a refusal to ignore what’s right and wrong.

On Relationships. Let go of wallowing self-pity, and let live again. The hardest thing was realizing I had already let go of you back in May because it means these past 7-8 months I’ve been…hah. Um yeah, I’m so glad I finally got over myself, cripes.

On the Future. If you want something, take action. If you’re dissatisfied, take action. If you don’t know something, even if you’re scared shitless…yeah, you guessed it: take action. Seeking comfort outside of yourself can be both misleading and stagnating, not to mention frequently temporary. The hardest thing was realizing how often the very things I try to escape into are the very opposite of what I should be doing.

There, demystified.

Now all that’s left is to figure out just what to do about my Princess Complex.

KIDDING.

Sort of.

To a stubborn fault

He was an obsession. I recognize it now.

I also know it is entirely too easy for me to blame it all on him—he kissed me first, he always knew where I stood on things (as complicated and as blindingly simple it often was) between us, he was the one who’d take two steps forward every time he felt me pulling away because we both know he couldn’t give what I wanted…

He was the one terribly confused, you see. Not I.

There are moments when my love for the other people in my life nearly overwhelms me. I have it for my family, for those close few who instinctively understand that a comforting presence can be worth infinitely more than passing words or pieces of advice. I also have it for the simple sake of being alive during the impulsive moments of my solitude. Love is something I inherently understand and accept with open arms to flood my heart.

It also has the power to completely unhinge me. To consume me.

However, at the core, I am an intensely private person who always consults herself first before listening to the opinions of others. Perhaps to a stubborn fault. As a result, many of my friends trusted in my ability to handle the situation I found myself so seemingly inextricably intertwined in last year. I remember how one time after working out at the gym, a friend had said to me, “Wow, you have a way of clearly putting what’s happening between you guys into words.”

Words may communicate how I feel, what I know and see, but they can also be just words. On the exterior, I can be calmly rational, even wryly practical, about things. Yet, my nature is more of the all-or-nothing sorts, which is certainly fueled in part by my irrationality.

I am one to continue walking, ignoring the “Dead End” signpost just to see where it actually ends. And what it looks like, for myself. If I fail, I must fail spectacularly before rising back up again. This, I know, is most definitely to a fault.

One of the striking moments during that time was when I realized that as much I loved my friends, there were some who simply understood me better than others. A sort of kindred spirits tumbling in a whirlwind of flight. These were the people who disliked my former lover not because of him as a person, but because of what my relationship with him was doing to ME. They didn’t harbor hopes of us working it out, they had hopes for me to come to terms with myself.

My mother once told me that my passionate sensibility makes me lose my head over a boy. Luckily for the sake of her white hairs, this has only happened twice. Once in a brief, truly idealistic, meeting-of-minds, and long-distance relationship during high school. And once, last year. To her summation of my nature, I only nodded and gave a noncommittal “Hmm.”

She’s right, though, because she’s one to know…

Who else but her did I get the ability to love so freely and so fiercely?