Hot DAMN.
- Tuesday, July 14
-
0
% chance of feedback
- Labels: fifth year shit, materialism
IOU = ILU ?
Ah, so here we are again, it seems. Another month has gone by (more than a month, actually), and no word from Sophia. Then I pop up, give my excuses, rant a little more about some insignificant drivel, deliver my best regards, and disappear to Neverland once again. (Rest in peace, Michael Jackson, though I feel that I cannot completely drown myself in sorrow, as I have no idea who you are beyond the plastic covers of magazines and pale pixeled images of entertainment websites and shows.)
I should say that this is due to three main things -- one: I had finals for three weeks; two: I had prom; and three: I now work at a calling centre that demands inconvenient hours, disappointing surveys, and provides dismal pay. Though I have to admit, ringing up farmers from Nebraska and bringing up the good old times from my hometown (which is a state away from Nebraska, I'll have you know) while inputting figures for a 62-56 VT3 seed plant from Dekalb Corp. really does play with the heart strings a little.
I miss the United States, I really do, and I didn't realize this until I phoned up a man from the state of New York on July 3 regarding a recent visit to a TD Banknorth branch, a survey which consisted of ranking fifteen phrases on a scale of 1 to 7, where 1 is poor and 7 is excellent. He concluded our friendly conversation while inflating my already-high productivity level with, "Happy Fourth to you, my dear!"
Any other employee in the drab cubicled office space would have scoffed and brushed the comment aside, perhaps not quite even aware of what the 'Fourth' actually means. It was different for me, of course.
To me, the 4th represents all the glorified battles and memories that I've experienced in the land of the free. The adventures and prom dresses and hair removal products of Colorado, the museum laughter in DC, the great freeways of California, the tear-like snow of the Big Apple...how appropriate for all these to be celebrated with fireworks, ribs, and large, loud gatherings.
And though I truly do regret my actions of Denver 2007, and am not particularly fond of the tests my friendships were forced to endure (whether this was by my doing or not, I am not sure) in NYC 09, I can't help but say I miss the damned place. I miss the lazy warmth of my hometown, and I miss the odd sense of misplacement on top of the Empire State Building.
Even as I sit here, cap on head without any sunscreen, exposed to the dangers of the morning sun after an all-nighter filled with lurking, boredom, and self-reflection, insects crawling everywhere, I wish I was back in Colorado, pissed off at some infinitesimally trivial matter involving a cousin, or exploring the suburbs of Washington state, or biking through the paths of structured but undecorated houses, the crunch of dung beetles giving me a rush of rebellion as I ride on my bicycle, wheels continuously rotating, skin sizzling under the rays, unprotected after five hours with only a glob of SPF 50 sunblock...
Damn, this shit is making me feel nostalgic, and since I have unlimited calls on weeknights and weekends, my father has seized the golden opportunity of depriving me of my phone for today. I feel like accusing him of being a mooch, but then I realize that he footed the bill for my birth at University Hospital, provided the groceries for the past 16 years of my life, and is one of three financial supporters for my education (the other two being myself, and Fatty; my mother absolves herself of any duty under the pretense that she has LongJohn and Double Oh Seven to empty her wallets on, though I must not forget her ten-dollar investment for a watch to give me so that I can stop being late to my appointments and classes, and look slick while being at them).
I assume that with my luck, the Monkey will call to do something today (AND I AM ALMOST COMPLETELY FREE TODAY) only to have my father answer. Yikes. Of course, my father will absolutely freak out and assume that my brother from another mother is a tall, handsome genius, and not actually a brown Hong Kong native who is both broke and short.
Now with my train of thought and knack for association, I'd like to declare that yours truly, Sophia the FOB and/or FOBabee, has officially grown approximately two centimetres! CHEEEER! Now, most of you are either scoffing, laughing, applauding, or all three (something I think is highly unlikely, as from personal experience, I know it is quite difficult to scoff while laughing and in the midst of applauding a change in height), but two centimetres is quite the achievement for a girl who participates in absolutely no physical activity, sits in a cubicle and makes phone calls all day, and has a disastrous diet that consists of chocolate milk and potato chips...and is Asian (because I bring up stereotypes like it's the freaking weather, guys).
Well this is positive. My original intention for this post was to be a well-crafted rant on the shallowness of friendships within many Asian circles that I am familiar with, but instead has become the safe haven for short Asians and racist jokes, probably.
Please don't flame me, and please expect to see more of me.
