Show Me Five Failures From Cal-tech

Easily.

So the time to start looking at colleges has come around, and I've been dreading it for the past year. It's time to kick our fears of commitment in the shins,bust out the dusty transcripts, and find a single defining moment in each of our lives that we can embellish just enough to make it a riveting college essay. However, the most daunting task of all, the one that parents and guidance counselors and Collegeboard relentlessly beat into our heads, is that we need to dissolve all the misconceptions and silly fantasies we may have about the future and settle on a practical major, at a reputable school not too far away from home. The distance from home thing really isn't a huge issue for me-- it's not like I want desperately to flee from my lovely, but tragically boring hometown or anything, but I've got another bone to pick with all those grown-ups out there who feel they know "what's best" for their kids' futures. Lets start with a question:

What happened to your sense of ambition? If you answer that it's been trampled by the recent economic deficit or some other tragic incident in your life, I feel bad for you. On the other hand, if you say its still alive and kicking, I have one of three responses: 1) You're a filthy liar 2) You are a hypocrite or 3) You're in denial. If you really have aspirations, and believe in the power of optimism and dreaming, you would never stifle that very same spark in your children by advising them to "play it safe" in the game of life. You would never tell them that their chances of succeeding in life are far lower if they go to a slightly less famous, but still prestigious college than if they went to the college of YOUR dreams. You would NEVER kill the joy of learning withing your kid by telling them that they don't know enough about what they want in life, and so they should just follow your master plan.

I'm sorry if going to Harvard isn't your child's dream, and I'm sorry if you have some delusion about said dream-college being perfect and every kid coming out of it being set for life. Truth is, it doesn't matter where you go to college; whether or not you succeed in life relies solely on the person and his or her abilities. Believe it or not, there have been people who graduated from Harvard and didn't achieve all their life goals. That doesn't make them any dumber than anyone else who graduated, nor does it make them any smarter than people who didn't graduate from Harvard, but are doing what they love. All that matters is that in the end, you succeed, and that's on YOU. Like the greatest antagonist in literature's history (Iago from Shakespeare's Othello) once said, "Reputation Reputation Reputation is the most idle and FALSE implication".

So every statistic and article that has said otherwise can take my words and shove it u--I mean... can graciously take them into account.

Meaningless Modern Music

I remember the first song I ever heard on the radio. Granted, I wasn’t a very tech-savvy child, but I managed to meddle around with the scanning knob until I heard the ever famous lyric “All you need is love!” and that got me thinking. I know it’s silly to think about a six-year-old child contemplating morals over 90’s pop music, but the more I think about it now, the more I realize that my entire moral compass is based on the teachings of The Beatles and Ashanti . I’m very grateful to have had the chance to grow up alongside music with such integrity and zing. But before I can even start reveling in my good fortune, I feel obligated to think of... the less fortunate. Yes, that means you. I actively worry about today’s teen generation and the lessons they are being taught by their music—if that’s what they wish to call it.

Love, tolerance, peace and a little bit of hippie entrancement—these are some of the lessons to be learned from the sounds of the Beatles. John, Paul, George and Ringo especially taught me the importance of perseverance and hard work, lessons I never forgot throughout school and other tough times. One of the most attractive aspects of the Beatles was their ability to teach me a lesson, but still keep me hooked by their style and groove, which surpassed those of most other bands out there.

I also remember getting down to Ashanti’s beats, chockfull of great advice for hormonal tween girls (not that I’m insinuating anything about me being a hormonal tween). Ashanti’s classic songs, like “Happy” inspire children to savor their youth (cue overbearing mother version of THE TALK ). Young children do not need to be concerned with things as vulgar as love—no, they should appreciate their innocence and just have good, wholesome fun.

When I look at what this once-thriving industry has become, I cannot help but wonder what happened, as children today are being force fed the dirty leftovers of what was once a great American culture. At one point, I wondered if the terrible noises I was hearing on the radio were just the first signs of the apocalypse , but then I realized that they would not cease. Irritated at what seemed to be a mélange of sound effects and animal calls, I turned to the internet for some answers, until I came to my still-standing conclusion. The music streaming on the radio these days generally falls under one of two categories: reckless noise or overly-excited chanting.

For example, today’s media has been shaken up by the demeaning and irresponsible messages that some rock and hip hop music sends to our youth. Masked by catchy rhythms and synthesized beats, these songs have infiltrated the purity and innocence of the musical world and have begun to teach kids all the wrong lessons. Whether it be to drink, to go clubbing or to mistreat their female peers, this music lacks the rich, tasteful qualities of the old greats and continues to corrupt our young generation’s minds.

