Love: A Tragedy


It was a Wednesday afternoon when she first messaged me, through the Tumblr messaging app. She wasn’t exactly my type, not someone I really found attractive. My friend Natalie pointed out that I should take a chance with her. I typed out a quick reply to her. When I got out of my class, I had already forgotten about this interaction, and was ready to move on with my day. Little did I know, she had already written a reply back, so we kept talking. Eventually, I gave her my number, because why not. She also seemed like a decent person, which was hard to come by.

We ended up talking all day. Her name was KB. We texted about where we came from, the things we liked to do, where we wanted our futures to go. She seemed like a lot of fun, definitely someone I could see myself with. She lived in New York, making her 3 hours ahead of me. Eventually, it got late. She asked if she could talk to me tomorrow. I smiled at the thought of us talking all day tomorrow.


We had been talking for about two or three weeks, and I thought that there could be something serious between us. There was joyful routine, both of us were happy (at least that was what I thought). She told me she thought I was her type, I told her she didn’t know what she was saying, but I texted all my friends anyway. I  was happy, mainly because I felt I was still lovable, especially after the rough breakup between me and my ex. I believed my friends when they said they were happy for me.


Pretty soon, I started noticing small things that would make me uncomfortable. KB was polite for the most part, but she would make fun of me for my interests, under the guise of “teasing”. She would say things that would bother me, and whenever I called her out on it, she would always find a way to twist the situation such that it would make me seem like I was overreacting. But always, there were the excuses. It would be okay for her to do something, but not okay for me to do the same exact thing. We fought constantly, I was living in a state of constant tension, not knowing when the next fight would come.


It was a Thursday morning when I got the text that I was expecting for a while now. She said she wanted to “stay friends”. We had lasted for about two months.


It was a routine: dinner with a few friends as a form of breakup therapy. They told me they never liked the looks of her, she had the look of a self pitying attention drain. They insisted it would be better for me to just walk away. I took another bite of sushi and agreed. I desperately wanted to believe them.


I kept tabs on her Tumblr for a while. A few months later, we reconnected again. She had met someone new. I didn’t know how to feel, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. The other girl didn’t feel the same way about her. We talked for a couple months more, and it became apparent to me that she hadn’t changed at all. She was still the same condescending, self-righteous person I had thought she was all those months ago. After a few days of not talking, she sends me a message with just a “Hi”. When I didn’t respond in about a day, it became apparent that she had blocked me on social media and blocked my number.

How childish, I thought. But then again, how predictable. At this point in my life, I simply just didn’t care.

About three weeks later (as of Oct. 14, 2016), it feels like nothing has changed in my life. I guess that’s how you know you’ve moved on from someone: when talking to them feels more like a hassle than anything else. My friend asks me if I had bothered to check up on her since, and my response ran along the lines of, why should I, when things are going great for me?


A few days ago, a friend asked me how to get over a girl that he had feelings for. My solution for him was simple: find the right someone, and things will figure themselves out. I had the good fortune of having met someone who had a stellar personality, someone who helped erase all trace of KB from my memory. It might seem impossible, but good girls are hard to find.

My friend Natalie asked me how I felt about this situation. I told her, people who break up end up in competition with each other, even if they won’t admit it. In order to win, you need to live a better life. I’m pretty sure I’ve won.


A Conversation Between Friends


“So you think I’m in love?”

“I didn’t say it like that. But I was just teasing.”

“Okay, seriously what do you think?”

“It’s not my place to say anything. It’s your decision at the end of the day.”

“I know, but I also want to know what you think.”

“No you don’t. You just want me to confirm what you believe so you can feel better about yourself.”

“So you think my emotions are easy to read?”

“Girl, please. I’ve known you since what, we were five? I could read you as if you were a book. Even if I met you an hour ago, I could still tell if something was up.”

“That’s debatable. I’m not that transparent.”

