ei·do·lon (-dln)
     n. pl.   Image of an ideal.

Plato believed that we lived in a world of images, three-dimensional shadows of the true one.  What we see with  our eyes is nothing more than a cheap imitation of its true state.  For  example, the chair we see before our eyes is nothing more than a shabby image of the true chair that exists.  We carry on everyday with flawed perceptions of the true ideal form. 


Life After College: Year 3 -  In Transit    

[Friday, October 31, 2003]

The Corporate Escapee Club.

Lux is my fellow co-worker from Big 5 Consulting. Lux was my best friend in all the ways that best-friends-at-work are defined. We talked everyday on Instant Messenger, complained about our respective managers and how shallow and meaningless our work was, and had pre-designated ourselves to be each other's Linda Tripp's should any of the sexual harassment that happens ever popped up in writing or email. All this while pulling stellar performances at work. Without having to resort to short skirts! We were the epitome of two-faced. If Big 5 was a friend, I would have been ashamed of us. But as it was merely another corporation that paid my paycheck and was probably ultimately out to screw me over, or "counsel me out" (aka, pink slip), I didn't feel too bad. She quit shortly after I did, for a year-long travel tour of the world. I am absolutely livid with envy. LIVID.

Coincidentally, her 9 year old younger brother is going as an obnoxious businessman for Halloween, complete with a suit, an overhanging belly, and a huge head with yellow teeth, drool, and a balding head. Golly, I wonder whose idea -that- was. She insists it wasn't hers, but what kind of 9 year old thinks of being -that- for Halloween?

Posted by ink |  6:03 PM


I love Halloween. It's easily my most favorite holiday of the year, even more than Christmas. Definitely am more of a pagan-girl than I am a Christian girl, even despite Catholic upbringing. This year, I decided to go as a 70's basketball player, complete with short shorts, pulled up tube socks, and a fro. That was when the trouble began. Is a fro considered un-PC? Will I offend African Americans? After all, if someone came as Yao Ming and painted his eyes slanty, there's a good amount of Asian Americans who would be offended. Being as I'm out of shape, I cannot run that fast if I was to get my ass kicked. After interrogating Dot, who has a lot of African American friends, I received the following from her:

Dot (3:19:33 PM): my girl asian friend has a costume as a 70's basketball player
Dot (3:19:47 PM): can she wear a fro without being offensive?
cilla (3:24:52 PM): LOL
cilla (3:24:53 PM): LMAO
cilla (3:24:55 PM): LMAO
cilla (3:24:56 PM): LMAO
cilla (3:24:59 PM): OF COURSE SHE CAN
cilla (3:34:12 PM): an asian with an afro is hilarious
cilla (3:34:13 PM): lol
cilla (3:34:16 PM): absolutely hilarious

I guess this means I'm safe. Except I've gone from being possibly offensive to being possibly the laughing stock of the party. My costume arrived yesterday courtesy of Ebay. Ever since retro jerseys became "in", buying anything old-school NBA has gotten expensive. As such, I decided to go with a regular basketball uniform, sans any team names. Specifically, a red one with the number 23 on it. Ebay yielded a large number of adult basketball uniforms in size L and XXL, and one in Youth Medium. As the shorts need to be short in order to look old-school enough, I opted for the Youth Medium. I knew I was in trouble when it arrived in a box the size of my jewelry case. It's red, has the number 23 on it (this means I'm Calvin Murphy of the Houston Rockets, quite possibly the most talented short NBA player ever), and was very very small. You wouldn't believe the calisthenics performed in our living room that day as I tried to get the shorts over my rear. I may not be giving any french maids a run for their money in my basketball costume, but rest assured - I will not be mistaken for a boy. The only trouble now is breathing. Breathing, and a certain boy, Alien, who I had a crush on. Note the past tense - HAD a crush on. Through email, he said my costume sounded unsexy and asked me why I wasn't being a nurse or french maid like the other normal girls. I was suddenly sent back to high school, when anything that didn't fit the traditional definitions of "cute" was disparaged. Luckily, most boys have moved past that point by this age.