I should say that this is due to three main things -- one: I had finals for three weeks; two: I had prom; and three: I now work at a calling centre that demands inconvenient hours, disappointing surveys, and provides dismal pay. Though I have to admit, ringing up farmers from Nebraska and bringing up the good old times from my hometown (which is a state away from Nebraska, I'll have you know) while inputting figures for a 62-56 VT3 seed plant from Dekalb Corp. really does play with the heart strings a little.
I miss the United States, I really do, and I didn't realize this until I phoned up a man from the state of New York on July 3 regarding a recent visit to a TD Banknorth branch, a survey which consisted of ranking fifteen phrases on a scale of 1 to 7, where 1 is poor and 7 is excellent. He concluded our friendly conversation while inflating my already-high productivity level with, "Happy Fourth to you, my dear!"
Any other employee in the drab cubicled office space would have scoffed and brushed the comment aside, perhaps not quite even aware of what the 'Fourth' actually means. It was different for me, of course.
To me, the 4th represents all the glorified battles and memories that I've experienced in the land of the free. The adventures and prom dresses and hair removal products of Colorado, the museum laughter in DC, the great freeways of California, the tear-like snow of the Big Apple...how appropriate for all these to be celebrated with fireworks, ribs, and large, loud gatherings.
And though I truly do regret my actions of Denver 2007, and am not particularly fond of the tests my friendships were forced to endure (whether this was by my doing or not, I am not sure) in NYC 09, I can't help but say I miss the damned place. I miss the lazy warmth of my hometown, and I miss the odd sense of misplacement on top of the Empire State Building.
Even as I sit here, cap on head without any sunscreen, exposed to the dangers of the morning sun after an all-nighter filled with lurking, boredom, and self-reflection, insects crawling everywhere, I wish I was back in Colorado, pissed off at some infinitesimally trivial matter involving a cousin, or exploring the suburbs of Washington state, or biking through the paths of structured but undecorated houses, the crunch of dung beetles giving me a rush of rebellion as I ride on my bicycle, wheels continuously rotating, skin sizzling under the rays, unprotected after five hours with only a glob of SPF 50 sunblock...
Damn, this shit is making me feel nostalgic, and since I have unlimited calls on weeknights and weekends, my father has seized the golden opportunity of depriving me of my phone for today. I feel like accusing him of being a mooch, but then I realize that he footed the bill for my birth at University Hospital, provided the groceries for the past 16 years of my life, and is one of three financial supporters for my education (the other two being myself, and Fatty; my mother absolves herself of any duty under the pretense that she has LongJohn and Double Oh Seven to empty her wallets on, though I must not forget her ten-dollar investment for a watch to give me so that I can stop being late to my appointments and classes, and look slick while being at them).
I assume that with my luck, the Monkey will call to do something today (AND I AM ALMOST COMPLETELY FREE TODAY) only to have my father answer. Yikes. Of course, my father will absolutely freak out and assume that my brother from another mother is a tall, handsome genius, and not actually a brown Hong Kong native who is both broke and short.
Now with my train of thought and knack for association, I'd like to declare that yours truly, Sophia the FOB and/or FOBabee, has officially grown approximately two centimetres! CHEEEER! Now, most of you are either scoffing, laughing, applauding, or all three (something I think is highly unlikely, as from personal experience, I know it is quite difficult to scoff while laughing and in the midst of applauding a change in height), but two centimetres is quite the achievement for a girl who participates in absolutely no physical activity, sits in a cubicle and makes phone calls all day, and has a disastrous diet that consists of chocolate milk and potato chips...and is Asian (because I bring up stereotypes like it's the freaking weather, guys).
Well this is positive. My original intention for this post was to be a well-crafted rant on the shallowness of friendships within many Asian circles that I am familiar with, but instead has become the safe haven for short Asians and racist jokes, probably.
Please don't flame me, and please expect to see more of me.
- Saturday, July 11
-
0
% chance of feedback
- Labels: fatty, fifth year shit, nyc 09, the monkey, work
Pause Part II
Because everyone knows that anything good is usually followed by a bad sequel or (as in the case of the Terminator or Mummy franchises) many, many bad sequels.
Congratulations to those who half-heartedly requested that I maintain this sad, lifeless blog of mine despite the announced deaths of Senor's and Wistful's respective blogs - ah! to be as accurate as possible, allow me to correct myself - despite the announced death of Senor's blog (you bitch, you broke the triangle) and the prolonged periods of absence in which I was truly too lazy to think of anything remotely witty to say on the blog. You have (half-heartedly) convinced me to persevere in the face of such procrastinating challenges!