“Okay, let’s get down with examples. Take the girl you were talking to before. You act like you no longer care who she’s with, but really, you’re still hurt that she didn’t fall in love with you.”

“That’s incorrect.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“The only reason why I acted like I didn’t care was because I thought it was hard to be friends and have romantic feelings. I felt like I could only choose one.”

“Yeah, it can get hard sometimes to draw the line. But it doesn’t change the fact that you were hurt when she started seeing someone else. You always seem to want to exude this cool, chill persona, as if no one can hurt your feelings. And that’s fine, it’s a way of living life. I’m just saying that you don’t have to pretend when you’re with me. Or even if you decide to pretend, just accept the fact that I know how you’re feeling, even if I don’t say anything.

Also, I know how it feels when someone doesn’t pick you. Having feelings for anyone that’s not reciprocated hurts like hell. But even though I sort of understand why you feel the need to lie, there’s no need with me.”

(a period of silence)

“I hate it when you word situations like that.”

“Haha. You know you love me. You just know when I’m telling the truth.”




Open Letter to a Friend

I don’t remember how we met. It was definitely in elementary school, but other than faded memories of you running around at school, but other than that, I don’t remember much else. You had long golden hair, much longer than it is now, which always seemed to get in your face when you ran from one classroom to the next. From what I remember, you were a bit arrogant. Even at five years old, you knew your self worth.
I don’t think we were friends back then, though we would tell people we were because our parents told us to be nice. I was extremely reserved, and you were extremely outgoing. Sure, we talked to each other occasionally, and probably played together, but we were never “friends”. At the time, I don’t think it could have worked anyway, we were too different.
I grew up nerdy and with extreme self-image issues, which were masked by self-deprecating jokes that I threw out as a defense mechanism. (Even then, I had a talent for insulting myself). It was unsurprising that you grew to be a social butterfly.
There was this one memory that I have, of you coming out at the ripe age of eleven. This was particularly funny now that I look back at it because when you had accepted who you were as a person, I had no idea of the person I was. I thought it was great that you managed to surprise the school, even the teachers, into accepting who you were. It was an achievement.
And this triggered something in me. I couldn’t exactly point to what it was at the time, or maybe I didn’t want to, because to admit the truth would mean facing truths that I was not ready to accept yet. Maybe it was envy, envy of your ability to not give a damn about what others thought of you. Your ability to be happy with who you were.
I remember feeling very envious of. I couldn’t admit it to myself at the time, or I didn’t want to, because to admit it meant accepting a few truths about myself I wasn’t ready to confront yet.  And looking back, I realize that that was precisely what I felt envious about. Your ability to be happy with who you were.
It’s not as easy as people think it is, being happy. Sometimes it takes a lot of bravery.
We started talking more at a dark time in my life. I had just lost my friend, and I was struggling with self loathing and depression, and you were still yourself: outgoing, confident, and most importantly, happy. Just like you have always been.
Memories of us talking about life and how you had everything to look forward to, while I didn’t have faith in my future and where my life would go. It seemed like we disagreed on everything, but the fact of the matter was we felt comfortable talking to each other about things that mattered.
Our talks became an almost nightly tradition, sometimes I would look forward to it at the end of an otherwise boring day. And, in the midst of these conversations, what started as a casual friendship turned into a true friendship.
But, like most things, we changed. Our life values changed, and what relationship we had built weakened over time. The changes seemed small at first, and the gradual disintegration of our friendship barely noticeable, but it happened, and neither of us could have done anything about it.
This continued until the moment when our friendship was tested, and because of its weaknesses, it broke.
At the end of the day, I can’t blame you. Your decisions are yours, and being true to yourself is the best thing. I didn’t hold a grudge, just know that I am still your friend.
Sometimes I catch myself wishing that things were simpler, and that whatever problems we had can be solved by picking up our phones and talking to each other. But sometimes, it feels more complicated than that.
However, I still have hope that, given time, things will settle down and we can continue our friendship where we left off. Maybe in a few years, when our lives have progressed, we can still find space and time for each other. But even if, in this lifetime, there never comes a right time, when time and silence and growing distance erases the possibility of a friendship we could have had, the fact remains that in the twenty years that I’ve lived, I had met someone truly special in my life.

