Pe! culiar culiar culiar
Last Sunday, on a MetroNorth train, while reading a particularly sad part in Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner, I suddenly burst into tears. I put away the book and tried desperately to calm down but I couldn't stop. I cried all the way to Westchester. I know I looked awful when I got to where my cousin was having her birthday dinner, so I took a walk to give my eyes a chance to de-puff. I ended up walking back to the train station. So I took the next train home. On the train ride home, I didn't dare read the book so I closed my eyes and tried to sleep while tears streamed down my face. It was hilarious.
The Southern American cab driver who brought me home claimed to be psychic. He knew I was Filipino, that I spoke Tagalog but that I spoke another dialect that started with Ilo- (Ilonggo). We talked about Asian geography and history, which he knew more about than I did. And then it turned out that he spoke a little Japanese too, so we traded a few Japanese phrases. (Konnichiwa, O genki desu ka?, etc.) NYC cab drivers are a riot.
Last year, I remember being extra cranky/moody in the weeks leading to my birthday. It's my own little rebellion against aging.
Sometimes it amazes me how, at 24, I can be so immature. Half my life I've lived away from home and yet I'm still not used to taking care of myself, making decisions and following those decisions through. I'm apathetic and lazy when it comes to my own life. I guess that's the main reason behind these yearly birthday episodes. I hate being reminded of my irresponsibility.
On that note, I bought anIpod iPod. It has become the focal point of my day and the bane of my existence for the past week. I used to hate listening to music on the train because I could never hear the announcements. My greatest fear was getting on the train to get to work and ending up in Coney Island. But all that has changed. My life is a music video. I get through the day with a soundtrack. I am dreading the coming week-end because I'm going camping and there is a possibility that I will not have personal access to electricity while there, and therefore will not be able to charge my iPod.
In other news, tomorrow I am buying this book . The great Sarah Brown of Queserasera.org fame has a few pieces in it. I know, I know, I can go to Mcsweeneys and click away, but I think Sarah B. is an excellent writer and is a girl after my own heart and I will gladly fork over $15 or whatever Borders decides to overcharge me. (Just kidding, Borders. I know I can always count on you on a rainy day.)
With that, I am ending this post with three random pictures.
Juxtaposing: In the living room, the ceiling fan, the mirror and my friend Jethro's painting
Zach is one of the happiest people I know. These are his wheels.
When I'm not being impulsive, I practice flying kicks at Diet Pepsi bottles in the living room in my pajamas
Last Sunday, on a MetroNorth train, while reading a particularly sad part in Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner, I suddenly burst into tears. I put away the book and tried desperately to calm down but I couldn't stop. I cried all the way to Westchester. I know I looked awful when I got to where my cousin was having her birthday dinner, so I took a walk to give my eyes a chance to de-puff. I ended up walking back to the train station. So I took the next train home. On the train ride home, I didn't dare read the book so I closed my eyes and tried to sleep while tears streamed down my face. It was hilarious.
The Southern American cab driver who brought me home claimed to be psychic. He knew I was Filipino, that I spoke Tagalog but that I spoke another dialect that started with Ilo- (Ilonggo). We talked about Asian geography and history, which he knew more about than I did. And then it turned out that he spoke a little Japanese too, so we traded a few Japanese phrases. (Konnichiwa, O genki desu ka?, etc.) NYC cab drivers are a riot.
Last year, I remember being extra cranky/moody in the weeks leading to my birthday. It's my own little rebellion against aging.
Sometimes it amazes me how, at 24, I can be so immature. Half my life I've lived away from home and yet I'm still not used to taking care of myself, making decisions and following those decisions through. I'm apathetic and lazy when it comes to my own life. I guess that's the main reason behind these yearly birthday episodes. I hate being reminded of my irresponsibility.
On that note, I bought an
In other news, tomorrow I am buying this book . The great Sarah Brown of Queserasera.org fame has a few pieces in it. I know, I know, I can go to Mcsweeneys and click away, but I think Sarah B. is an excellent writer and is a girl after my own heart and I will gladly fork over $15 or whatever Borders decides to overcharge me. (Just kidding, Borders. I know I can always count on you on a rainy day.)
With that, I am ending this post with three random pictures.
Juxtaposing: In the living room, the ceiling fan, the mirror and my friend Jethro's painting
Zach is one of the happiest people I know. These are his wheels.
When I'm not being impulsive, I practice flying kicks at Diet Pepsi bottles in the living room in my pajamas
