the shimmering light
captures a moment in time
it fucking sucks shit

how’s that for some japonisme you condescending patronizing cocksucker?

these blog posts have become too touchy feely, even by my standards
fuck this. this is not awesome, this is not leet.
apologies for the recent gayness

oh and totally on subject and everything..
Leslie Feist just got airtime on the Colbert Report. Respect for Colbert approaching maximum levels >_>
Respect for Feist… dropped a little. She claimed to have a dual citizenship, acquiring her American passport from a deal with Apple. Signing a contract with Steve Jobs for perks like that… is.. just not cool =/
Apple. Is. Not. INDIE ROOOOOOOOOOCK.

So, I’ve got a new cell phone (the new number’s (415) 377-5611 in case you’re wondering)
It’s a 1337 ass phone, and I’m still trying to learn how to use it. I dunno, am I getting old or is technology getting harder and harder to adapt to? I confess.. I caved in and sought the owner’s manual for help. Didn’t really help though, but still. I used to balk at the people who scour the owner’s manual to learn how to hit the on button. It’s funny how we become what we hate. I swear I’ll never be anything I hate. Maybe it’s better just to smile and mention something that you like. Oh how you’d have a happy life if you did the things you liked. y / x = tan theta
Anyways, I was trying to copy my old phone’s contact list onto my new phone when it hit me. I’m never going to use my old cell phone ever again. In fact, I’m probably never even going to charge it up again. My cell phone’s on its last run right now, with half the battery gone. This realization of inevitability got me reminiscing about the past two years that I’ve used this phone. As I flipped through my contacts list I saw the names of the people who made these last two years what it was. I started looking through my old text messages, remembering the past in vivid detail in relation to my old phone. I went through my old photos, the monteray pics, some pics from my bday, the tower of pizza from the last all-nighter, the bush from when we hiked up to Indian Rock, the tree I climbed afterwards. In a way, my old cell phone really embodied my high school experience.
It’s sad to think that this is the end of a rather interesting period of my life, but it’s true. High school’s almost over and some of us are already leaving for college. But.. I guess I have to end with something cheerful… With every ending there is a new beginning. Though High School’s all but gone, College is just on the verge of happening.
I hope my new cell phone will be filled with new contact names and new text messages and new pictures. I hope my new cell phone will do justice to my new experiences.

I’m young, romantic, and not terribly marred, but because of school and college apps I’m stuck inside, spending my days cramming for something I’ve no interest in. Rousseau was right, society chains the sublime.

Yesterday walking down San Pablo Ave. to Jack’s house, conducting an invisible symphony with a half-crushed fanta can and personally suppling the melodies and harmonies by humming to the meter dictated by my gait, I stumbled upon an interesting thought. The past few months of my existence have been so forgettable that I’ve taken to living in my distant past. Though despair and anguish are highly regarded as moving and dramatic states of being, when one lives through constant anguish and constant regret the tension is lost and forgotten. The undulating passion flattens out and becomes almost geometric, leaving one with all the terribilita of a merely annoying toothache.
That’s what these past few months have been to me: compounded grief to the point of saying (instead of shouting) “Good grief, when shall I cease to be poked by this stick? Talk about beating the dead horse.”
And as I neared Jack’s tributary street, a block left stuck between two raging rivers by city planning, I became convinced that this nights excursion would be equally forgettable, easily shoved into the recesses of my memory. After all, the last few weeks of badminton were quite dull and though I’m thankful for the exercise these nights gave, the events have already been half forgotten. Frowning, I asked myself why my immediate past was filled with so little interest. And in my whining half religious way where God becomes both an deity and a vulgar profanity, I cried out “God. Give me some damned unforgettable memories.”
At that moment, the lament found me looking down and stepping off to cross the street. Just then, a massive van zoomed past right in front of my eyes. It came so close that I would’ve found myself decapitated if I had happened to lean my head forward. Heart racing, adrenaline pumping, it was only after I finished crossing the street that I calmed down enough to realize the irony that just happened. When it hit me, as these things do hit and hit quite hard, it hit me like an indignant slap. It was as if whatever caused the freak coincidence had said “Forget this, bitch.” And pulled the trigger attached to the barrel shoved against my temple.
Following this violent shove, Providence seemed to smile on me.
I ended up coming across the Can’t Fail Cafe(which played a decemberists song when I walked in), played (and won) my first real doubles game, got compliments for the first time ever on my badminton skill, laughed and dicked around with my friends all night long, and generally had an awesome time. As if to complete the deal, I came home to find that my new cell phone arrived in the mail.