My Philosophy


As many of you may know, I’ve been visiting a lot of blogs lately. To be honest this experience has been both interesting and harrowing in its own way. I see people who are depressed, happy, or more often a bit of both. Most of these posts are boring, mainly because I can somehow feel that this person was not being true to the audience. That they were somehow lying to their audience.

With the year (about) that I have been blog-hopping, I have discovered something cool. Every blog is different  in its own special way, but there is one main ideology behind each successful one. The way to really connect with someone is to really be honest in how you feel. The more you connect to the reader, the more they will enjoy reading your post, no matter what. 

Anyone can be a good writer. A good writer is constituted as having good grammar, good mechanics, nice structure. But that doesn’t attract people. It’s not what strikes people in the heart. People get honesty, because they can emphasize with it. Good writing can definitely get you somewhere, but honesty really gets you to the point where you want to be in your writing.

And that is probably why I keep looking at blogs even though I’m so busy with other areas of life (classes, finding a job, etc). Sure, there’s a lot of people with bad writing out there, but if there’s honesty, there’s something to be learned. It teaches everybody a lesson.

So this is my point. If I can express something that other people can just feel in them, then I believe I have succeeded. We all live in the same world, and I feel that my world is pretty much the same as yours. We’re all the same, even though we give each other all of these labels to show how we are somehow “different”. All of these differences are not important. Inside, we are the same person. 

Why You Should Date a Writer


“Why would I date a writer?”, you ask. You should date a writer because she will write about everything. She’ll write about the things that you did together, or the things that she wishes you’ve done. She will write about the time you held her hand at Starbucks, and how warm she felt for the rest of the day. She will write about how, during a mellow summer evening when the two of you just started dating, you asked her to reach for something in the cabinet, and when she gave it to you, you looked at her with such intensity. And that’s when she realized she had already fallen in love with you.

You should date a writer. You should date a writer because she will write about everything. She will write about how you look in the morning, and how you were so beautiful even when you were sleeping. She will write in great detail of your lives together, and her words will make ordinary events sound like music.

You should date a writer. You should date a writer because she will write about everything. She will write about how she was tired, but she stayed up anyway to talk to you because you asked her. Or that time where she really wanted to keep talking to you, but you said no. She will write about how you broke her heart when you said that “It’s all for the best”, and of how you no longer wanted to work on the relationship.

But you will also learn about how she fixed your door before you came back home because she wanted you to feel safe after having your house broken into. Or about the time she tried making you breakfast in bed, burning herself in the process, and had to throw away the food on multiple occasions because she wanted everything to be perfect. Or about the time when she woke up at 4 in the morning to get your favorite flowers from the farmers market because she couldn’t afford the ones they sold at the mall and she knew how happy they make you.

Or about the time when you were sick, and she came by to see if you were okay. It was raining really hard out, and it was dark, so she didn’t see the slippery part of the sidewalk and she slipped. She won’t tell you how she twisted her ankle and the taste in her mouth as she laid on the sidewalk. Or how she limped all the way to your place. She had a key to your apartment, and there were no words to describe how good it felt to enter your place unannounced. She will tell you how, after she made sure you were safe, she limped back home. She shook from the wind but felt safe because you were.

You will learn that when she first told you that she loved you, she had never felt so relieved and scared at the same time. And when you said that you loved her back, it sounded like a promise she did not dare believe.

You should date a writer. You should date a writer because she will write about everything. She will write about the promises of love, and how she will always love you even if you didn’t love her anymore.

