After a Night of Thai Food

Although I know nobody is paying any attention to these notes of mine, I am not one to worry…most things I say are not mainstream either. I hate though that when I feel like I am progressing, I regret the actions I took in order to make progress. For instance, I sent a terrible peace corp application/resume last week. I haven’t heard back from them and doubt I ever will. I actually sent them a very disorganized resume that did not go into detail of the volunteerism I acted in. In fact, I have done alot of volunteer work, but I failed time and time again, A—–, I forgot to input that fact to make my application more competitive! Argg!

Today, I look back on all of my actions and wish I hadn’t done much of it. Arggg! I suffer from constantly needing to make progress. Like just now, I sent in a terrible application to a place I do not want to work for!!!!! But I spent hours on tailoring my resume to be competitive! Why me??? I am product of my past! I only look for opportunities that link with my upbringing, my past memories, and my past friendships, all of these things keep sticking to me even now, in 2015.

The more I make these progressions in work, behavior, dress, and friendships, I feel like I am just doing nothing but the same, boring, normal things everyone else does in my generation, except the forbidden few, who are not very lazy, who are not very shallow, and who uphold the highest degree of intelligence, drive, positivity, and ambition. I need that spirit!!!

How do they find such motivation to do stuff, get stuff moving/rolling, make lasting connections cross-culturally and abroad, and still manage to stay in one simple piece called human?

A few names come to mind, none of which I will name…why? What difference does it make whether I name them or not? the fact is, they don’t care, they’re productive, unlike me. I simply write blogs, and no one reads them, or likes them, or notices me at all, unless I’m doing something to annoy them, like cut in front of them, or act pretentious.

I could just join the military. But I might get screwed over…and lose my marbles.

as this interesting character would say, “lose my marbles…” heheh…

If not the military, of which I resign myself the duties of…what can I do with the rest of my future A——–?

Yup, I’ve been BLASTED with propaganda, time and time again, all throughout the course of my existence and yup, I’ve felt the pressure to just join the military and serve and lose my marbles…yup…but today, like yesterday, and the days before, I have resigned myself of such requests…in fact, I want to take a good look in the mirror, stare hard and cold at my face, and find myself, before the end comes, and I become nothing but a skeleton, 10 feet underneath the ground/dirt. My body at this time in point is not infested with maggots, flies, and critters, ahah! I have FREEDOM!!!!!!!


My Heathen Ways

I’ve succumb to my heathen ways. For sure, I’ll be packing up soon and moving out of here. My destination is the East Coast. I’m tired of the slow pace of life at home, not to mention, the religion my family follows. It is all meaningless!

I know I at least want to travel while I still have breath and plant roots elsewhere.

My dreary application for jobs in the east coast beckons. I am ready to say good-bye to the west. Im ready to leave it all behind, leave everything behind, and resolve myself to a new life. Reject all that is here in the west, be a better person…love family by letting them go…so off i go into the ruins, into the darkness, i will disappear for good.


I don’t know much about this disease, but know that out of the darkness, a glow as come…people who have very critical disease tend to be the most kind, and thoughtful human beings ever to exist. Too bad that humility cannot extend to everyone. So much of everyday problems are due to our own innate negativity. We fal prey of being victims of pain, we don’t value pain and we don’t know pain because if we did, we might be very strong, compassionate, human beings.

The Disclosure of Process

For a while now, the word, process held many connotations. In the beginning, it was about my job that I once had, but later on, that word, began to conceive a form that took shape to look something like this.

I blamed and cursed at any speck of thought that decided to ruminate in my thoughts for a tad bit too long. I became obsessed with perfection. I was like a exorcist. Exorcising purity to fit in amongst the Oneness pentecostals or apostolics, whatever you will call it. It damaged my mind for a very long time. So much so that I feel like sharing my service with those guys. I feel sorry for anyone who was as naive as I who is going to get clawed in by those dim wits. Yes, that is right, dim wits. I have no apology. I have been morbidly scarred.

I read all the stories of others in my shoes, be it male or female, that had to endure the reality that they were trapped. Not trapped in the sense that a dog is trapped in his cage. But trapped like a foot stuck in a large unmovable stone and forced to watch like Stanley Kubricks, Clockwork Orange’s main character, who is glued to a seat, with straps holding him down, and with tweezers forcing his eyes wide-open, to watch an innocent girl get gang-raped. This really has been a tragic experience for me personally. Tears well up in my eyes just thinking about the days I was made to look like a barbie doll, talk less, look down at the floor, and make peanut brittle at homes behind the kitchen, never given a voice to be free.