PooTie (5:14:59 PM): i don't think so
PooTie (5:15:06 PM): i think if a girl is sexy, a girl is sexy
PooTie (5:21:19 PM): i don't know where u meet these hounds
PooTie (5:21:26 PM): there's this girl that i'm hella attracted to
PooTie (5:21:37 PM): and she dressed up as a murderous/horrific looking clown last year
PooTie (5:21:39 PM): but i don't care
PooTie (5:21:44 PM): i 'd hit that

Posted by ink |  12:11 PM

[Thursday, October 30, 2003]

Just add water.

I sit in a coffeeshop in South End of Boston, my biochemistry spread out before me for yet another exam next week, ready to continue forging up the road to modern shaman-ship, Ms. Medicine Woman. Studying is no longer an item on a to-do list, it's become a lifestyle. I glance over and beside me is a girl about my age, about my height and build, dressed similarly, drinking coffee - just like me, but that's where the similarities stop. She is scribbling away on a little napkin - a la J.K. Rowlings, as I sat with chemical structures before me. Here she was - creative, maybe an aspiring writer, and here I am, 2 feet away, but miles apart. Wheras I was marching down a straight and narrow regimented road, she was wandering the trails of the woods. My current life and the path I'm on are as structured as the chemical formulas before my eyes. Is this what I came for? The structure, the sense of knowing your future, the loss of wandering? Is this the choice I made? To leave structured corporate life and cubicles, for just another invisible one with the label of "pre-med". Sometimes I wonder whether I'm doing medicine, not because I love the human body (although I do), but because it represented escape. A refuge from the whirling winds of chaos that buffetted me every which way even within the confines of corporate America. The problem, after all, was choice. Dissatisfaction with the status quo is always easy to spot, but choosing the next step is the real hurdle. Too many choices. The agony of indecision, the anxiety of having to stick with your choice and its consequences for the next year (at least), and the prospect of that choice being wrong - and being at this very same crossroads one year later, still lost, maybe a bit wiser, but not any significantly more "found". It's nothing but a cloudy morass, and you - not equipped with any special sight are wandering, groping your way through the fog in the hopes that you'll happen to bump into your ideal career - whatever it may be. Is this why medical school appeals to so many after they've worked for a bit in the world? After all, what could be more direct and structured than being in med school? It's a straight-shot road to to a defined goal - no need to formulate one on your own or wrestle with the indecision. Medicine is like buying the package deal instead of the do-it-yourself-custom-job. It's an interesting dichotomy. There's been a general trend these days of customizing everything - custom built houses, custom built computers (Dell), custom created CD mixes. But why is it that custom-built lives are so unappealing? Because the option of choice is only a blessing when it comes to the peripherals in life. Custom building ones own life creates a huge burden of responsibility, it requires a lot of risk-taking, and most of all - it takes a lot of courage. Why else are hollywood actors/actresses and rock stars treated like gods in our society? Because they represent everything that we want but are afraid to do. Who isn't born with a creative streak of some sort? Who wouldn't like to indulge their artistic side if it wasn't for the fear of living in abject poverty should you not "make it". These are the people who walk the road we wish we had the courage to walk, who risk what we're not willing to risk, and they are winners in this gamble that we're not willing to take. Medicine is like the package deal. Instead of the do-it-yourself, med school is like a kit with a how-to guide to success. Some assembly required. Just add water. You just can't go wrong. You're respected, regarded in somewhat high esteem, and viewed as wonderfully moral barring any major malpractice suits. And hey - if you hate it, there's always people to pat you on the back and commend you for your sacrifice for the sake of mankind. The sacrifice of your 20's. You can always tell yourself "I'm doing good for people" and comfort yourself for not selling out to corporate america but still raking in equivalent cash and the lifestyle. How many people can do all those things at the same time? How many careers allow all those seemingly mutually exclusive elements (doing good for people and making a lot of money) to coexist in peace? And, once on the path - you're spared any major decision points for your purpose in life. You're doing good. Helping people. Is this, ultimately, the appeal of medicine? That it's a straight shot road? After all, who would willingly deal with healthcare the way it is now?