My initial assumption proven completely incorrect, I now assume that this was a freak anomaly.
After all, I should be wrong about this as well right? (See blog post #122, “damn”)
I wonder if I’m changing the outcome now by concluding upon previous outcomes.
Ahh this self-referential recursive web of nuance. What’d be even trippier is if I decided that somehow future events can affect past events. wheeeeee let’s all be insane.

I’m so collective unconscious, I shit out 80’s music.
it’s not supposed to make sense for you, i can’t convey this feeling
it probably won’t even make sense to myself later
i guess this is photography, the act of capturing a moment
this is my delilah? so where’s the maze?

I will ask this in an attempt at legibility though
Have you ever just laid in bed remembering? Not thinking, not judging. Not trying to learn from a past event. Just delving into your primordial memories and remembering for the sake of consciousness. In a way it’s almost surrealistic, events start to be taken from you and you’re left as only a spectator. The one you remember that carries your name becomes a foreign entity, a demon manifest. It’s not regret, it’s just that your view becomes only third person. It creates a feeling that rides in the ribcage. “Did this really happen to me?” You think, and wonder “or is this just the collective unconscious talking?”
Do you ever feel like the video game characters you played as are more core to your identity than yourself? That somehow you’ve lived through their existences and the scenarios are just flaking off like lead paint, asphyxiation bright as the tele set? Not vicariously, as with a screen and some buttons, but actual fleeting transplantation. It’s the same with books, movies, anything with a plot and characters. I guess it’s just empathy gone wrong. Perhaps it’s just an overactive imagination.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to be an unfeeling calculating bastard, second in efficiency to only a heapsort. Somewhere the bleeding hearts bled through me, punctured and tattered. I regret wanting to be a poet. I regret music, I regret literature. Insanity is the ultimate cause of dusty tomes you’ll rest in.

I’m so collective unconscious, I shit 80’s music.
Someone hand me some anti-laxative.

This year’s gone by so fast, and no this isn’t some cliche bullshit.
The rate of time is accelerating. God I feel old. Death of age is just around the corner.
Just remember, almost a quarter of your life is gone.
What have you done really? How much have you accomplished?
I haven’t even started to live yet and the game’s already over.
Fuck preparing to live.

I’m placing bets that I’ll end up in a looney bin if I’m not in one already.

There’s no such thing as the protagonist. In the end, we’re all just npc’s.
Enjoy your meaningless static of selling that iron axe for 20 gil.
Saying the same words over and over again, even your movements are just premade sprites.
You’re just a gif!

a hardcore engineer while also being a hardcore rockstar
I want to be an engineer because it’ll satisfy my desire of building a massive death weapon and it appeals to my want to make awesome stuff and benefit humanity forever. It also appeals to my artistic-technical creativity. I will design beautiful bridges that will make it into art history texts (if I become a civil engineer).
I want to be a rockstar because it’ll satisfy my desire of totally jamming out while ten thousand groupies squeal in delight and it appeals to my want to spout my socio-political ideas and look awesome. It also appeals to my poetic-musical creativity. I will compose rock symphonies to the back of bitchin’ ass poetry that will become music classics.