On the other side of the spectrum, parents around the nation have their children hypnotized by the voices of prepubescent kids singing meaningless lyrics and overused melodies. Record companies constantly crank out child stars with bangs past their eyes and pants hanging precariously around their knees, each one as irritating, but as addictive as the one before. These children assume that just by grasping a microphone and yelling at the top of their lungs, they are making music. As far as I’m concerned, “Baby baby baby” doesn’t make a remotely significant statement.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bashing on all modern music; in fact, some of it is absolutely what it ought to be: catchy, fun, and safe. I don’t mean to generalize or stereotype, I’m just making some observations. So the next time you listen to your iPod, ask yourself, are these tweeny-boppers really teaching you anything valuable? Are they really the people you want your grandchildren referring to as “the oldies”? Because the day Nick Jonas becomes the new Paul McCartney is the day I is the day I grow wings and fly away.

A hundredth of an MB has never carried so much weight

So there's this email. A very long, misleading, enigma of an email. I want to delete it, trust me. On several occasions, I've found myself hovering the mouse over it, but in the end, my thumb could not find the inclination to just click.

Why this email was sent, I don't know. Perhaps to mock me? Perhaps to dissuade me? Or maybe I'm just plain reading too far into it. In any case, I really wish I hadn't received it, because it turned things weird for a while and somehow, after a long and winding chain of events, screwed up an entire year for me.

And it is stuff like this that makes me the paranoid, obsessive little thing I am today. Everything I do is so choppy and fragmented that I can't seem to find any worth in my work anymore. I have this awful tendency to make things bad for myself, and that all seems to widdle down to self pity. I am setting myself up mentally for failure and I have no one to blame for it but myself.

Seeking a way out of this hole, I logged off for what seemed like an eternity, trying to avert my attention to "more important" things than this blog. I was wrong in neglecting an outlet, and discerning what is important by someone else's standards. I am done waiting for approval-- I am ready to take a leap of faith and see where I go. It's time to be myself, because that's what I'm best at, and anyone intimidated by or uncomfortable with that is not worth my time or audience.

You disgust me. only joking.

I hate it when people use the word
"itch" as a verb.

Also, the crux of my plump cerebral
cortex slurps the fluid which secretes from the
crevice of your wenus.

Hello World,

Today I stand before you in profuse apology. "Why?", you ask? Well, someone has to do it.

They always taught us in school to clean up messes. Even if they weren't ours, we ought to clean them up. We have the civic... uhh I mean classroom duty to do so, because, regardless of who or what caused the mess, its making life hell for ALL of us. My very simple (some may say naive) question is: If kindergarteners get it, why doesn't the rest of the world?

I'm sure you have already guessed I'm talking about the BP oil spill, and President Obama's heroic and OH SO PRODUCTIVE press conference. In it, he dynamically stated "No matter what happens, BP WILL pay".

I cannot thoroughly, calmly or coherently (the afformentioned are mutually exclusive) describe my distaste for this statement because as I have stated in my all-too-clever metaphor, these are grown people who call themselves world leaders. They bear the weight of the entire world on their shoulders, and yet, they would rather play the blame game than take care of the crisis at hand.


Another analogy, if you will: BP is the murderer, we are the mourning mother, the earth (sea life, environment,etc) is our dead child, and the government is the judge. Mr. Judge tells us: Ma'am, your child was brutally attacked and murdered. BUT IT'S OKAY! Mr. Murderer is getting a life sentence!


I hope you see something terribly wrong with this picture. The murderer being contained... but that doesn't brign the child back. Likewise, we could make BP pay, but that doesn't solve any of our environmental issues.

I think we have lost sight of what is really vital to survival. I mean, yes, the economy must be revived. And yes, we need to find a cure for cancer. And SURE, America HAS to be the the first to invent a computer the size of your big toe. But what does any of this matter if we don't have a world on which to enjoy the fruits of our labors? Its sad enough that people these days (be them political leaders, or just the average citizen) need additional incentive to protect our earth, but the fact that poeple continue to veg out when give the chance to step up just makes me want to lose faith in humanity.

Frustrations let out. Oxygen let in. Carbon dioxide let out. LADY GAGA choreography let in.

Learning. Novel idea, no?

Have you ever felt that feeling where you read an entire chapter of a book, only to realize you don’t know what is going on? Welcome to my life.

Arcadia has received countless accolades for its academic achievement. We can safely say that any Arcadia High student is well equipped with the work ethic and drive needed to succeed in college and beyond, as proven by our top-ranking exit exam, state testing and AP Exam scores. As far as the record books are concerned, our school is an educational utopia. However, our student body has become so obsessed with these very scores, that the true meaning of learning has lost all its value. Students today are so consumed in competition, that they seldom retain the life skills that our schools were established to offer. And, consequently, our generation is gradually straying from the invaluable education our founding fathers intended for us, propelling us into a truly stagnant and homogeneous future.

