Greetings ladies and gentleman, please pardon the lack of posts lately. I seem to have lost track of much of my surrounding reality as I scrambled to raise my scores before the end of the term. It is a familiar story: First time freshman going along blindly, not always completing assignments and assuming that everything will work out in the end, only to realize there are 3 weeks left in the semester and their grade is wavering somewhere between a C and a D. In any case, I have managed to pull it mostly together, but I'm still rather busy with work, school, and planning for the move. Updates on life shall be coming after the 21st!

Today I sat down and wondered about why I'm alive. Nothing too complicated, not the meaning of life, or why humans don't have telekinesis, just why I can breath and think and speak and exist. What does that mean to me? What can I do with it?

I've come to the same conclusion I always do— I haven't a bloody clue. But thinking about it always makes me, at the very least, content in the knowledge that I do exist, and therefore have plenty of time to find the purpose of said existence.

My father and I had a very civil conversation the other night on the subject of my independence. I was pleasantly surprised by how well the discussion went actually. I expected a great deal more volume. As it was, I really have to respect what both my parents have told me in response to my decision. From my mother, "You need to grow up and learn to make sacrifices," and from my father, "I support you but want you to be making decisions based off your values. Not mine, not your mother's, not your friends'— yours." Ah, I suppose I should explain the decision shouldn't I? Silly me, always telling stories backwards.

I've decided to move out, most probably in February of 2010. I have also decided to transfer from SFSU next fall, to a private college most probably on the East Coast. Surprised? I hope not. If you know me at all you'll know that I've never been content to stagnate in the same place I've lived for the past 18 (nearly 19) years. And finally plans are in motion.

I'd write more explanation, but to be honest I don't have much more to say on the topic that could be coherently presented. I also have a research paper to write. So for now I'll bid this post adieu, and return to share more later.

This week I've been doing a lot of thinking about growing up. About where I am now, and where I want to be. And gradually it's occurring to me...


I have no idea.

Okay, so I am officially still not used to being cold. 18 years and I barely so much as twitch at a draft and now I go into full on convulsions at the slightest chill. It's ridiculous! Today I'm wearing knit tights, knee highs, jeans, a tank top, a long-sleeve shirt, a t-shirt, and a giant sweatshirt— AND I'M STILL FREEZING x_x

On a happier note, I got to school early so I had time to relax for a little bit. That's always nice.

It has been a considerable while since I last opened this page and started tapping away at my keys, hoping something coherent would form from the tumultuous thoughts and feelings I having rolling about inside my head. Upon first returning to blogger I scanned the multitude of unfinished posts I began and left with no conclusion during the course of the summer. I have always found it rather difficult to admit my feelings even to myself, so it should really come as no surprise that putting them down on paper— or at the very least the digital equivalent— is proving twice as trying.

During the past four months I have regularly stayed out past 3am, won and lost at poker, walked on the beach in the pitch black of the early morning, smoked and drank, made new friends, been labeled a flirt, earned my driver's license, grown out my hair, started college with 15 units, been lost in Downtown San Francisco in the middle of the night, come to terms with being a point of stability, thrown myself into a world of fantasy, plotted and planned, sketched until my hands fell off at the wrists, rediscovered anxiety attacks and nerve problems, missed my sisters, entered the retail workforce, and actually trusted someone enough to let them have a real piece of my heart.

Just four months. A quarter of a year. But it feels like forever ago that I graduated.

Right now my mind is a whirlwind of confusion. It has always been difficult for me to come to terms with my emotions. If you have ever tried to hold my in place during a breakdown as my desperately flighty ways tried to convince me that I would be fine if I could only run and run and not look back— you know where my headspace is currently located. Houdini has nothing on my escapist ways. It has taken me over eighteen years to accept that I lie to myself to keep from getting hurt. I convince myself that I would never be able to lose weight even if I did excercise and eat properly. I define sex as an interaction between bodies and nothing more. I tell myself I would surely cheat if I ever tried to maintain a monogamous relationship. I never try to be better than I currently I am, because I know I will never live up to the goals I set.

All of it is just a series of meaningless delusions piled one on top of the other. Ridiculous.

Talking to Emily and Jess has always made it better, but remembering a discussion I had with Jessi about her roommate still being almost completely reliant on her mother, I have realized that I am no where near as emotionally independent as I though I was. I still rely so much on Em and Jess to keep me sane. On all of my friends that I have any real degree of trust in. But if I never learn how to deal with my own problems— mental, emotional, and physical— how can I ever plan to become a functional member of the universe?

I do not know what I am going to do, or what it will take to make me feel more confident in my own person. But I guarantee you, I plan to find out.