Posted by ink |  7:44 PM

[Monday, October 27, 2003]

Post-modern feminism?

The Opt-Out Revolution.

Posted by ink |  6:26 PM

[Monday, October 20, 2003]

Down the Rabbit Hole!

*blogsnip start*: braindroppings
Ok, now I'm going to try to explain this as best as I can...but I don't really know what is going on. Here's the deal: Apparently the people who made The Matrix Trilogy have created an internet scavenger hunt....without telling anyone. They've created an alternate reality "game" leaving clues leading to who knows what all over the internet. It started with the creation of Metacortex's website (the company Neo works for in the first Matrix). From there the rabbit hole goes much much much deeper.

People have hacked the site, and discovered secret messages embedding in images, FTP logs, HTML code, etc. that have led to a series of other sites owned and operated by "employees" of Metacortex.

Sites like heismissing.info and sheismissing.info along with over a dozen (so far discovered) sites lead to other sites and people encoding / decoding / hacking real internet sites to discover what else they can find and what the goal of this "game" is.

It's basically confused the hell out of me cause I don't knwo what the purpose is and the tactics that some people are using to discover things are absolutely amazing....there are some smart fucking people on the net. I'm also incredibly intrigued to find out what if anything this all means.

For some info, check out:

The Guide

Matrix Essays

So you can take the red pill or the blue pill......
*blogsnip end*

One of the most intriguing things I've heard of in a long time. This fulfills every science-fiction freak's fantasy of living inside one of the novels they read so avidly. How many of us have become depressed because our jobs don't involve saving the world but only involve saving our boss's ass? This makes me wish I'd paid more attention in computer science class so I could actively partake in such a thing. I'm a computer science major...! In theory at least. In reality, I'm quite the wannabe. I didn't spend my hours in the computer lab, I spent them at frat parties or sleeping. I did well enough in my classes to land a tech consulting job, but not quite well enough to land anything at places like Microsoft or Cisco. In fact, it makes me practically green with envy that I don't have the background knowledge on a) The Matrix and b) computers to take advantage of this. I'm practically foaming at the mouth and gnashing my teeth. WHY oh why did my parents insist on raising me so damn conservatively! "You're a girl, Ink. Computers are for boys." "Video games are for boys, Ink" "Comic books are for boys." "No, you can't go camping, camping is for boys." !!!!!! Sadly, I'm not even truly interested in the tech portion of it as I am in the chance to take part in what's equivalent to a problem solving role-playing game, but in reality. If I was armed with the right tools (i.e. the know-how)... Grrr.... In my hey day, I could solve any math or logic problem faster than anyone else in my high school class and was quite dorkily proud of it. At the same time, I buried myself in science-fiction/fantasy novels like it was crack cocaine. Yes, I was quite the little escapist in my youth and quite the intellectual elitist. I truly believe that I was one step away from being one of the Trenchcoat Mafia, a goth chick, or a drugee had I been exposed to the right people. I already had the right mentality and frame of mind to indulge in such things. I suppose my parents in that sense, should be thankful for my proper upbringing. I wonder if they know how close they were to having a "problem child" on their hands. Although by their definition, I'm already quite the problem child.

Posted by ink |  11:08 AM

[Saturday, October 18, 2003]

Bullet points of the day.

  • I went shopping yesterday for the first time since I moved to Boston. Boy was I feeling the pinch of the wallet. I found two, yes TWO coats that I liked. They were expensive by anyone's standards, but whereas a year ago, I would've bought it anyways and just not shopped for the rest of the month, I don't have that luxury now. I can't cut corners because there are no corners left to cut. Buying that jacket won't mean not shopping for the rest of the month. It means not eating for the rest of the month. Perhaps I can butter my mum up to purchase it for me. Ebay will be the death of me. I'm currently bidding on a guitar and a North Face jacket, for a grand total of 232 dollars, which is the cost of one of the coats I want. I'm almost hoping someone outbids me. Even if they did though, I have a feeling I'm going to bid again, because at that point, it becomes a matter of competition.