Schools initially were created to mold young adults into functional and contributing members of society. But our school has taken this to an extreme, as we have created a cookie cutter in the shape of the letters “AP” and stamped each and every student with it, turning into a factory of robots, rather than a warm environment to foster the growing minds of tomorrow. Society is somewhat to blame in this little predicament because it has skewed the definition of education, so that what is required to get into college will not necessarily prepare you in any way for life. For example, students no longer analyze subject matter. Instead, they merely memorize it, regurgitating information onto an exam, only to forget it the next day when the new lesson begins. Teachers, administrators and students alike have fallen into a pattern of short term goals that do not benefit the learning process in any way, thereby completely disregarding the bigger picture.

In order to repair the damage that has been done to the lazy mindsets of both students and teachers, I suggest we take the Mr. Keeting approach. I do not mean to advocate the entire student population mounting their desks, while passionately declaring, “O Captain, My Captain!” but, rather, defining the importance of learning for themselves, individually. Indeed, students are known less and less by their unique qualities and interests, and more by their SAT scores. While they pressure themselves to clinch those all-important A’s, they neglect that the lessons they acquire from the material reflect far more on their character than the letter grade sent home on a sheet of expertly watermarked paper.

I, personally, still dream of living like the Jetsons-- with flying cars and robot maids and talking dogs-- the whole nine yards. And, unlike many, I still have faith that our generation can crawl out of our AP Chemistry books and scrape up quite a nice little future for ourselves. Join me, wont you?

If my life were an electrocardiodiagram, I would be dead right now

What I mean is, my life is comprised of repeating cycles of a giant mountain followed by a practically never ending valley.

What is the use of potential, if that's as far as you get? This has been the operative question running in circles in my brain, repeatedly for the last 3 months. I feel I have plateaued: I have achieved all that I can achieve, but I still have a lot of potential. POTENTIAL. This applies to almost everything in my life, not excluding this blog.

MAY THE PROFUSE APOLOGIES AND EXCUSES COME FLOWING IN. commence.

It seems that the once-endless-pit-of-creativity-and-genius that is I (my modesty resembles that of an Amish village, no?), has hit a pipe, which may take about a week to dig around.

What was the first sign of damage you ask? Well, first the pipe BURST. Yes, it seems that I'm taking a note from BP-- I find myself constantly wanting to abbreviate my words and insert grotesquely imaginative emoticons into my posts. So, we here at UB (Utthara's Brain) decided it was time to take a breather while we find the source of the issue (because, unlike BP, we don't just try to put a lid on our problems-- literally).


I don't call meself the sole protector of the English language for nothing-- look at me being humble. And, as we all know, EVIL (in the form of ... uh... chatspeak?) doesn't rest! So, neither will I? This is going to be fun.

Ponder

I store my charm in my knee caps. I wonder if thats why they retain their bulbous shape?

I am a red red rash. And I'm spreading.

He's baaack!

I put the laughter in man sLAUGHTER.

Doesn't that just make you want to grab an axe and sway back and forth as if you were in a straight jacket

Picture courtesy of Utthara

THROW MY HANDS IN THE EYRE EY-EYRE!

Not exactly as bad-arse as the original, but at least it applies.

I have mixed feelings, as usual... ABOUT WHAT, YOU ASK? hmmm well, perhaps it has something to do with the fact that FINALS ARE COMING AND I AM FLIPPING OUT and I GET TO WRITE FOR THE SCHOOL NEWSPAPER NEXT YEAR!! -- finally, real readers.... just kidding. I have learned to appreciate you... like an ungrateful bratty child (can you sense the bitterness in my tone?)

Also, Jane Eyre. That's all that needs to be said about that.

So guess where I'm writing from? THE TOILET! -- don't worry, just the bathroom vicinity. I do some of my best thinking in this room; some real, quality nogin joggin'.

I must go purge my television of Billy Ray Cyrus. Oh, and lets not forget, READ JANE EYRE. I will give a thoroughly irritated review of this book later, believe me (just as soon as I finish sparknoting-- I mean, READING it).

TA TA FOR NOW

Some might say we're married in the melodies softly soaring through my atmosphere

A list of music I approve of (taken from the "reading" playlist on my iPod created in 9th grade or so, which has not been updated for 2 years)>> SO YOU CAN LISTEN TO GREAT MUSIC WHILE YOU READ MY BLOG! shameless advertising is my specialty. I also perform at weddings and barmitsfas.