Inspired by “Never Date a Writer” — xstephens (Redbubble)



Life and Being Lost


(1 week ago)
It was around 10 pm, and I was heading over to your apartment with three different boxes of pizza sitting in the backseat. I was only headed over at the late hour because I needed to talk, and you, being the friend that you were, said yes.
“I’m about to graduate in a few months,” I say. “The main thing is, now that I’m not with my parents, I don’t know what to do afterwards.”
And I talked about my college life. And all the people that I’ve met. And how, even though all your friends say that one day you will find love, no one seems to be interested in wanting to know you romantically. And that lack of a long term relationship made that sense of loss stronger.
“I just feel so lost. It’s hard to describe, but it’s there.”
(about a year ago)
My hall mate. We were talking in the common room. She had moved to college from Northern California. She just broke up with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend decided to go to an out of state college, and had told her that he could not promise monogamy, and she would not accept that. She felt alone, in a completely foreign environment, and just learned (over Instagram no less) that her ex had no trouble finding a replacement for her. Someone who was “hotter” in every sense.  She said that she found peace in the soft warmth of white wine, the cheap kinds you find in the corner of the local liquor store. As someone who used to find a similar comfort in alcohol, I could relate to her more than most.  She wanted to go home, to a safe space, but she couldn’t. There was a desperate sense of loss and regret.
At times, I imagine where she is now. I hope she has found happiness. Because, I know, there are places one can find the soft warmth that one needs.
(3 years ago)
Summer after high school. My best friend sits across from me. I am talking about my feelings about my future, and how my parents told me that I wasn’t doing enough. Tears started streaming from my eyes, tears that I did not want her to see. She held my hand, and told me that I was a fighter, and that even though I don’t see it now, I am capable of getting up and fighting another day.
“You can do this,” she told me. “Don’t give up on me.” 
(2 years ago)
At a Starbucks, waiting in line. When the door opens, a classmate from high school walks in. Although we didn’t know each other well during that time, you walked over hugged me like a close friend.
You said, “I missed you. Because there was that one time when you made me feel important when I thought no one cared about me. Even though I have forgotten what you said to me then, I remember how special you made me feel.”
You then ordered your drink and left. But I never got a chance to tell you how much that meant to me.

The First Morning I Forgot You


The morning started out as it normally did. I woke up early as usual, the quiet sounds of the morning chirping in the air, the day still cold. My roommate forgot to turn off her TV. I could hear the Game of Thrones theme song playing through the wall, the sound reminding me that I haven’t finished the latest season.

I stood up from my bed, my head aching from general lack of sleep. My mind was still a blur, causing my motor functions to slow down. It was so early that at first I didn’t realize that it was already the next day, and that I have a lot of work to do before the day is over.

After brushing my teeth and running my fingers through my hair, I decided that I was just going to go eat and work out before my classes started. I walked into the living room, and I saw my roommate. I pause for a moment, surprised that she had gotten up so early. She apparently had yet to change from her clothes from last night. Her face looked like it was carved from stone: filled with disappointment.

“When did you get back?” I asked her.

“A few hours ago.”

“You haven’t slept at all?”

“Nope. Decided it was a waste of time.” That made sense. What was the point of going to bed if you have class in two hours?

“Did you have fun last night?”

“Nah, not really.”

“What happened?”

“My date ditched me for some other girl.”

“That’s rough.”

“Yeah, can’t be helped. What did you do?”

“Nothing much. Just watched some Netflix and went to sleep.”

She nodded, and finished her food. After a while, she changed and headed for class. I scrolled through the news on my phone, seeing if I had missed any major news that happened overnight. Nothing major had happened.

The microwave beeped in it’s usual annoying manner. I quickly got my food out.

And right when I sat down to eat, I remembered you. Right at the moment when I started my computer, and the smell of coffee still strong in my nose. It was that moment when I realized that you were no longer the first thing on my mind.