  • Kenmore, the best friend I think I may secretly be in love with, spent the day at the hospital today with his Grandpa. Instead of feeling genuinely sorry, I find myself thinking that maybe going into geriatrics won't be so bad if the patient has hot grandsons that come to visit him. I am a bad person.

  • I spent 100 dollars on groceries today. I don't understand how food becomes so expensive! Even worse, my little shopping cart overturned today on the way home from the grocery store. All my groceries fell into the street and a car ran over my bread. By some miracle of God, my eggs were spared. The good news is, I cooked a damn good meal for myself with those groceries. My first self-cooked meal!!! I was pretty proud of myself. I'm going to delay inviting people over for dinner for fear of poisoning them. I feel like I should practice by myself for a little while. I feel okay so far though, and I ate about 4 hours ago. If I make it through the night without running to the bathroom, I'll consider this meal a success.

  • Posted by ink |  11:41 PM

    The Early Afternoon.

    I love 1 PM. It's got that nice "I've still got all day" feeling. The sun streams into my room in -just- the right way to make it bright. My bed is usually made by then. It's the perfect time to sprawl across your comforter with a good magazine and some jazz playing in the living room. Like Gloria Estefan's version of "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do". I imagine a cat must feel like this on a good day. Languorous. Stretchy in the sun. Content. Jazzy. I always feel like cats are jazzy. Mmmmm.... Life just might be good after all.

    Posted by ink |  1:43 PM

    [Friday, October 17, 2003]


    I woke up this morning and felt better than I have in a long time. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought "Hey. I don't think I'm too hard to look at." Especially considering that I only slept an hour and a half last night. And I even have a date next weekend. I don't know why no one ever told me that the Greyhound bus is apparently the newest pick up spot. This is the second date I've scored off of some guy sitting next to me on the bus. Even stranger, I'm usually looking my worst on the bus. I've scrambled out of bed, pulled on my baggiest comfiest traveling clothes for sitting in a cramped bus, and didn't even bother to do my hair since it's going to be squashed against the back of the chair anyways. Makeup is always optional since I generally sleep my way through bus rides. Apparently, the shabbier dirtier Ink is preferred by 2 out of 3 guys. The good news is, he's in Boston. The bad news is, he's not very cute. But, as a student, I feel that it is my fiscal duty to go on dates with any guy who asks, if only so I can eat. I have $130 dollars in my account right now. I like to view it as being open-minded. I'm being less elitist and giving everybody a chance. I am an equal-opportunity dater. Besides, maybe I'll like him.

    I don't know what to do with myself when I'm happy now. I used to shop when I was happy (or when I was mad), but now I'm poor. Perhaps I'll go down to Newbury street and just window shop on my own. Even my anti-social classmates have ceased to bother me. Perhaps some fabulously wealthy guy will suddenly offer to purchase me any pair of shoes that I want. I love the feeling of being finished with an exam. There's a feeling of euphoria and lightness despite the fact that I know I have another one next week. I'm most definitely bringing my MD player with me for my window-shopping trip. It's a music kind of day. What is it about Radiohead's Creep that makes you want to sing along in joy even though the lyrics are so obviously desperately longing? Perhaps it's pride that we're not alone in this sentiment. Who -hasn't- felt that sense of unworthiness when in the presence of that person you think is absolutely perfect? Perhaps we sing it in joy because we're celebrating the fact that we're not alone, even in our worst moments. Someone else has been there too. I belt out "I'm a creep. I'm a WEIRDDDDOOOOOO..." like it's nobody's business.

    Posted by ink |  4:44 PM

    In the midst of exams.

    I haven't done one of these 4 am sort of things since college. Drunken nights out don't count. Oddly, I'm a lot less stressed out this time around. I was originally rather worried about this exam tomorrow, but then I started taking practice quizzes and I was doing pretty well, especially for 4 am in the morning. I underestimated my own cramming capabilities. See, I knew those undergraduate "bad" habits would come in handy.