FORMAT: song-artist

Hyperballad- Bjork
Hometown Glory- Adele
All I want- Ahn tRIO
the unwinding cable car- Anberlin
never take friendship personal- anberlin
the resistance- anberlin
the resistance- muse
glass to the arson- anberlin
lonely people- augustana
boston-""
hey now - ""
Hey jude- beatles
across the universe-""
sundress- ben kweller
you'll find a way- santogold
black and gold- sam sparro
eyes on fire- blue foundation
hurt- christina aguilera
one day robots will cry- cobra starship
choux pastry heart- corrine bailey rae
i will possess your heart- DCFC
Cath- DCFCtalking bird-dcfc
the ice is getting thinner-dcfc
we laugh indoors -dcfc
i was a kaleidoscope - dcfc
styrofoam plates-dcfc
all is full of love-dcfc
your heart is an empty room-dcfc
marching bands of manhattan-dcfc
crooked teeth-dcfc
soul meets body-dcfc
i will follow you into the dark-dcfc
what sarah said-dcfc
the face that launched a 1000 shits-dcfc
death of an interior decorator- dcfc
title and registration - dcfc
sweet dreams- eurythmics
my moon my man- feist
the water- feistshh- frou frou
let go- frou frou
must be dreaming- frou frou
psychobabble- frou frou
Androgyny- garbage
Cherry lips- garbage
first train home- imogen
wait it out- imogen heap
earth - imogen heap
little bird- imogen heap
swoon- imogentidal- imogen
between sheets- imogen
canvas- imogen
half life- imogen
loose ends- imogen
speeding cars- imogen
the walk - imogen
closing in- imogen
headlock- imogen
hide and seek- imogen
good people -jack johnson
the remedy- Jason mraz
I'm your's- jason mraz
they- jem
the chairman's waltz- john williams (soundtrack of memoir of a geisha)
send in the slowns judy collins
roses- kanye west
you again- kate havnevik
Mr. brightside- the killers
URA fever- the kills
what new york used to be- the kills
she moves in her own way - the kooks
there she goes- the La's
last train- lostprophets
sunshowers- MIA
Wraith pinned to the mist and other games- Of montreal
prodigal- one republic
come home- one republicall
fall down- one republic
goodbye apathy- one republic
mercy- one republic
its my life- paul anka
suddenly everything has changed- postal service
clark gable- postal service
such great heights- postal service
this place is a prison- ""
We will become silhouettes-""
nothing better-""
brand new colony-""
take a look at me now-""
be still my heart-""
Hi- PSAPP
light my candle- rent
Frug- rilo kiley
portions for foxes - rilo kiley
prayer of the refugee- rise against
lonely no more- rob thomas
ramalama bang bang- roisin murphy
creator- santogoldi was married- tegan and sara
are you ten years ago-""
Back in your head- ""
hop a plane-""
happy together- the turtles
Wicked little girls- esthero

I neglected you like I neglected my egg baby

Alright, I didn't leave you in the fridge for a week, but nevertheless I apologize for my long absense. School is over in another 16 days or so and then SUMMERSCHOOL starts! But until then I may not be able to write much, so, as filler blogs, I'll periodically post pics of my trips to france. ENJOY! (I am on a comma high)

Garb(age). Say it french.

Welcome to the first installment of "Green Monsta Say". These are the repressed thoughts I can't blurt out during the day that reside in a sad little corner of my mind that only gets used when I'm zoning out, asleep, or in the bathroom.

GREEN MONSTA SAY :

picture courtesy of Utthara

I hate that when you type parentheses, they are just a little bit rounder than when I type them.

Text Can Be Pretty

"A range of gaunt thorns, all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun."

-Wuthering Heights (EMILY Bronte, 2)

photo courtesy of Utthara

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to lay in a pile of an old englishman's hair.

I imagine it would feel like this.

A Dilemna

I have a theory that I have proposed to several of my friends, which I will proceed to thrust upon you.

There are two fundamental wrongs with our society's collective unconscious: 1) sadness is bad and 2) death is somehow unnatural. (NOTE: I am not excluding myself from the coming accusations)

The people who inhabit this world, for one reason or another, seem to be under the impression that the minute a person ceases to grin painfully, something devastating has happened. Sadness and mourning are emotions too, and they CAN and WILL be felt if a person is truly emotionally stable.

