Total weirdo.

I'm actually quite glad no one ever really goes on this blog anymore. It's nice being able to think out and type out my thoughts without people actually having to read it.

Well, no—scratch that. This is public. If I were to ever delete this, a copy of it would still be floating around somewhere. But it is nice getting out thoughts and no one in my immediate friend circle will read, but rather the world. There is this certain anonymous aspect to it that I really dig; and even though my friends who do follow me on here can still read whatever I post, I kind of trust that they don't because, well, Tumblr fever took over months ago and they are most definitely not turning back.

Neither am I for that matter, but too many people know me on Tumblr. I don't want a response from these posts anymore. I just want to get them out of the way so I can forget about them. I want this as a collective diary that only I can write, read if I want to.

And if any of you peeps are reading this, you should stop. This is all totally unimportant. This is just how I manage to stay sane.

Or perhaps preserving my sanity is important...

I have this weird mentality that I will wait for whatever comes to me. Patiently wait. Wait for love, wait for money, wait for the sun to shine and wait for the rain to fall. All things good happen to those who wait, but when does waiting get too long? When does assertion have to jump in and kick patience in the ass?

I admit that I am too accommodating. I learned long ago not to call myself "too nice". One can never simply be too nice—niceness is a quality that should not be wasted. I should help out everybody and everything to the best of my abilities whenever I can. However, that shouldn't mean that I should drop my own priorities for the sake of someone else. Though I want to help out, I need to realize that I am my number one priority. I shouldn't hold other people up higher than I view myself. There's this little thing called self-esteem and the need to feel accepted that sort of... intercepts my own self-worth. It's quite ironic.

Though I am a firm believer in waiting for the right time and place, is the "right" time or place ever stated? Is it on a whim? Or is it impulse and intuition? Most of the time I fall with my intuition. And, most of the time it sets me on a greater path. I have great timing, and it's shown all throughout my life. But now that I am older, now that I can go see the world right now, tomorrow, if I wanted to, what am I exactly waiting for? This subject ties in with a lot of things that I've had weighing down on my mind lately. Some such topics will be for a later time. I don't know.

One such thing I have been thinking about is the concept of unconditional love. Unconditional literally means without a condition. Love, well, we all know what love is. But, do we understand what love is?—most specifically unconditional love?

This is perhaps one of the biggest things people want in their life. Someone to love them through their flaws, faults, habits, routine, annoyances, likes, dislikes, hates, and all things related. I know that I want that special someone in my life to love me up to the brim; I know that I want to love them more than I love myself. I don't even care about the sex, the intercourse, the "love making" if you will. I would be quite content with someone just holding me. It's really not too much to ask—but yes it is. Love is expensive. And, I'd imagine unconditional love is beyond price. What I don't understand is how someone can fully give themselves away to someone else. It's like walking on thin ice (pardon the cliche). It's stepping into the dark with a dying flashlight. It's that moment where you let yourself fall and hope that the other person is there behind you to catch you.

We all want love, yes. But I guard myself from it so much that sometimes I'd rather be alone than have to burden the other person to deal with my insecurities and personal rejection. I always say that "it's not worth it", especially with things regarding myself. It's not important. It's not worth it.

What exactly is not worth it? The fact that somebody cares for you? Am I selfish enough to self-indulge that I am not worth other people's time and care? I'm so damn backwards that it hurts to think about sometimes. Soak up the sun, revel in the fact that people genuinely want to know how you are doing, how you have been, what you are up to.

I part of it, I believe, is due to my parents. I'm afraid of giving my heart away because I don't want to end up like them. And this is a battle I'll be fighting for most of my life: the fact that I am not my parents and that I never will be. It's all my own choice. I build my own fate. And so this ties in with my feelings about time. Waiting. Waiting for something good, only to realize that I've waiting for so long that it has all turned bad. Why am I so cautious? Because that is in my personality. Side-step the issue until I cannot avoid it any longer.

I feel that this all has to do with my unspoken obligations to people. I finally declared myself as an English major with a concentration in writing. I cannot be happier. But, when I was in my rut, what was my motivation for being in school? I didn't want to learn anything. A lot of what I'm doing now I could do myself, or care less about. When the hell am I ever going to need statistics? I'm a damn writing major now! And all of these art classes, yeah it's great they are giving me direction, but I could have learned this all myself, by myself. Sometimes I just don't know, but I feel that I use that as a crutch.

I need school because I don't have a strict direction. It's all general, all haphazard. I go where ever I want to go. All I lack is the motivation. I have determination, but that is only fueled when I have specks on the horizon of what I want. What do I want? Where am I going? I promised others, as well as myself, that I'd finish college. That is a no-brainer. I'm too far in to quit now, and if any of you knew me, you'd understand that I hate quitting things that I've already started. That is why I've failed so many math classes: because I'm stubborn and prideful. I'm too prideful to ask for help in some subjects, and I'm too stubborn for everything else. I'm a walking contradiction, and it's horrible.

God put me here for a purpose. I just have to pray that I'll see it soon.

I've diverged and dove-tailed, but I'll leave the rest for another time.

This is Named after a Timber Timbre Song.

When I think about last year —such an awkward year it was— I realize that I don't even remember most of it. There were many instances that are highlighted in the back of my mind, and these are instances that I can remember because I can't forget. Those memories are better left unsaid, unreeled to an audience.

I mean, I've already wrote those down in an essay, a personal anecdote... and that story is over.