    Posted by ink |  4:32 AM

    [Tuesday, October 14, 2003]

    It flows in the blood, the primitive beats of the earth, the song of the birds, the rush of the winds.

    This period in my life will irrevocably be marked by Radiohead. Music has this funny way of capturing a moment the way a picture can't. And they say a picture is worth a thousand words. Certain songs bring back memories like no other, reminding me not only of certain periods in my life but a very specific moment in that period - the smells, the way I felt, what I was thinking, the feel of the air, who I was with - the very sharp poignancy of that moment. In a lot of ways, I'm not sure technology can ever come up with a time travel machine as effective as music. Music doesn't just bring you back to the past, after all we all have memories of that, but it brings you into it, as more than just a passive observer. Radiohead, I already know, will mark this period. I've had it on my laptop and in my MD player for weeks now. I listen to it everytime I study (which isn't as often as I should be) and I haven't tired of it yet. It reflects my prevalent mood. Jimmy Eat World reminds me of DuPont. Sarah McLachlan reminds me of freshman year of college and more important, of Matt E. Lauryn Hill will always remind me of my college roommates. Bic Runga's Sway of my poor friend J. who's unlucky in love. What is it about music that evokes these things? That makes you feel the moment in-between your fingers and smell it? That stimulates your brain to secrete the exact mixture of chemicals that you had the last time you heard it - to remind you so sharply of someone that it almost hurts?

    Posted by ink |  11:01 PM

    [Saturday, October 11, 2003]

    The City.

    Many thanks to cur.ve for buying me a souvenir of New York to bring back to Boston with me. The bubble wrap made me happy all day. The framed photo of Central Park made me even happier when I opened it up at home. Oh memories of lying in the grass, each of us with our respective laptops, trying to write our brains out to the tunes of Guster. This is why I miss New York.

  • The trendy thing right now seems to be bars that don't have their name out front.

  • There are probably more Chinese restaurants in the country than Mcdonald's (This was hotly debated and concluded on the 6 hour long traffic-ridden ride down from Boston)

  • Everything old is new again.

  • 1) old school retro bikes with baskets in the front and kid bikes with banana boat seats. The rustier the better.
    2) The 80's look is coming back. Jeans worn with pumps. Sports coats worn with jeans. Corduroy. Argyle. For the record, I've been wearing Argyle socks for the past 10 years. I used to steal my dad's when I was in middle school.

    Posted by ink |  8:05 PM

    [Wednesday, October 08, 2003]


    Pimples have begun sprouting on my face in sympathy for my upcoming exams. How sweet. There is one particularly large one on my forehead, the big daddy, that I've named Jose. It's so huge it's practically a third eye, and I can hear it screaming "Look at me!!! LOOK AT ME!!!!!" Oddly, more guys have been talking to me on the street than ever. Jose must be emitting pheromones of some kind.

    Posted by ink |  10:42 PM

    [Tuesday, October 07, 2003]

    Text messages.

    "Highlight of my weekend was sex in the Sheraton restaurant at 2 in the morning... It was closed and we snuck in looking for alcohol and inspiration struck..."
    -received from Lux in the midst of taking my Biochem exam. I tried hard to continue focusing on amino acids.

    Posted by ink |  11:23 PM


    I can't believe I'm awake at this time of night because I'm watching Gay Cruise on MTV.

    Posted by ink |  2:33 AM

    [Monday, October 06, 2003]

    In the fake plastic earth.

    I've been thinking lately - maybe I really am incapable of being happy. Dissatisfaction seems to be the name of the game when it comes down to it. I can't say Boston's all that I thought it would crack up to be, but then again, what ever is? I wonder if the only people who are happy are the ones who expect so little out of life that there is no way to be disappointed. Are the perpetually dissatisfied really the biggest optimists in disguise? The ones who hope wildly for the most, who imagine things to be beyond their wildest dreams only to have them come crashing down around them when reality sets in? After what, what makes a pessimist but consistent disappointment? Disappointment is exactly what I try to avoid when it comes to reality. After reading yelofngr's blog about his old high school crush, I thought about my own coping mechanisms for relationships. The arm's-length method. I dabble quite frequently in what I call OOF's. Objects Of Fantasy. These Objects Of Fantasy are usually men chosen very carefully for certain qualities - namely distance in time or location. OOF's are optimal only when you see them infrequently, for their only purpose in life is to provide an outline, a skeletal structure for you to fill in with your imagination. This way, an OOF can be whoever you want them to be inside your head. The distance in time or location is absolutely crucial so that reality can't intrude on your fantasy world.