On the second point, SHIT HAPPENS THEN YOU DIE. That's all I really have to say about that, but for the sake of compensation, I will go on. The fear of aging, save death, that has infested our society is just worrisome. We will die, and when Miley and Joe and Palin and Clinton and you and I die, people will replace us; and they will lead similarly mundane lives as they smugly think to themselves "Man, no one has ever been or will ever be like me". We can't deny we've thought (or have very deliberately and childishly prayed for) the same thing to ourselves, but deep down, we know that's not the case, but I guess I'd rather live in blissful denial than accept the despondent truth... This all brings me to my dilemna:

I passionately want to take AP Psychology in my senior year of high school, but I don't know if I'm ready to come to terms with what the curriculum has to say. Namely, I don't want to learn that my entire persona, the unique-ness of which I have cultivated and taken major pride in, is text book.-- I mean to say, I don't want to find out that human thought (the eighth wonder of the world) is just a series of trends, and that I think and act and am motivated by the same thing as EVERYONE ELSE IN THIS WORLD. I don't want to learn that I can be easily diagnosed and analyzed, like some sort of Holden Caulfield off paper, because I have faith in that humans are more complex than that... but there is always that black abyss-- what if we really aren't? ALL IN ALL, I don't want to spend a year trying to figure out my thoughts, and, in the process, lose any character and perspective I once had.

I really don't mean to come off as a pseudo-indie, attention-seeking, pre-mature-whackjob-philosopher (I love hyphens) or anything, but I've been thinking about this for a while..

Sleep tight ya' morons!

And How Does That Make You Feel?

Why don't you tell me, Hallmark?

As of the moment, I feel like a poorly mixed smoothie... very heterogeneous...

Today, my friends, I sighed. I sighed a sigh of relief, because, as of today, my friends, AP TESTS ARE BEHIND ME! -- ahem, us. But nevertheless, I had to return to school for the last two classes of the day. So, at the end of the day, I proceeded to waste two and a half hours at the local boba shop * go figure * and then decided I should go home. Now, as I approached my door house, I felt somehow strange, like something was happening on the other side... something... curious.

Remember when schools bothered to teach you fire safety?-- before they decided "Ahh, screw it. If there really is a fire, no one is going to remember to feel a door before they open it, or crawl instead of walk... They're just going to bang the damn thing down, scream for their mothers and run like someone is chasing them with a Barrons SAT book." Well, I had not forgotten the teachings of the-equivalent-of-Smokey-the-Bear-for-household-fires, and so I felt the door before i entered.

LO AND BEHOLD! A warm door! Now, this is the part where I tell you my house was on fire. Use your common sense before you leap out of your chair, people. It wasn't.

It was a strange sort of warmth, not one of a fire, but one of pretentious, artsy, fishnet-y glitter explosions. So I apprehensively opened the door to find that LADY GAGA HAD INFILTRATED MY HOUSE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. DO NOT STAY CALM. IN FACT, SCREAM A LITTLE- I know you want to.

Now, I don't mean to say that there she was: climbing my lit fireplace in only fishnets and caution tape and making strange noises that could very well be satanic versus backwards. No, it's worse. My mother. My own mother was in the kitchen, making yakisoba, humming "Don't call my name Alejandro! I'm not a *sound to replace unknown lyric*, Fernando!". I very well could have collapsed, but this was no time for such drama, there were more urgent things at hand: such as, saving my mother from the cultural and artistic suicide that is Lady Gaga's music... sounds.

I sat her down and did some damage control,during which, we found the source of the virus: American Idol. So yes, this whole blog was just a plot against American Idol, using a clever analogy to fire, describing the irrevocable damage it does to teenage minds and the constant circle of destruction and creation that is the basis of Hinduism. No. I'm not that clever, and honestly, I just don't have THAT much purpose in writing. Sorry, Marion Zimmer Bradley.

The ionization energy that is my dinner is now pulling me away from you. We were once at noble gas configuration, and it took much activation energy, but the hunger is just too much to bear. So, I leave you paramagnetic, and unstable, hopefully we will bond again in the near future, as you have much electron affinity!

Your proton electron ratio is large. It blows my mind how small you've become.

SAYO- BAIBAI.

Sooth Your Soul With These

Haikus from my glory days I thought I would share with y'all

AN AFTERNOON SNACK

Do we have Jelly?

What about peanut butter?

I think I'll have juice

WALLPAPER

Wallpaper is nice

But it is hard to put up

And hard to take down.

So let that marinate.

I have to go study for AP tests now. Aren't you proud, Budiana?

Honey, Kim Jong Il is at the door, and he brought Timmy some SATs. Hey, was the lawn on fire a second ago?

The other day, I took my first steps in to adulthood. That is, I made my first step into ... an SAT prep center. Yes, it was quite a glorious day; the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, the children were screaming, the teachers were scolding-- wait a second..