The casual but intimidating encounters with men in that regime, who F***ed with my mind so much, was a daily occurrence. After awhile I just got so depressed. I developed clinical depression and was taking drugs to cope with it. I was able to work part-time, but with little social interaction. Mainly because many of them knew I was diagnosed with depression, so they avoided me like a disease.

The UPC, whatever they call themselves has mentally f***ked up my head. I don’t remember any “best” times I have ever had there and still ache and wish for an apology from all those that took a small or large part in totally decapitating my freedom. I wished it all NEVER happend, but it did! I wish I can die hearing an apology but I strongly doubt those prideful Bastards will ever do that. E

The grinding of my teeth has stopped at least. Maybe, despite all this real-life drama, complexity, and honest to goodness, anger…there is HOPE. If not hope, than what else? My hands feel frozen as I think about what else I should say. But nothing comes to mind. I am afraid to focus. I am a disaster.

Here goes, POST ūüė¶

How Cliche and Overdone is That?

I hear the scoffs of adolescent girls singing in my ears with a hip-hopish but blinding tune. After today, I feel like living in my dreams only. Is death going to take me to a better world? It is such that as notorious, evil-witted, human beings, capable of the worst actions, limitless in the most devious crimes, can also peacefully, somewhat humorously, live idly by, barely affected by the mere touch of ill-will unto mankind. Few are they.

Suddenly, a stabbing incident is just another “cliche” moment…something to ponder on for a bit and move on to better “new”… Suddenly, a massacre is just another “overdone” act by mankind, and idly walk blandly by, without a hint of concern or empathy or even, remorse.

I am usually the gal fact-checking almost every tiny thing. I think Yuki is the winner, but I too find myself stressing out about whether my vocabulary is perfect. Suddenly, I find myself caring less about my vocabs. The truth is, my vocabulary isn’t going to solve world crisis, stop criminals from their evils, or solve the riddle of death and if there is an afterlife, OR solve every rubics cube in TOWN. Grant it, I am not perfect, and a son of a b**** of anyone that thinks I should be! Just deal with it, like I deal with you. Scoff*

I am so ready for critics I tell myself. I am so ready for this I chime. I am so prepared for this onslaught of criticism, rants, judgement, rudeness, etc., etc. I will be like Martin Luther King! I will be brave and courageous admist my foes! But I’m not. Quite frankly, I am a scared person! I am scared of you, you and YOU! Whoever you are, out there in cyber world, flogging every innocent young or elderly person simply expressing FREE THOUGHT should be punished! yeah, punk, that is what I just said, punished… running off with a trail of real tears, for the first time, feeling afraid too, like the rest of us humans who want something more definite and meaningful out of life.

Life is too long. Life is like a constant reminder of death. Another day that dies off reminds us of the flower petal that wilts and falls off the stem. A short life must we all have. A coffin is our end if we are lucky and aren’t floating down the river. Turning into a formless void, forgotten by all those that once knew you, liked you, hated you, or loved you, or never knew you, we all become a void in the end with all our trophies, ribbons, and plaques, buried with us. Nothing is close enough to follow us when we die. No friendship or kinship so intimately binding that not even death could separate each other. When it is all over, when the lights go out, it is over, as they say, “game’s over.”

Not Sounding like a Novel or Book

I’m not a best writer. So many, maybe, a handful of talents, but nevertheless, I am not one of them!

Why cheapen life by trying so hard to fit in. If I’m not meant to fit in then I’m meant to stand out!

I feel like a tiny little ladybug yelling and shouting at the top of her tiny lungs, but a crowded world so large, no one can hear me. With all this bustling, marriage vows, parties, yelling, screaming, talking, and walking, I will never be heard.

I’m like a Salvador Dali¬†painting, sinking deep into the ground, melting by the touch, but seemingly okay, seemingly vigilant or strong, despite the screaming disparity that lies within. My energy is melting, just like the weather reminds us all of problems to come. How futile our emotions, so easily manipulated, and so easily won over. Imagine, 7 more million added to the current growing population. Just imagine the lines in cafes growing so large, a revolt takes place instead. It is the age of revolt.

The classism of college education

Is it just me or do people with college degrees have a developed form of prejudice of anyone that simply doesn’t have the same thing? In this capitalism I run into all kinds of educated individuals who think they have a monopoly on free-thought, the way life needs to function, and the way I need to behave. Whether I want to believe it or not, I am faced with a massive crowd of tens of thousands that all have this belief that they are more suitable for the best jobs, more qualified for the best spouses, friends, neighborhoods, etc.

I never thought a person could hold so much judgement towards individuals who lack prestigious degrees in the right fields, the right subjects, and with the right grades. I still to this day, cannot grapple with the sad realization that young kids think they have it all simply because of their alumni status at such and such school. I understand that with hard work, commitment, and strong will, some have made it to the toughest schools to get into, I know some fought poverty, shame, and bullying to finally have a resting place among educated people at schools, but to place start this process of dividing yourself from your family, old friends, and former community just because you have a degree doesn’t quite fit the puzzle of solving world peace, eh?