    My current OOF is G. from San Francisco. He calls once every other month or so and flirts wildly with me over the phone. I laugh and flirt back. Little does he realize that he's flirting with every man's greatest nightmare. When I'm sitting in class bored, I fill my time with little fantasies about us. How maybe he's really the one and I just don't know it yet. I picture our life together, the marriage, our kids, how we'll finally realize that we're meant for each other. I could occupy myself for hours changing minor details here and there, creating the millionth and one version of the same fantasy. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, he's sitting in a slot that's been occupied by men before him. The position of "Ink's OOF" has been held by many men before him. It tends to rotate pretty often, shoveling men in and out like a revolving door, depending on how frequently reality chooses to dash my pretty pink dreams.

    G. jokes about coming to Boston to visit me. I laugh and tell him he'll have a place to stay if he does. But really, I don't want him to visit. I like having G. in San Francisco because it allows him to be whoever I want him to be inside my head. Having him come to visit just puts reality a little too close, and we all know that reality never measures up to what you think it will. Part of me realizes that it's unrealistic, but part of me likes it precisely for that reason. Fantasizing about G. is ultimately risk-free. I don't have to worry about having my heart broken, I don't have to wonder if he's cheating on me, I don't have to deal with commitment issues from his end (or mine). Inside the world of G. and Ink, we are both perfect beings. Why would anyone ever want to ruin that? Losing an OOF is like the death of a friend. After all, OOF G. (to be kept strictly separate from the actual person, G.) has kept me occupied on long bus rides since April when we first met. My idle mind wanders down the winding path of our pretend-life as the bus winds its way to my final destination. The difference is that I never have to get off the bus of my pretend-life. I never have to arrive at a destination and deal with the baggage claim. It's perfect.

    G. is The One, I'm convinced, in my fantasy. Just like how I was convinced that my best friend Kenmore was The One for a little while too. I'll just try them all on for size! What independent girl doesn't indulge in guilty fantasies of Vera Wang dresses and lavish weddings? What career-minded woman hasn't had pangs of doubt about their path when they see other women with their children? What female hasn't wondered what her own children would be like? And how many of these women think about weddings and children and conveniently skip the "finding a man" step in their head?

    The reality of Boston has been a lot like the reality of OOF's. Disappointingly, crushingly real. I think the fantasy of going back to school was a lot rosier in theory than it is in practice. Perhaps I am always dissatisfied, as Kenmore pointed out oh-so-astutely a few days ago. But perhaps it's because I always expect more out of life. But even despite my disappointment, one fact is undeniable - this disappointment is bearable. It's not the soul-sucking, no-escape sort of despair that invaded when I first started working in corporate America. It's not the feet-dragging sort of weight that tugs at my heart. It's the usual dissatisfactions that come with little things in life. My books are too heavy. I have too many exams. And the ever-present financial problems. I only have 400 dollars in my account. The dissatisfactions I have with Boston are all fixable, whereas the dissatisfactions I had with my consulting firm had no solutions in sight. The social scene will get better with time. I haven't figured out yet whether my lack of friends is because I suck, or because they suck, but I figure it will only be a matter of time before I start changing away from corporate-America-Ink to graduate-student-Ink and start to mesh in with the rest of the science-minded people. The academics will also get better with time. I recognize that a lot of what is wrong in my life right now has a lot to do with transition. The transition from rich to poor, from corporate to academics, from New York to Boston. Granted, it means I will probably still gripe about it. Recognition of a state as transient does not diminish the emotional effects of that state, despite its transience. And in times of trouble, I will take comfort in OOF G. I can only hope that he will never come to visit. I am after all, an escapist. That means it's no good when fantasy becomes reality, since everyone knows that you can't escape reality.