Allow me to first digress in this post, and give a shout-out to virtually any male presence in the audience: PLEASE, SOMEBODY, DRESS MORE LIKE THIS GUY. Ever since joining a dragon boat team, I've been exposed to the extreme conditions of joining the ranks of over-pubescent and bulky twenty-something men, and have since developed
and odd affinity for designer tees and sneaker collections. I've also been scoping out well-dressed guys and actualizing my self-coined term fashion crush at a rate of five per day. I'd also like to cut my hair, despite my self-made promise to wait at least until prom, and have been trying to convince my friends that shaving a fraction of my eyebrow off (see picture) is a good idea.
NO, SOPHIA, NO.
Actually, Fatty has been recounting numerous anecdotes of a recently friended 6'4 fashonista who she met at a nerd quiz club. Her frequent compliments on his Lacoste polos, suits, and Burberry tie piqued my interest, naturally. So I met the guy, and let me tell you - I was extremely disappointed. Yes, he is freakishly tall, and made a 6' friend of ours look like a dwarf when next to him, but he slouches, is hyperopic, and was decked from head to toe in Tommy Hilfiger. Don't get me wrong here, guys who have the noble ability to spend ridiculous amounts on a brand that seems to be the GAP for mid-thirties really bring a warm sensation to my heart, but to wear nothing but Hilfiger? Hm. Hmmm. No, Sophia (or should I say 6'4 hyperopic friend of Fatty's), no.
Digressions aside, congratulations to all those grads of 2009! It's finally fucking over! To refer to the spark of inspiration by Wistful at her blog:
Which brings me to the slate I intend to wipe with the closing of high school's old, old doors. It's been a long journey. I've made friendships, destroyed them, harbored secrets, revealed them, started drama, been the centre of drama, and much, much more. The thing that I'd like to impress upon you, dear readers, is that during the past five years, I've made memories, and upgraded my wardrobe (though the term upgraded is extremely relative).
It would seem appropriate to simply retire this blog, as its birth was the start of my high school transformation, therefore its death should only logically be at the end of high school. All I can give at the end of such an awe-inspiring adventure is a new look and the retiring of a couple of characters.
So please, say good-bye to Changmin, SFFL, and Orange Soda from the Asian Triads, as I will no longer be associating them to the group. Senor and Wistful shall still remain as a label, but will now be known as Wistful on my posts. A friendly farewell to the entire Gentlemen section of my characters Monsieur Beau, Riceboy, Sandman , and Mr. Mystery. I am no longer at all interested in being uninterested in being single, therefore you are at my mind's disposal. Eugenia will, however, remain, as he often accompanies me to bubble tea excursions.
Au revoir, mes profs! Actually, I've been caught in the middle of a huge scandal within the halls, as many girls are extremely envious of the heart that was left in my yearbook, penned by the one and only Hemingway. He must have realized my obvious obsession with him in third year...ah, haha. Good times.
So. Here it is. To the end of high school, and the beginning of something so brand spankin' new that I'm not sure how whether to hold it at the top or bottom. To the end of some beautiful friendships, and the beginning of some beautiful-er ones. To the end of all those regrets and shameful, bitter, and spiteful emotions, and the beginning of...more regrets and shameful, bitter, and spiteful emotions, probably.
To you, my dear reader! for being able to stick to this blog (or find it somewhat interesting, if you're just passing by) through the thick and thin.
More importantly, to FOB, the blog itself, for withstanding numerous rants, sob stories, and unimportant anecdotes.
Ah, this summer, though not yet begun (thank you, RWA, for giving me two-and-a-half week's worth of exams for which I have not even started studying), feels refreshing, don't you agree?
Congratulations to those who half-heartedly requested that I maintain this sad, lifeless blog of mine despite the announced deaths of Senor's and Wistful's respective blogs - ah! to be as accurate as possible, allow me to correct myself - despite the announced death of Senor's blog (you bitch, you broke the triangle) and the prolonged periods of absence in which I was truly too lazy to think of anything remotely witty to say on the blog. You have (half-heartedly) convinced me to persevere in the face of such procrastinating challenges!
Allow me to first digress in this post, and give a shout-out to virtually any male presence in the audience: PLEASE, SOMEBODY, DRESS MORE LIKE THIS GUY. Ever since joining a dragon boat team, I've been exposed to the extreme conditions of joining the ranks of over-pubescent and bulky twenty-something men, and have since developedand odd affinity for designer tees and sneaker collections. I've also been scoping out well-dressed guys and actualizing my self-coined term fashion crush at a rate of five per day. I'd also like to cut my hair, despite my self-made promise to wait at least until prom, and have been trying to convince my friends that shaving a fraction of my eyebrow off (see picture) is a good idea.