It has become increasingly obvious in my boba burrito of a town that SAT prep centers are the most thriving sort of business there can be. They pop up, like frozen yogurt establishments, or pimples on the teenage face, one after another and they are analogous to a fun little country we all know and love as North Korea.

These torture chambers-- I mean... EDUCATIONAL FACILITIES receive boat-loads of "foreign aid" (money from desperate parents of even more desperate honors students) and put on a friendly, we-are-the-reason-your-child-got-a-2400 facade to lure people in. WARNING: ITS A TRAP. I have lived the horror first hand! Okay, so maybe I just went in for a diagnostic test, but do you see how much that, alone, scarred me?

You know, it is appalling to me how much people obsess over the tiniest little grades in my neck of the woods. Every little thing is a cause for panic. And what's sad is, our automatic response mechanism is to STUDY. Frankly, I am sick and tired of spending practically every waking moment of my life studying and having all my other pastimes and hobbies waved off as some sort of childish, irrelevant fancy. Additionally, I find it increasingly irritating that people find it hard to swallow that I was not born with a stethoscope or a graduated cylinder attached to me. The faintest idea is like a huge pill. Well, you know what I say to that? : THEY are just going to have to grab a big glass of water and chug, because I am on my way to making 5000 generous friends who will pool together to buy me my SOLID GOLD FOUNTAIN PEN, with which I shall rule!

feelings about a fashionista

He WILL coin the non-challant-bang-lift-and-drop. He WILL work those mesh pants. And he WILL GET HIS SOLO.

These are my sentiments, written in all capitals in order to fully convey the excitement and possible heartburn I feel at this very moment as I watch Kurt strut his stuff on the TELE. Take a gander:

KURT IS MY NEW SIGNIFICANT OTHER
I AM IN THE PROCESS OF NAMING OUR FUTURE ILLEGITIMATE CHILDREN
HE'S FABULOUSLY GAY AND PROUD.
BUT I LOVE HIM SO MUCH
I JUST WANT TO LOCK HIM IN A CONFINED SPACE AND LOVE HIM THROUGH A HOLE WHEN HE WEARS THAT OUTFIT FROM THE VOGUE VIDEO

I also like Artie. I promise you will hear about him sometime in the near future. Until then, stay content, don't buy horn-rimmed glasses and type "rrrrrrrrrrrrrr llamas" ** into Google translator and press the audio button.

** Credit goes to my friend, who unfortunately doesn't blog. BUT SHOULD. Once again, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. nostrils.

My Icelandic Princess

Fueled by mini-peanut-butter-sandwhiches and pepsi (although I am a coke-kinda-gal) and ready to write. like Richard Castle.

I pay homage to the great country of Iceland quite often. Today I'd like to recognize their most fascinating export : BJORK. Aside from Sigur Ros and their latest earthquake, which I DO NOT mean to overshadow, Bjork, at the age of 50 is Iceland's pride and joy. The woman ages like wine and has the most unique quirks to her voice that make me swoon. So, here she is . In the flesh! okay, more like in the pixel... but still, she makes quite a presence. Ladies and Gentlemen, Dolphins and Mice, Earnest and Bunbury........ I present to you, BJORK!!! *less than three*

Less Hostile Catharsis

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo

SMALL RECTANGULAR DENTS

A letter causes a scream causes a phone call causes a dirty look causes a dent. A dent causes an AP problem causes a silence causes a nervous hand causes an eraser to drop causes a break in silence causes more silence.


The clock just rang 9:00 three minutes too early. I hear typing and chewing and I'm trying to keep my head from imploding slowly, like a can being sucked dry of air. If any of you have ever seen the TV show Lost, you might recall the loud buzzing noise that occurs when the island is disappearing. That sound is the ungrateful, unwelcome boarder seeking refuge in my brain. It sits next to Justin Beiber and some angry under-the-breath-murmuring, slowly drilling holes through different parts of my face, until I give in. BUT I REFUSE.


I am now going to go off on a mindless, pointless and seemingly shallow rant, and hopefully some of you will be able to identify with me.


I have wasted years of my life sitting down and fighting off unfairness with a bottle cap for a shield. Today is just one more day added to that list and I am about to connect the dots on the dotted line I drew in the sand a long time ago. Too much of my effort and energy has been put into this, and, frankly, this whole thing has been an exothermic reaction: I am left in a state of low energy, and high disorder.