And here I am again: back to this place in my life, except this time, I've found a lot more sunshine (and even a little more pigment!).

When I think back to last year, I can't even remember most of it. I'm not the party-type; I didn't drink, smoke weed, or have crazy freshman sex. The worst I did was take a sip of vodka, actually gain that "Freshman 15", and steal cartons of soymilk from the dining commons. I had a different kind of college blackout. I believe it's because I was in such a dark slump my first year of college.

The summer before moving into the dorms leaves small space for emotional transition. I feel like I had really lost my best friend, and that it was all my fault because I was bitter, jealous, self-pitying, and perhaps just a little bit neglected. But it's easy to play the victim, I admit. It's easy to blame someone else, but sometimes it's even easier to blame yourself. I felt alone—I didn't know anybody on campus. San Jose is a city where sirens go off every half an hour downtown, and I didn't feel that I could talk to my roommate because she was the rich preppy cheerleader type who scared the hell out of me. She made me feel poor, she made me feel insignificant.

(And again, the roommate stuff is in the essay previously mentioned, so I'm not going to go through much of it.)

I remember getting out of class in a hurry, just to get back to my dorm and log into Skype to talk to those friends who I felt that I lost in the transition. One friend, one such dear friend, felt the same way about it—she went across the country to her college, and I remember talking to her the most because she was in the same place. And even though I talked to her, and was reassured that this was normal, I still felt lonely. I still felt the crush of my mom and her relationship with her new boyfriend. I still felt the crush that I would not really be able to see my dad in a long, long time. I still felt that crush that overwhelms a person into such an inexplicable state that all that can be done is just fly by.

And so that is why I'm here now, sitting in my dimly lit room, waiting for the moon to come out.

And, well... perhaps it's sappy 80's music that makes me a little bit nostalgic. But this was something that has been on my mind for a few hours now. This is one of those full-circle moments that I'm sure I'll be having every year I'm in this weird college place.

Something from the other day triggered a weird set of memories. I dabbled with the thought of becoming an English major last year, first semester. Why I didn't change it right away to that, well... it was God's plan. In order to reach a set of promise, one has to trudge through pain and uncertainty. Going into the English major office to my advisor, she had made a comment how I had taken a linguistics class. And for a moment, I was a bit confused... what? I took linguistics? When?

Then it hit me: oh yeah, linguisitcs. With the professor who looked like John Lennon and had MLP: FiM/weed cookie parties with his friends in Santa Cruz. Oh yeah.

And that led to the intellectual snowballing of those who were in my class. On guy who was serviced in Iraq, that one girl with the orange (and then purple) hair, and that one Chinese girl who offered me chocolate that one day. I still have the wrapper to it stuck in one of my binders that I used for that class.

This Chinese girl ties in with my thoughts because I forgot what her name is. Just like how I forgot how I took a linguistics class, how I forgot how dark the beginning of my year really was. We could have become great friends, I'm sure of it. She was one of those anime chicks, yeah—so we had common ground. She had a cool sense of style, too. Kind of lolita but not. Her dresses were just kind of cool. She took notes in sketchbooks that weren't lined. She drew cats that were stretchable and resembled Jake the Dog. She must have had been an inside source or something, because she had Fionna and Cake all over her notes, but we just didn't know it yet.

I remember after the class, during the next semester, I'd walk past her every once in a while and wave. We had built up a good enough relationship where we could greet each other in public. But, she was a busy art student and every time we'd cross paths she'd have her big clipboard and portfolio over her shoulder. She was in too much of a rush to notice, which was a shame. She was a damn good artist. I remember going to a Japantown festival and seeing an art panel, and I swear I saw her name on one of the pieces that won. Yet, I believe it's kind of hard becoming friends with art students. It's hard becoming friends with anyone, for that matter.

I haven't thought about her since then because I guess our friendship was just a little too limited. This goes with that chick with the orange/purple hair who was in the same class. We sat next to each other, same general interests, all that. But she was a sophomore and lived in the International House (which was ironic because she was like, totally from SF or something). But hey, if you can afford it—go for it. I see her every once in a while on campus. That's only because her hair is back to orange, and that's insanely easy to spot in a crowd. Yet, I don't think she remembers me. When I first get to know people, I don't think I make that much of an impression... especially if I'm in a new place.

I'm overly cautious. I guard myself until I feel like I can be myself. I usually say that it takes me about a year to adapt enough to wake out of my shell. It's a damn shame but that's just how it goes. I will always be a cautious, homely person and I'm sure that won't ever really change. Not that I'm totally against it or ashamed of it... it's just a pain in the ass every once in a while, and for those who stick through with it until the end, well, I'm glad. You have made a brand new friend who won't leave you, even if you leave me.

Yet, I suppose back to the "meat" of the post (I actually have no idea where I'm going with this anymore) I am now an English major with a concentration in Career Writing. I couldn't be happier. Why I figured Marketing would be a good idea, I have no clue. Same goes with Advertising and Public Relations. I'm way too moral for those careers; I can't lie to people. But with just my pen and paper and my thoughts around me, I feel like I have finally selected my calling.

And it was a calling that I already sort of knew, but fought against. Sometimes we have to choose between the practical and what we love. I have been fighting what I love for so long and turning to what is practical that I was just a ghost of myself. This is what I want—I want to write, I want to edit, I want to materialize my thoughts into print. I want to make people's writing better, I want to encompass them with my words and lead them. Save them. Inspire them.

All I need is some sunshine, but I feel like I've already caught a few rays.