NO, SOPHIA, NO.
Actually, Fatty has been recounting numerous anecdotes of a recently friended 6'4 fashonista who she met at a nerd quiz club. Her frequent compliments on his Lacoste polos, suits, and Burberry tie piqued my interest, naturally. So I met the guy, and let me tell you - I was extremely disappointed. Yes, he is freakishly tall, and made a 6' friend of ours look like a dwarf when next to him, but he slouches, is hyperopic, and was decked from head to toe in Tommy Hilfiger. Don't get me wrong here, guys who have the noble ability to spend ridiculous amounts on a brand that seems to be the GAP for mid-thirties really bring a warm sensation to my heart, but to wear nothing but Hilfiger? Hm. Hmmm. No, Sophia (or should I say 6'4 hyperopic friend of Fatty's), no.
Digressions aside, congratulations to all those grads of 2009! It's finally fucking over! To refer to the spark of inspiration by Wistful at her blog:
Which brings me to the slate I intend to wipe with the closing of high school's old, old doors. It's been a long journey. I've made friendships, destroyed them, harbored secrets, revealed them, started drama, been the centre of drama, and much, much more. The thing that I'd like to impress upon you, dear readers, is that during the past five years, I've made memories, and upgraded my wardrobe (though the term upgraded is extremely relative).
It would seem appropriate to simply retire this blog, as its birth was the start of my high school transformation, therefore its death should only logically be at the end of high school. All I can give at the end of such an awe-inspiring adventure is a new look and the retiring of a couple of characters.
So please, say good-bye to Changmin, SFFL, and Orange Soda from the Asian Triads, as I will no longer be associating them to the group. Senor and Wistful shall still remain as a label, but will now be known as Wistful on my posts. A friendly farewell to the entire Gentlemen section of my characters Monsieur Beau, Riceboy, Sandman , and Mr. Mystery. I am no longer at all interested in being uninterested in being single, therefore you are at my mind's disposal. Eugenia will, however, remain, as he often accompanies me to bubble tea excursions.
Au revoir, mes profs! Actually, I've been caught in the middle of a huge scandal within the halls, as many girls are extremely envious of the heart that was left in my yearbook, penned by the one and only Hemingway. He must have realized my obvious obsession with him in third year...ah, haha. Good times.
So. Here it is. To the end of high school, and the beginning of something so brand spankin' new that I'm not sure how whether to hold it at the top or bottom. To the end of some beautiful friendships, and the beginning of some beautiful-er ones. To the end of all those regrets and shameful, bitter, and spiteful emotions, and the beginning of...more regrets and shameful, bitter, and spiteful emotions, probably.
To you, my dear reader! for being able to stick to this blog (or find it somewhat interesting, if you're just passing by) through the thick and thin.
More importantly, to FOB, the blog itself, for withstanding numerous rants, sob stories, and unimportant anecdotes.
Ah, this summer, though not yet begun (thank you, RWA, for giving me two-and-a-half week's worth of exams for which I have not even started studying), feels refreshing, don't you agree?
- Saturday, June 6
-
0
% chance of feedback
- Labels: changmin, eugenia, fatty, fifth year shit, geek, hemingway, jerkface, mr. mystery, orange soda, riceboy, sandman, senor and wistful, sffl
Pause.
OH MY GAWD, I CAN'T FIND MY CHEMISTRY LAB NOTEBOOK. AND SOMEONE BORROWED MY RULER WITHOUT RETURNING IT. AND I HAVE A MATH TEST TOMORROW. AND I HAVE A PHYSICS TEST SOMETIME THIS WEEK. AND I HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW TOO.
However, on the bright side, Tuesday is a pedagogical. Thus, I am going to see Star Trek on big screen. Exciting? You bet it.
To fill you in on the long absence I seem to constantly be taking, I got a job! That's right! Sophia is now legally receiving money to annoy the eff out of you by calling you at extremely inconvenient times to ask redundant, word-for-word questions on behalf of company X represented by calling centre Y.
Mm, fun.
More fun than that was the paid 2-night training session I had to endure. As usual, I was the youngest, and the only anglophone.
Starving Artist creeped me out, and left halfway through the second night of training. SKETCH MUCH?!
Ghetto Man turned out to not be as ghetto as initially believed, just a man with some sort of attention complex.
The Jocks were extremely annoying. I could tell they and I weren't going to get along.
