Meet the friendly college leper!

[Now with all-important footnotes]

Eww, gross, no thanks…okay fine, I won’t be rude, but seriously, I’m not shaking her hand.

I AM GOING TO MURDERURDLE MY SISTER.

RAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHH.

I am SO ANGRY right now.

At the universe, yes, and perhaps the universe should bear the brunt of it, but my sister is such a convenient target. I am angry with my sister.* My beloved, older sister who is 16 years my senior.

I shall slay her. No, I won’t. But I will murderurdle her. (A term coined by my former roommate to make expressing anger sound cuter.) Continue reading

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Unsupervised

“I have to make a conference call, but afterward we can talk.”

That’s great. Except that we never, ever talk.

You supervise me, sure. But do you talk to me? Barely. You have just enough time to give me the barest of instructions before you’re off to the next meeting. How to do it, or even if I can do it, is inconsequential, secondary.

I understand. I really do. You’re a busy man. I’m an intern. My sole purpose here is to help, and if I take you away from your work all the time, that’s not helping.

Still, though, it’s a waste of my time and yours if I sit here all day reading Divergent while I wait for our “talk.” I try, sometimes, to forge ahead and do projects with minimal guidance, only to have you finally clue in long enough to tell me I did it wrong. In two sentences, you tell me exactly how I should have done it. If I had known that before, that’s how I would have done it. Instead, I’m adrift in a mess of work where I can barely tell what I’m supposed to be doing at any given moment. Continue reading

Plane Part Deux

The best thing to do after a 9-hour flight and 12 hours traveling? Get on another plane.

I called my mom during my layover and reported that I hadn’t slept, and wasn’t planning on it during the next leg. That way, I’d arrive in the San Francisco airport ready to sleep off the journey.

Ten minutes into the five-hour transcontinental flight, my head hit the tray table and I fell fast asleep.

I woke to the crackling speaker and the captain’s voice “…landing in San Francisco, about 11:30 pm local time.”

What? I’d slept through the whole flight? Oh glorious day!

I decided to make a celebratory trip to the bathroom to stretch my aching muscles before they turned on the seatbelt sign and prepared the cabin for landing. While I waited for the little indicator light to turn green and vacant, I asked the woman behind me if she knew how long it would be until we landed.

“Well, he said 11:30, so however long it is from now until 11:30, I guess,” she hazarded.

“Yeah…I just don’t know what time it is…” In other words, your response is entirely useless.

Continue reading

True Colors

True Colors
an angry poem from May 2013

Slow down, I thought.
Step back.
Take a look before it all goes black.
Heavy heart, troubled mind.
Nothing worse than running blind. 

What am I feeling?
It’s too soon to know.

— scribbled in a notebook while I was dating the subject of the angry poem that follows


Too soon?
Yeah, too soon.
I barely knew who you were, all right,
and now that I’ve seen your true colors I’m repulsed.
Beneath the flaky gold varnish I cringe at what’s beneath:
a fleshy mass of yellow, diseased tissue,
tinged green
and laced with veins of red
–scars that still bleed–
trembling like jello
and barely holding itself together.
I pity it.
I pity you.

Good luck with your future endeavors.
No sarcasm. I mean it.
I hope that by the time you find your soulmate,
you’ve had time to heal,
so she doesn’t see the ugly mess I’ve seen.
I hope you can hold it together with her
better than you did with me,
better than you did with the others,
because no girl deserves to be the victim of your insecurity,
least of all her.

I have no regrets, but I hope you do:
The first step to healing is admitting you’re sick.
You’re sick, boy, more sick than you know,
That ragged tear through your heart never closed.
Every breath you take rips apart the slowly repairing flesh yet again,
Till the newly opened wound
Aches.
Throbs.
Festers.
You tell yourself it’s over,
You tell yourself she’s gone.
I barely know you, and
Even I know better–
You’re not over it.
Her shadow still hovers over you,
And you’ve absorbed that darkness into your soul.
It’s twisted you, boy–just look, you’ll see.
And you have no right to take that out on me.

Good luck to you, boy.
I wish you the best.
Get well soon, heal,
Move on, live your life,
And learn to care without hurting those around you.
You’ll be better off for it,
The girls you pursue in the future will thank you for it,
And your true colors will shine through:
A deep clover green and a rich, warm gold,
Waving proudly in the wind.

Growing pains of a 20-something year old

I hate becoming an adult.

Childhood is a warm, fuzzy place where it’s never your fault, where there is always an excuse for your mistakes–even if the excuse is that you’re young.

Adulthood means responsibility. Maybe on occasion there is a reason, but there is never an excuse. Adulthood means being self-motivated, with no parents or teachers holding your hand or pushing you along. Adulthood means making choices that are yours and yours alone, and accepting their consequences.

In theory, I have no problem with being an adult. It’s the transition that kills me.

Continue reading