Well, it should really come as no surprise that it's been so long since I last updated this. I'd love to give a lengthy explanation about how I've been busy busy busy and completely unable to find the time to pound out a few lines for this interweb publication. But the truth is, I am horribly, horribly lazy. There, that's the truth. I'm a very poorly motivated individual and the fact that I get anything done at all is nothing short of a miracle. That being said, I'm here now and with the trivialities done with, let's move on to the main event.

The topic of this entry, as so aptly suggested by the only-slightly-less-than-completely obvious title, is college. Now why on earth would a second semester senior be thinking about college? Well, actually, not for the reasons you would think.

Beyond the anxious excitement coursing through my veins at the thought of attending SFSU, and the constant doubts that have picked at the back of my mind since the fifth grade— is the inherent desire to not know my future.

Sounds silly right? Not to me.

For weeks now, I've listened to my friends discussing how they are going to attend big fancy colleges on fabulous scholarships. They have roads paved with dreams stretching out all around them, and I feel like my roads are just a tad more dim. The colors are more flushed, the lines more rigged, and while I'm excited to see where my adventures take me, a very large part of me isn't ready to leave and accept that I really always was less talented than them after all.

There are days when I feel like crying, but I smile instead. I'm proud of my friends, but I've always felt deep down that I was never good enough for them. They are each so richly talented and intelligent, while I barely scrape by. I have one friend attending Stanford on partial tuition, another is attending UC Berkeley on a full merit scholarship, another is off to UCSB on full tuition, and another is on her way to the University of Philadelphia on Art scholarships.

But I'm still here. I'm not even allowed to move out of the house because my parents are paying my tuition, but can't afford housing— not that they would pay it if they could. And what can I do about it? Loans are impossible to receive in this crap economy, I can't find a job for the life of me, and I have no where to go. I can't move out until I have somewhere to go, and I can't have a place to go until I get taken off my parent's taxes and seek financial aid as an individual. Even then I have no credit to speak of for any damn student loans they possibly WOULD give be. Catch 22 at its finest.

A part of me is just so angry. I look at all my accomplishments— 4 straight years of Department awards in English, 7 straight years of Honor Roll, National Hispanic Scholar, AP Scholar, A-B Student, 3.9 GPA— and they're all meaningless! I can't seem to land a merit scholarship to save my life, and my father's income is far too high to receive need-based aid.

I feel like I'm not even going to college at all. I'm just advancing another year in school. Nothing else has really changed, I just gained an hour commute in the process.

I hate it.

I loathe it.

And I barely sleep any more because of it.

I love San Francisco to the very depth of my soul. The city itself has appealed to me since I was too young to remember anything more than the sounds and smells. I love the way to bridges light up at night, I love the ocean and the fog, I love the gum on the sidewalks, I love the skateboarders and bladers near the piers, I love the secret hidden places of Golden Gate Parl, I love the heart-thumping life of the city— but I want to be there.

For now I'm stuck, still just a trapped little caged bird, while everyone else gets to grow up and be free. And it hurts so much. Looking at my tattoo makes my feel guilty and ashamed of my choices and actions. The choice to stay, the act of not fighting. The things I've seen, the things I've done, I know I've matured years beyond many of the people I see waving their scholarship letters around declaring their intent to enroll, but I'll still be here when they are gone.

It hurts. I don't sleep anymore. My thoughts aren't safe.

I know I'm doing the smart thing. The mature thing. But I wish I was brave enough to throw caution to the wind and fall on my ass anyway. I'm going to get my degree though. That's what matters right? Sure, I've been counting down the very hours until I can escape this hell hole to the promised 'college life' since I was twelve years old, but I'm tough, I can survive the next year or two.

Who needs sleep anyway? And I've lived long enough in pain to know it only hurts as much as you let it. So I'll just steel myself back up and do what I'm good at— persevering.

Blah.

So, it occurred to me today how often I am cowed by my parents decisions and expectations. For some reason that really bothered me. Here is the context: Chau wanted to hang out today and instead of reacting enthusiastically and promising to run things by my parental units, I automatically began doubting a positive reaction from the folks and made excuses.

"Sorry, I've been out a lot recently."
"Really, where?"
"Just, out. Like, with Brian and Jessi, and then I spent the evening at Em's, and went to Goodwill during finals."

Even I can recognize those excuses as ridiculously lame. But beyond that, it really bothers me when my friends don't even bother asking their parents if they can go somewhere or do something simply because they assume the answer will be no. Especially when I force them to ask and the answer ends up being yes. So, why do I consistently look towards excuses instead of facing my parents. What's the worst they can do to me, say no?

That may just be it though. They say no so often after I've been out "a lot"– for whatever reason– that it's become a reflex to automatically say no to anyone who asks me to hang out instead to bothering to ask my mum. The typical reactions is somewhere between "I'm not taking you all over the place" and "You should stay home and help out around here." But the point is, they're not always negative answers.

Oy vey.

I really need to get a car. Or fix my bike.