And now, I sit on the same black couch I wrote a crappy essay on a few nights ago, questioning all my priorities, and whether anything I have ever done will amount to anything anymore. All the while, the relentless lip smacking and snack crunching and ENDLESS keyboard clicking will not cease. The small rectangular dents surrounding the large bulbous nose on the teddy bear of my life have just soiled it forever. Something I never thought could be ruined so easily. In one split second has lost all value because of those goddamn little rectangles.

I am done now. Thanks for listening. This has been cathartic. ADIEU, Rosalind.

Welcome to me. IRRITATED. Its A WHOLE NEW WORLD.

Okay, so I have poured my time and effort into two main programs. One of them had taken over my life for several saturdays, which happened to coincide with the other one. WHAT TO DO? Let the other one know AND HOPE THEY UNDERSTAND, because as stated in their rules, leniency would be applied if they were told ahead of time.

I DON'T TELL THEM ONCE. and now I'm OUT. Apparently, FOR GOOD.

How is this fair?? I mean really, I bet the spirits of all the intanglible activities in your life just gather above you when you sleep and conspire against you. LIKE THIS:

Activity one: "Okay, I am planned for Saturday at 9:00 AM"
Activity two: Okay I am scheduled for 12:00, but don't worry I can move around and meet you at 9:00 too"
ACTIVITY ONE AND TWO: ALRIGHT! LETS MAKE HER LIFE A LIVING HELL!

and this is what goes on in my mind when I am pissed.

*NOTE: names of activities have not been used in this blog, in case "the other one" decides to reinstate me to my position. BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. * please take me back*

^ I'm pathetic, aren't I?

The brain has reached max capacity for normalcy

What is a girl to do when, after only getting an hour of sleep, she must endure an entire day of school and regulate the moisture levels of her epidermis? THE ANSWER: wiki "fist-pumping". I am proud to say, Rosalind, that I feel enlightened after reading just the first sentence of this article : "The fist pump is a celebratory gesture in which a closed fist is raised before the torso and subsequently drawn down and nearer to the body in a vigorous, swift motion."

I am proud to proclaim that, with due credit to Wikipedia, I will never again fist-pump like a mentally challenged, seizurely walrus.

Speaking of Wikipedia, I wonder if you have ever played the so-called "wiki game". In this game, two players face off in a death match of wits, common sense and ability to see the correlation between different topics, as they attempt to get from one page to another, completely unrelated one, only by clicking links on the page. This task must be assigned by an independent third party, and must be completed in either the shortest amount of time or links in order to win.

FOR EXAMPLE, TO GET FROM: Icebergs to Britney Spears

1. ICEBERGS: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iceburgs
2. MANHATTAN: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattan
3. NEW YORK CITY: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_City
4. SONY MUSIC ENTERTAINMENT: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sony_Music_Entertainment
5. LIST OF SONY MUSIC ARTISTS: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Sony_Music_artists
6. BRITNEY SPEARS: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Britney_Spears

WARNING: this is extremely fun. like seriously. so fun. your face might just explode because you wont be able to handle it. because its that fun. BUT IT IS ALSO ADDICTIVE. like crack only less harmful. not that I am dealing you crack over the Internet or anything. just... nvm. just go play it. I can guarantee you will waste a lot of time, but the feeling of satisfaction you get from getting from a Narwhal to Hitler in just four clicks is just too good to pass up.

My checkers pieces and I are off to visit a certain connoisseur about a certain golden fountain pen. And so, from our fortress of solitude, we bid you ADIEU.

HOMEWORK DOTH MAKETH ME A MAD COW... ETH

I am not what I appear to be. Actually, to some extent, I am. In fact, I fit the stereotype of "indian kid" pretty well: I wear glasses (but I must say they are not just the average glasses-- will post a picture sometime), almost always do homework, take AP Chemistry and Honors Math. Sometimes I feel the sudden urge to play soccer (although I can't bend it like Beckham), I start many of my sentences with "no", and love... I MEAN LOVE the Jewish(<-- I'm not sure how traditional Indian that one was). And now, I am sitting here in my comfy, black, leather couch with an empty, artfully laid out, oil-spattered pizza box trying to write an essay for english that will in no way benefit me in the future.

And tomorrow, I will wake up and drag myself to school again, wearing a black and gold poly-cotton knit (ironically purchased from Cotton On), carrying three textbooks (approximately the weight of a diabetic cat) in my left arm (which, at this point has more humps than a camel) and wagging my right arm impatiently as I arrive late to my first period.

Maybe I will bake a flan this weekend. Oh wouldn't that just be loverly? Alright, well there are some high-school video projects calling my name in a tone similar to that of a chorus of sickly children, so I must go to it (unwillingly and regretfully). :(

Oh, how I would love to just sit here and converse with you for the rest of eternity, Rosalind! But alas, I must return to my mundane life filled with tedious homework and similar people.