I bet the xkcd comic dude would totally agree with me.

sigh, I really doubt that I can pull both off though =/
both paths are full time commitments if you wanna be doin it right.
but but.. if I can ever pull it off
I’ll come the closest to being god. I’d be a mage of matter, design, sounds, and words. I’d have a 1337 mind to go with a suave image.

sighhh dreaming is frivolous.

edit: I realize.. I also want to be a doctor because I want to be like a white mage and heal dudes. Then again, I kind of want to be a senator so I can control shit and make decisive differences. Or maybe a lawyer so I can be like LOL OBJECTION!.. nah.. Or maybe a pilot so I can do barrel rolls? .. no no.. maybe.. a .. business man so I gets teh economic powers? or maybe a.. nah.. or maybe.. hmm.. maybe..
FUCK
And I thought I figured out what I wanted to be.

Maybe a superhero so I can shot web and actually sometimes know what I want to do.

I love it when these threads weave around
finally life seems to hold a promising reason
and boredom loses its death’s grip

i know this is only for an instant
but somehow
i can see past my own petty problems

this is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization
this is just admiration.. for.. this gem
this beautiful kaleidoscope
see how it twists and twirls

our time’s short, another year gone
let’s make it memorable, let’s make it epic.
let’s live the lives we’ve always wanted

and yes, these are just drunk words
still, don’t they make you feel good inside?
>_>

don’t worry, i’m just immature and quixotically intoxicated.
no epiphanies, nothing substantial
just drunken slurred speech

funny thing is, i know the ownage and the self-destruction is just around the corner
if not tomorrow, then the day after
just enough to bring me down, just enough for it to hurt
it’s funny how it’s impossible not to think this while being lifted up
this kid I know is extremely depressed when things are going great for him, cuz he knows things can only get worse
and is euphoric beyond reason when his life is a living hell.
and of course this makes no sense at all
and of course I wrote this just because.. I couldn’t let my guard down
by measuring you’ve changed the outcome. by predicting, I think I can change the outcome.
After all, I’m always wrong.

damn
god stone the vicissitudes

The English 3 honor curriculum is comprised of literature pertinent to many ethnic cultural groups. These include and are limited to: Caucasian-Americans, Afghani-Americans, Hispanic-Dominicans, African-Americans, and Native Americans(American-Americans). However, no Asian-Americans have even been considered in any of the curriculum. Yet, at Albany High school we have a large population of Asian-Americans (about 30%). What is to account for this imbalance in course material? Furthermore, Asians seem to be singled out and excluded. If one considers the Race/Ethnicity Categories used by standardized testing and ap testing (officially: American Indian, Asian, Hispanic, Black, White), one realizes that all other ethnic groups have had some representation. Yet this is not the case for Asians.
The English 3 honor curriculum is supposedly designed to give a sense of the American tradition. So far it is comprised of books worthy enough to carry this sense. All of the books chosen reflect the American spirit in some incarnation. However, though the curriculum has been carefully selected thus far, one cannot ignore the complete absence of an entire socio-racial experience: the Asian-American experience.
One can only hope that such lacking is merely an unfortunate oversight. Otherwise, a few questions come to mind. Why was it deliberately decided that the Asian-American experience is not as important as let’s say the African-American experience? Who deemed an entire ethnic group not important enough to consider in the curriculum? Who decided to ignore the school’s entire population of Asian-Americans and deliberately chose not to include Asian-American books? Was this decision reached from, god forbid, a deep-seated bias against Asians? If so, does the teacher who made this decision deserve to be a member of the Albany High Staff? How would this reflect on the school?
Thus given the underrepresentation of the Asian-American experience, I urge those responsible for the course curriculum to include Asian-American books.

tl;dr
WHAT THE FUCK
WHERE MY ASIAN BOOKS?!?!?

I know what you’re trying, I wager that I understand.
Hypocrite.

I don’t want it, I won’t have it.
Not another mistake, not another regret.
Not another unwanted cigarette.
If you don’t hear me, then why should I hear you?
I won’t be the next untouchable.
Better luck next time.