Trashcan

So, I was scanning a blog post of this girl who goes to MIT who is a genius with amazing writing (props to Elise who warned me of a reality I would soon discover), and as I neared the bottom, the only thing that I read was this line that totally caught my eye in the 15 in/sec rate at which I was scrolling down:

“I got a B.”

And that’s all I saw amidst the blur of the black and white pattern of our alphabet, and an occasional blue dash every paragraph or so (wikipedia-linked words or something). I went back to see if it were real. That this girl who finished high school by junior year and upon acceptance to MIT, dropped high school, had actually gotten a B (and that I wasn’t being a delusional ABC maniac), to find that I am incredibly apt at spotting “B’s”. It must be from all the practice I get with school loop.

I wrote my first draft. No outline, no prior organization, no list of major ideas or key points, no shit.

Sat down at 12 AM, opened up “bluug write” (yes, I am that kind of person), and started writing. I don’t know the quality of my writing, how legit it is. It’s not beautiful. It’s not metaphorical. It’s definitely not what I thought it would be. Anyways, if you want to give me an opinion, leave a comment and use your correct email. If you’re lucky, Dr. Dai will accept your application, and you can waste time reading her essay.

Its 3:04 AM. I think it’s time for bed. I really can’t tell.

Dear Jessica Die,

Thank you for applying to Stanford University. Every year, we receive hundreds of worthy applicants, and thousands of some other applicants. This year, the competition has been incredibly tough, and we’re sorry to say, you have not been accepted to our university. We appreciate the $75 dollars, and frankly, were disappointed when you did not send the (optional) $425. In addition, after spilling coffee on your application, which drew attention to it (wow, almost forgot it on bathroom floor!), we found out that you are an “artist,” but were surprised that you used an orange-hued goldenrod (#2380) envelope rather than a mustard golden-rod envelope with shade #2398. We highly recommended that applicants use shade #2398, for it helps us with the application process. We also measured the distances between the label and the envelope edges. Are you really an artist? Or can you not do math? The labels were off center by 0.2 cm. Other applicants such as Elise Cai, made sure to use the correct shade and centered her label perfectly. Your inability to do so cost you your admission and us a lot of time.

However, we do enjoy your humor. We talked to our friends across the nation and found out you’re also applying to pretty elite schools. We laughed over that for a few days! Again, spilled some coffee on your application. Sorry for that. Anyways, since you don’t play volleyball at a national level, you do not compete in piano state competitions, are not a Korean girl, are not at height 4′11″ like Karen Lee, have not found a cure for cancer, did not establish an intermural tutoring company, are not some random child, and did not turn in the (optional) $425 dollars, you will not be attending Stanford University, ever.

But thank you for applying, and providing the good laughs. Coffee never spilled so well.

P.S. Jessica, DIE! HAHA!!

Shawn Abbott
Director of Admission
Stanford University
Office of Undergraduate Admission

you know what’s missing.

I don’t like this.

Beginning of the year, we’re all somewhat good friends. We hang out. All of us. We hang. Sometimes we call each other late at night/early in the morning. We talk and let there be silence. You browse your web, and I do my homework. We all come together on special days, remember them at least. We can smile because we’re friends.

I don’t like how

in less than six months, all of it changed. And now, at eleven months, I don’t like to know that we’ve split and I get to hear the things I hear. About you towards me. Towards her. Towards us. Just because you don’t understand anything.

So make your assumptions. Preach and advise and try to sound above it all and innocent. But, until you make amends with us, you will always,

always,

be the hypocrite I did not know.

the other person.

To try to justify your own mistakes,

your value as a person in that person’s eyes,

that’s the hard part. When you realize that essentially, you are alone, that’s the hard part. Because it all goes away. I’m waiting for my turn. But, am I ready to be like the other person?

I continue to sacrifice my first child, Sleep.

Everyone’s children are getting shorter. Tell that to my husband, Procrastination.

or so,

I thought I had a HIDEOUS scar on my upper lip.

Yesterday, I found out it’s not a scar…

IT’S A TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLE!

or something with long-lasting pimple status. Like, fat? How it all makes sense.

I just can’t believe it’s not a scar…… for two years……….

except in men. ;D

Anyways, what do I do? What do I write about?

I:
am not a Korean boy with curly hair,

do not jump of bridges for fun,

do not pen spin,

do not look at trash,

do not take long showers of revelation,

do not unclog toilets in Costa Rica,

do not think of yams when composing a list for “When on a stranded island…,”

do not share a special connection with dandelions,

have not met the Dalai Lama nor have had a banana explode on me,

do not create magical charts with red and blue words,

do not play the mixed-animal-butt in plays,

do not use an “!” after my name or even consider doing so,

do not have two identity-conflicting names,

do not know what to write about.

So, you. You, my reader, my friend. You, my hater, my fellow procrastinator,

what about me is unique? What aspect of myself am I blind to?

This is really my job. Only I know myself well enough, but… what do YOU think, for once..?

*and btw, all the above, save the last “do not know what to write,” were topics of successful Harvard applicants. Haha. Hah…

I gotta be more unique than…this.

Wtf is outside the box?!?!?!?!!!?!?!? O________________________O Maybe I need more time.

sleepless gliding.

I have to learn to give some things up.