    Becoming a doctor is also the ultimate escapist fantasy. You do your studying so that you can one day save the world by curing cancer. What are doctors but the ultimate idealists? Not just the recreational idealists, but the hard-core ones, the ones who are willing to ignore all reality and all practicality that calls to them - "You can make more money at this age doing something else!" They are the ones who believe so strongly in that ideal that they're willing to sacrifice 6 years of their life for it, and thousands and thousands of dollars. They are the ones who are willing to sacrifice not just any 6 years, but 6 years of their 20's - prime real estate. Is it really any surprise that doctors also happen to be some of the most jaded people out there? You could argue that they will be happier and richer later on. But I could tell you that I'm going to be poor for a long time. When I finally see my first paycheck, I can delight in the fact that I spent that money 6 years prior. And what's the use of being richer when you're 40? That's just in time for your kids to take your money away for their college tuition. I want to be rich and young. I want to be a doctor. I want to be rich and young. I don't want to go back to my consulting firm. But oh does it beckon me, that siren's call. It whispers to me with the sound of money bills rubbing against each other. It waves at me the lifestyle of being young with money, in New York. Oh God do I miss it.

    Oh God.

    Posted by ink |  11:02 PM

    [Thursday, October 02, 2003]

    I am a prime number.

    Somewhere between my study group's apartment and my apartment, I turned 23 while on the streets of Boston. The moment passed quite unnoticed, it was like every other moment in my life, except I was wrapped in thoughts, a scarf, and a puffy vest as I stared at the sidewalk cracks sliding by beneath me. I am 23. I spent my last minutes as a 22-year old in an apartment staring at the elution chart of amino acids.

    Every year, I think my birthday can't possibly get any worse, but every year, I somehow manage to top myself. I spent my 21st birthday at home with my parents, unemployed. It was 6 months after graduation. I spent my 22nd birthday on the client site (Dupont) in Wilmington, DE with a manager whose sole joy in life was to terrorize me. This year, I'm spending my 23rd birthday unnoticed in Boston, where I've somehow managed to defy all odds and have no friends. I haven't figured out yet whether this is because I suck, or because the kids in my program suck. My roommate is taking me out for dinner, which is nice of her. She might quite possibly be my only friend, and I'm not even sure if that really counts as she's practically forced to be my friend since I pay for half the rent. Kindness always gets to me more than meanness does. If no one noticed my birthday passing by, I'd probably carry along like I do everyday. It's the little moments of pity that make me really feel sorry for myself, perhaps because I realize that someone thinks I'm deserving of pity. I get pity invites to my own birthday dinner.

    So. In the tradition of birthdays, I thought I'd take stock of the past year 22 of my life. I have accomplished the following things:

    1) become a yuppie. stopped being a yuppie. become a starving student.
    2) made a buttload of money. spent a buttload of money. put myself into more student loan debt for school.
    3) landed a big 5 consulting job. worked my big 5 consulting job. quit my big 5 consulting job.
    4) lived in Manhattan. central park west. moved to boston. edge of the ghetto.
    5) applied to medical graduate programs. got into medical graduate programs
    5) attained silver status on USAir for all my business travel
    7) gained 25,000+ american express points
    8) taken my LSAT's. taken my GRE's. soon to take my MCAT's. Why don't we take all the standardized tests under the sun for fun!

    Best of all, within a year, I've moved from dating guys without college degrees who want to get into pants, to dating guys with college degrees who want to get into my pants. Shimmying my way on up that totem pole!

    In keeping with past traditions, I will sleep naked tonight. As I came naked into the world, I will wake up naked in the morning. I came into this world with a smashed skull. Luckily, I'll wake up with my brain intact. I hope I'll be able to say the same for my sanity. Perhaps I will gorge myself on chocolate tomorrow. Chocolate makes everything better.