This came as a complete shock to me. After months of listening to sad love songs, of self-pity, of waking up feeling like I was missing something, of blaming myself for not “doing better” in the relationship, I had just woken up to a morning where I didn’t feel like a big part of my life was gone. And apart from the shock that was this realization, I saw how such a moment could be so mundane. All this was happening while I was at my desk, opening up Hulu, and looking like someone who just rolled out of a trash can. It was a moment that was as anticlimactic as one could be.

Yet, I felt like it couldn’t have been any better. Even though this moment was lacking any of the drama that I was expecting, I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

 “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving.” – Albert Einstein 


Being Preppy

The word “preppy” means different things to different people. But what image comes to mind when the word is said?

Do you think of someone who is well off, dressed in pastel colors, with gelled hair? The Merriam-Webster dictionary describes the word as “Someone who dresses or acts like a student at a prep school (such as by wearing neat, somewhat formal clothing or by using particular words and phrases)”.

Since starting college, I’ve been looking into switching up my style. After two and a half years, I felt as if I had found the style that fitted my personality. In the past year or so, I’ve described myself as being preppy, not only in terms of dress but also in the morals that I believed in. To me, being preppy meant setting yourself to a higher standard and putting yourself second, if not third. I guess I’ve always had these inner standards. It just took time for my outer self to match my inner one.

In many ways, I see being preppy as being respectful of traditions and history. It is being respectful of where you come from, and the belief that just because something is new does not mean it’s necessarily better. But most of all, being preppy means embodying charity, compassion, and the desire to help others without wanting something in return.

However, this leads me to what we see online: Tumblr, Instagram, Pinterest. What do we see when we type up “preppy”? We see guys with monogrammed polo shirts posing in front of “their” sport cars that their parents paid for, girls lying on beaches sipping on some tropical drink. In short, we see people with backgrounds of privilege, affluence, and the attitude of getting more than what your neighbor has.

How about all the other things that are behind these pictures? Is being preppy having a closet stuffed with clothes and accessories? Or having money/property passed down from generation to generation instead of having a work-hard ethic to get where you are? Is that what preppy means?

There may be an endless number of attributes to what being preppy means, but at the end of the day, what does it all mean?

Am I guilty of playing into this trope of wanting to be preppy? Of course — but who isn’t? In the past 20 years or so (or should I say in the last 2-3 years), I’ve definitely tried to fit in, materialistically at least. In the attempt to find my own style, I had lost myself in a cycle of consumerism.

In short, it seems as if being preppy is not what it used to be. The word has been photoshopped, filtered, and edited to the point where the word has more extrinsic meaning than it does intrinsic. However, this doesn’t mean that I don’t respect the term –I did at one point in time, but it’s been changed to the point where it’s hard for me to find any part of the word that still relates to who I am today.

And what does this mean for me? I can’t give you a clear answer. Based on how the term “preppy” is defined by pop culture, I definitely do not fit this definition, and I don’t want to. I don’t go on vacation in Southampton. I don’t come from a rich background, nor do I have a plush bank account. My parents were foreigners from China. And my style of dress? It’s a mix of everything.

So if there’s one thing that you take away from this post, it’s this: large brand names, big houses, and fast cars doesn’t make a person better than the next. The best style is being true to who you are. At the end of the day, each one of us will be remembered for the kind of people we were, not what possessions we had.



Looking at a blank screen with a flashing line, it seems like I don’t know the best way to start writing.

The last time I wrote in a meaningful way was back in high school, which seems like an eternity ago. Back then, I was a different person living in a different world.

Now that I’m a few months away from graduating college, I’d like to say that I’m a better person, that I’m a completely new person than I was before I started college. It certainly feels that way: I’m now much more comfortable with who I am as a person. Even though I’m not entirely sure of what I want, I’m fairly certain that given time, life will give me what I need. The hard part is getting there.

Although I can’t predict what my future holds, what I can do is to try and enjoy the ride. This blog is to help you, the reader, come along with me, and see where life leads me.

Care to hop in?