the Late 紅包

I came to a realization this morning.

Yes, yes. I had another outburst. It wasn't as bad as the last one in December and the word "outburst" makes me sound so pretentious but it's not like I care. I've never cared about what people thought of me, and I still don't. But I do care about other people.

So much that I often forget to care about myself.

I don't think I was even angry today.

I just broke. 

I shouted fluent sentences without my voice cracking even once.

My brain moved as fast as my mouth -- something that rarely happens.

Ever.

I wasn't going to write about the Late 紅包 until he came home, but it looks as though that's not going to happen any time soon.

I'm not sad, or worried, really, because I didn't know him. 

My cousin had run away from home just a few days before Chinese New Year's Eve -- the day we all got together, brought down the circular table from upstairs, and gambled with pennies until midnight. 

So that night, his whole family didn't show at my grandparents' house.

He's in his third year of college (including the year he flunked out, I think... I can't be sure), so I'm sure you think it's ridiculous. But Peter lived with his mother at her request. My aunt had about six alarm clocks set up for his lazy ass, but they didn't work. He was always late for class, and skipping who knows how much of them.

Like I said, I didn't know him.

I didn't know if he tried to please his mother. Maybe at the beginning he tried. Tried really hard. But then he gave up because he was never good enough. 

He began to rebel. 

My aunt grew into a bigger and bigger annoyance to him each time we went to a family gathering, and he stressed more and more.

I don't know whose fault it was, but I know I don't want to end up like him, which means I have the get my shit together. I know he was confused and angry and probably thought he hated everything around him, but I know I'm not immature the way he is. At least, I won't be after today.

I know we're both ambitious people, but I'm going to save myself before it's too late.

For so long I've lived for other people.

I know it sounds cliche, but why do things become cliche the more they happen? I don't think it means something is being overused, but rather, it is becoming a more and more serious issue. Why do you think so many people write about star-crossed lovers? It's becoming a bigger problem.

Right?

It's "cliche," but I need to start living for myself.

I wouldn't call it my breaking point, but the state I reach after months of build-up in stressful events is not pretty. Only twenty-one people have seen me in this state, and I don't intend for it to appear to anyone else.

The thing is, I don't even give myself all this stress.

Homework stress is one thing. I can handle that.

But the pressure of being some Jesus 3.0 has completely ruined me.

No, I'm not talking about being a vessel of communication always.

No, I'm not talking about all the times I've "saved your life."

No.

I'm talking about all those times my good judgement sucked like shit.

Wait. You know what?

Fuck this.

YES. 

I'VE WASTED SO MUCH TIME ON SO MANY THINGS AND PEOPLE.

Don't take it personally. I'm fucking serious. Don't be selfish like me.

All I'm saying is that, with all that time, I could have acted in my own interest and felt so much more pride in my creations. Don't read too much into it.

And this doesn't mean you should stop talking to me or asking me for help.

Just don't be dumb.

It's a disease.

Shit i have no idea what i just wrote

I apologize

JUST KIDDING I DON'T.

I DON'T APOLOGIZE FOR CRAP

..connie..

Brown Sugar & Sunflower Oil (my vignette//)

Somehow, I’ve ended up carrying a bottle of sunflower oil home for my grandma at 10:40 PM. Most of the lights were out—it was an old neighborhood of old people and old stores and old houses. I walk faster than her. It was the first thing I noticed when I stepped out the store (I hadn’t gone on the trip to the store with her. I’d met her by accident there because I wanted to figure out if I could buy a bottle of kaoliang or something. Why are the cigarettes behind the counter and all that alcohol is just sitting out in the open?). So I slow down, but my grandma, with her packet of brown sugar, is still three steps away. Three steps is an awkward distance. Two steps is okay. But three steps and it gets awkward.

“Careful!” she says.

My heart thumps hard once as a boy in a blue shirt speeds pass me on his bike from an alley. He was a boy, not a man, because his legs were skinny and his head was small. And his shirt wasn’t pastel. It was bright—no, bold. That’s the word.

Home is not far away from the store, but I pass both a betel nut place with a big neon sign and a place selling fried chicken. There’s a man on a scooter parked right by the fried chicken place, and there’s a huge puddle of water forming underneath his vehicle. I thought only cars leaked water because the air conditioning was on inside. But there’s no reason a scooter should be leaking, especially not ten times the amount cars usually leak.

I turn right at the very end of the street—into the last alley. Alley makes it sound like we’re homeless, but Grandma and Grandpa actually own two houses on the same block. But I just say alley because it’s way smaller than a street, and it’s definitely not a lane. A lane is for white, American homes. Not white as in the race, but white as in the color. Alleys are for our brown houses. Not the race, but the color. Because I don’t think I’m considered a brown person anyway, not that it matters. And no, I’m not implying that all the houses on lanes and alleys have to be white and brown. Our alley houses are all brick and gray and cream colored.

For a second I think I’m in the wrong alley because it’s all dark, and the garage doors are all down. That isn’t like my grandparents’ alley. The old house always has the garage door up until every single person is in bed. And the family always hangs out in the new house (which doesn’t have a garage) until at least midnight, so the door should be open and the living room lights should be on. But no, it’s completely dark.

I look behind me to make sure my grandma is still three steps away, and she is.

I’m in the right alley.

Phew.

I take a closer look and the panic subsides. It was so dark I couldn’t see that the garage door was actually still open. And the door was closed because the air conditioner was on inside. Fear makes you forget to be logical, yes. I’ve heard that somewhere and I guess it’s true.

“Your daughter is good!” my grandma says to my mom as we enter the new house. “She is wise with her money. She didn’t want ice cream.”

My mom doesn’t say anything because she’s thinking the same thing as me.

Oh, Grandma, if you only knew.

I only didn’t want the ice cream because you just gave me some about an hour ago.

Otherwise, I can be really foolish and careless with my money.

At least I don’t spend it all on brown sugar and sunflower oil. 

playground

they did away with the swing set
afraid we would soar too far

then they banned the seesaw
didn't want us rising too high

they even took away the slide
the momentum we gained

was just too much

playground

..connie..

P.S. Happy june! :)