The Professional was extremely pretty, but also left halfway through the second night of training. Apparently, she had family issues she needed to solve.
Mom ended up being my age?! What. I know. Anyway, she's my mom.
The Kenyan was a sick bird, and is a giant.
I see the Veteran all the freaking time. For the most part, he looks as though he's going through crack rehab, but he always meets the target for phone calls...damn him.
The Flamboyant wears clothes for women, is nice albeit quirky.
Sorry for the extremely ugly post, my creative juices are focusing on figuring out where my chemistry lab notebook went...ugh.
However, on the bright side, Tuesday is a pedagogical. Thus, I am going to see Star Trek on big screen. Exciting? You bet it.
To fill you in on the long absence I seem to constantly be taking, I got a job! That's right! Sophia is now legally receiving money to annoy the eff out of you by calling you at extremely inconvenient times to ask redundant, word-for-word questions on behalf of company X represented by calling centre Y.
Mm, fun.
More fun than that was the paid 2-night training session I had to endure. As usual, I was the youngest, and the only anglophone.
Starving Artist creeped me out, and left halfway through the second night of training. SKETCH MUCH?!
Ghetto Man turned out to not be as ghetto as initially believed, just a man with some sort of attention complex.
The Jocks were extremely annoying. I could tell they and I weren't going to get along.
The Professional was extremely pretty, but also left halfway through the second night of training. Apparently, she had family issues she needed to solve.
Mom ended up being my age?! What. I know. Anyway, she's my mom.
The Kenyan was a sick bird, and is a giant.
I see the Veteran all the freaking time. For the most part, he looks as though he's going through crack rehab, but he always meets the target for phone calls...damn him.
The Flamboyant wears clothes for women, is nice albeit quirky.
Sorry for the extremely ugly post, my creative juices are focusing on figuring out where my chemistry lab notebook went...ugh.
- Sunday, May 10
-
0
% chance of feedback
- Labels: fifth year shit, geek, work
200+ Posts Already!
For those who have not been following my Tumblelog, spring has finally reached this dismal city! The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, the sky is clear, and - best of all - the air is filled with the stench of defrosting dog manure (thanks ever so much, neighbours!).
Since much of the snow within our city has melted, my father has decided that it is high time to take my driving lessons to the next level. This means that I actually have to confirm a time for my "class" with him at least 2 days in advance.
Let's just say that after last month's lesson, my father spent four days locked in his room, praying for the patience and perseverance necessary to properly teach me how to drive without imploding.
So after arriving home this afternoon (as usual, I fell asleep on the metro and forgot to visit the library for an important French project..Predicament is going to KILL ME), I changed into a T and sweatpants, slipped Fatty's brown All-Stars on, and headed out to the car.
An hour and a half later, and my dad isn't as angry as I thought he would be! Why? It seems that I can successfully make turns, pinpoint specific errors within my techniques, and remain a naturally relaxed driver!
SUCK THAT, FATTY!
I believe my father decreases his yelling potential by at least 90% when I'm behind the wheel simply because I have the mentality of a four year-old. I don't get nervous because I am aware that I will probably fail miserably anyway, and I also enjoy knocking things over with large machines.
I am dead excited to continue learning how to drive, and am crossing my fingers for a job so that I may start saving up for a car on my own.
Since much of the snow within our city has melted, my father has decided that it is high time to take my driving lessons to the next level. This means that I actually have to confirm a time for my "class" with him at least 2 days in advance.
Let's just say that after last month's lesson, my father spent four days locked in his room, praying for the patience and perseverance necessary to properly teach me how to drive without imploding.
So after arriving home this afternoon (as usual, I fell asleep on the metro and forgot to visit the library for an important French project..Predicament is going to KILL ME), I changed into a T and sweatpants, slipped Fatty's brown All-Stars on, and headed out to the car.
An hour and a half later, and my dad isn't as angry as I thought he would be! Why? It seems that I can successfully make turns, pinpoint specific errors within my techniques, and remain a naturally relaxed driver!
SUCK THAT, FATTY!
I believe my father decreases his yelling potential by at least 90% when I'm behind the wheel simply because I have the mentality of a four year-old. I don't get nervous because I am aware that I will probably fail miserably anyway, and I also enjoy knocking things over with large machines.
I am dead excited to continue learning how to drive, and am crossing my fingers for a job so that I may start saving up for a car on my own.
- Wednesday, March 18
-
0
% chance of feedback
- Labels: car troubles, fatty, fifth year shit, predicament
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)