LOVE IN MODERATION CHILD.

I have returned to you, Rosalind, with stories of an connoisseur from a far away land. He has asked me to help him resolve an issue, and who better to come to for advice than ... you?

This connoisseur is a very wise man-- skilled in the fields of mathematics and glowing-box programming-- but even he cannot solve this predicament for himself:

This man is an avid collector of all things (but all in good taste, of course)-- dolls, doohikies, marbles, wombat toes, thingamabobs, high-rise shoes-- you name it, he probably has it tucked away in the musky confines of his victorian-style armoir. This, of course, requires countless hours of online, thrift-store and yard-sale shopping, not to mention a practically endless supply of money. Unfortunately, our old friend E. Recession has it out for this dear Connoisseur (whom I will henceforth refer to as Marty). E. Recession has all but reduced Marty's savings to a merely liveable amount (nowhere near the kind of luxury he once basked in), which just will not do for Marty's grand lifestyle. Now anyone else might just wave this off, but Marty.... well lets just say ... Marty dwelled on it.

Thrown into a sudden, spiraling depression Marty has decided that in order to retain a humble, but civilized lifestyle, he must become a DJ at local clubs and take on the stage name LADY FOO FOO. Just kidding. He decided he must give up his nasty spending habits cold turkey. But you see, as we all have experienced that slight push from within oursleves when we want something that is just a hair's length out of our reach, Marty needed to make his one last purchase. Just for closure... mostly for novelty. And this, Rosalind is where we have been called in for back up.

It is tuesday morning at the most eccentric, eclectic thrift store in town (which just happens to be Marty's favorite store). A naked light bulb hangs, dimly lit, over a table with a wobbly leg, being held up by a tattered copy of As You Like It. There lay beside each other the two most riveting novelties Marty has ever lain eyes upon : a solid gold fountain pen and an old, broken, yet fascinating pocketwatch. The time has come for a decision.

Here, finally is Marty's predicament: WHICH MUST HE TAKE AS HIS FINAL GRAND PURCHASE? The two cost the same amount, and they each have their own essense of intrigue. While the fountain pen is exquisite, it is just not practical. But, while the clock is in need of refurbishing, it may come into more use later on in life.

The question to me seems to be a question of nature. What takes the top spot: practicality or pure preference? Do we live in a society where image takes you farther than tact? Ultimately, what is the best strategy in the game of Life (and I don't mean the board game) --- simply keeping face? or knowing the inner machinations of each and every detail and working them with the most integrity? -- Let me put it this way: Is the shiny car going to get you far? Or is the White Rabbit going to make his appointment?

Here, Rosalind is where I leave the rest to you. Remember, we have committed to this journey to Vita's Gate together, and so I await your response eagerly.

And on that note, I, and my beloved Checkers pieces bid you ADIEU.

I AM BLOGGER. HEAR ME ROAR!

Hello giant, technological expanse formally known as the internet.Your name henceforth shall be Rosalind. I have come to serve you the sweet nectar of opinion and style in these times of pop-cultural-genocide and shoes with no arch support. Today's world is one in which Alaskan governers with a constituency comprised of exactly three moose, and hoards of Disney pop singers that screech at a frequency only dogs can tolerate (NOTE: questionable.) have taken over the airwaves, and consequently our minds. However, if I may speak on the behalf of old-timey America, this is NOT what we envisioned for the new millenium.



I, personally, still dream of living like the Jetsons-- with flying cars and robot maids and talking dogs-- the whole nine yards. And, unlike many, I still have faith that our generation can crawl out of our friendly neighborhood "Pedophile of a Thousand Faces" ( i.e. E. Recession, G. Warming or H. Montana)'s oven and scrape up quite a nice little future for ourselves and our posterity. AND SO, I invite you to live in my metaphorical closet, where I will feed you small morsels of fresh air and tinsel as we embark on our journey to this new future... that i will name... uh... Vita's Gate.

To deliver a vivid mental image of our journey, I shall deliver to you the sights, smells, sounds... and.. uncomfortable child noises... of an can-ind-erican girl living in a town that somewhat resembles a boba burrito. I can see this all unfolding before me.... YES THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP (HOWEVER UNREQUITED). There will be thrills, chills, tears and some knee-slapping puns in the near future. And if you are willing to stay with me through it all, you may just be rewarded with a golden ticket (kind of like the ones Willy Wonka gave out... only not with the intention of forever scarring little children in a run-down candy factory with a questionable health grade).

And with that, Rosalind, my chinese checkers pieces (by the names Bunbury and Earnest) and I bid you ADIEU.