    Posted by ink |  12:48 AM

    [Wednesday, October 01, 2003]

    And time passes like sand through an hourglass, never to come back.

    *blogsnip start*: yelofngr {Los Angeles}

    DJ Q-Bert believes that everyone you meet, you were meant to meet. I've read his friendster.com profile.

    In that sense, everyone who walks into your life serves a purpose.
    They were and are supposed to be there.
    Now we could presumably sit around and theorize whether a blocky pinoy with spacemen on his mind is a good source for conventional wisdom, but let's just say we agree.
    If everyone is supposed to be there, then the ones that aren't there, are supposed to not be there.
    Which brings me to the clincher: Being that time is of a limited nature, then, it is natural to suppose, that we only get so many of the world's population walking in our lives no matter our personal preferences on the matter.
    No matter what kind of people we want to meet.
    But this is too much science.
    I just can't handle it when I hear of any one of my peers getting engaged, married, or whatever.
    Especially, when it's a girl I've daydreamed of getting together with one day.
    Especially, when the girl is getting married to her highschool sweetheart.
    Especially, when I knew her before he did.
    I didn't know the battle was won that early on.
    I thought I had time.
    C'mon, I was awkward and intimidated then. Can we give it one more try like Timmy T? I can be charming now, if I'm really drunk. I swear I don't turn red.
    There's always enough time until the end.
    If you don't believe me, go watch an hourglass of sand, and let's see when your eyes perk up.
    That's what's funny.
    I've always pictured my twenties as a preparation period for the big freeze, the huge hold down, the lockdown of love.
    "A decade of revolving door dating should be enough to tide me over until death," I would proclaim to the trees and the bees on my knees.
    Because you need to experience women, to study them, to figure them out, to savor the taste of variety.
    Don't you?
    Don't you?
    It's not the more the better but instead a sample towards enough.
    But enough is tricky like time.
    I don't think Marlon Brando or Elvis Presley quite made it to their silver anniversaries despite all their training in "woman."
    Perhaps, early on the battles are won, in the heart as in the mind.
    And, if those that we are blessed enough with to walk in and out of lives are our special lot of compadres, brothers, sisters, sweeties, and partners, then we should be looking up at the sky before looking across at them to enjoy the days yet untainted by time's memory.
    We should be savoring each minute.
    Am I right?
    We should be seeing those that we did see instead of waiting for those we haven't.
    We should be hugging those who've stuck by us when we least deserved it and stick by those who least deserve us.
    We should reconcile differences with those who once created special molds in our hearts - pockets that we couldn't reserve for others even if we tried because we just wouldn't know how.
    We shouldn't be afraid to love whole-heartedly early on.
    But this is all stuff you have heard before.
    "Practice makes perfect," and "Easier said than done."
    She and her accused me of being picky. I've always been accused of being picky by myself.
    Sometimes I wonder how much time I have left.
    I wonder what am I exactly waiting for.
    When is the deadline?
    When will it be all too late?
    You know, I'm a chronic procrastinator, by the way. I still want to vote for the recall but I just requested forms yesterday.
    Will they all pass me by only to be reconciled in my imagination as I miss them?
    Does she ever even lend me a passing thought?
    I think about her late at night, you know.
    More than I would want me to.
    I don't think she cares. I don't think she'll ever care again.
    But maybe she would have if I knew what I had wanted early on.
    *blogsnip end*

    Posted by ink |  9:57 AM



     about a 25  year old girl, ex-consultant, ex New York City inhabitant, newly minted med student, (still) largely single.

      about big change, the choices we make in life, gut instincts, on-the-whim hairpin turns, the search for truth, the desire to be happy, the journey to finding out what makes us happy.  

      about being young and clueless, hoping that we're not blindly leading ourselves to our own demise with every tentative step we take, the pitfalls of dating, the trials and travails of being a young woman in the post-feminist era.

      current faves
  • BlocParty.SilentAlarm
  • Stars.Heart

  •   on-the-nightstand
  • RayBradbury.ShortStories
  • BrianGreene.FabricOfTheCosmos
  • BRS.Physiology
  •   cover2cover




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