Is it normal? It is like we are chopped up wood, trying to maintain balance as wood stacked upon each other, with the inability to walk straight without piles of wood falling to the ground. And each ¬†moment we are awakened by the daunting reality that the odds are stacked up against us. It is like living in a swirling humid air with a carnival swirling, giggling, and accusing me for not measuring up to the world’s portrait of what every person is supposed to become. As much as I can admire the ones that claim they have “education”, maybe because world acknowledges them, but I can’t accept their shrewd, dismantling character of classism at its height, or see them stump on every growing individual with this so called “pride”. If they “made it”, shouldn’t they have built some kind of bridge of flexibility, sustainability, and emotional support?

Rather, they tear at your soul with the words that don’t leave, “Well I made it and you didn’t, so your a nobody”! The educated may not always “say” it pure and clear, but they will mess with your head until you get it pure and clear!

Especially women, they try their inadequecies by saying things like, “Well, I’m the manager, so you better listen and I have a degree so you better hush up,” or, “I’m a doctorate, and I’ve been with the Yanomami tribe, so I’m a global peace-maker, but you better shut up or I’ll slap you in front of the whole class,” or “I know what I’m talking about because I’m a professor and everything I say is right!” You get all kinds of educated people embarking on the great divide. One day, there will be no crossroads, because of classism.

Can I be Candid?

I’ve always had this fear of voicing my feelings out loud. Probably because when I have done that, I am confronted with glares and this overwhelming feeling I just screwed up! Many might attribute my fear of sharing a cultural one, seeing that my ancestry has its placement among very male-toned, male-sided, and male-ish ways.

I grew up in a house of four, my parents and my sibling rival. But being in USA didn’t really digest well until I got older. My parents integrated quickly. They learned the language English and adapted to changing views, still holding sturdy unto their conservative ways. It crashed. A Lawsuit came our way, hitting the entire family with¬†atomic tension, like the tense pressure of gasses that consume a star and its explosion in the galaxy. My parents to dream of a life in middle-class came to a screeching halt. I won’t go into detail. We just started spiraling downward into deep anguish and sadness.

You can check off, making money off the bucket list, so we felt. Now, what was next on our list by the way? What else did we have planned as new members of the USA? Hmmm… It took speculation, but a-hah! An idea bloomed among the thorny shades of grey. Just exist so my family thought. Just publish, write poems, and sing-alongs, give that out to anyone curious, and hope to gain something back in return, maybe serenity, peace, or a dream home.

We literally, or metaphysically? Just kidding, we had moments when we had income, but that lasted for a short three to four years until the funds began sizzling away, like a pot with boiling water that completely evaporates and nothing is left in the pot, but residue or what was once water. So our money bank just dropped or sank deeply, into the negatives, as one failed business upturned our stakes in the USA, as did another! Every entrepreneurial spirit my dad had dropped off like burdens he carried. Perhaps it was meant to be.

Watching all this as a kid, I felt very betrayed by my own country. My immigrant parents were shown a rose-colored glass of limitless opportunities they could salvage in as welcomed citizens of America. However, they were met with unrelenting challenge! Researchers conclude the poverty among immigrants left and right and ask what the cause is or have their own conclusions. Being right in the smack of it, it really is the lack of experience an immigrant has of the terrain they are about to embark on. America is the wild west despite its towering buildings and posh cafes and bistros. America itself is a sharks mouth, gaping wide open, apathetic to who enters in with sheer ignorance. My parents and countless others, titled “minority” have most likely fallen prey to the buzzing and trendy pace of NYC, the Stanley Kubrick films that touch even the farthest nations, and Disney’s profound message to families afar that America is a land of milk and honey…

Curiosity killed the cat. Cats have flown from Bangkok to San Francisco, to start a new life, with resources, money, and good luck. The cats have gone in unknown directions. Some straightway into the lions den, utterly confused, others up the hill, into a peaceful and quiet existence… While the rest of the cats, striped, hairy, and balding, have found themselves strewn about this giant country, but fixed in the utter edges of America, ready to fall over the brim.

What lay in the middle of America? The cat has little curiosity after the barriers that they have found to really exist. In the abroad, you want to test yourself, your tenacity, your fight, and you want to fearlessly jump head first into the shark infested waters, that is America and believe that you will come out a survivor. Many stubborn and ill cats have tried, few have made it, but most have died, be it emotionally dead.

America is all about reading the fine print, understanding the odds, and competing with vivacious violence, sugar-coated with niceness and empathy, yet toxically maddened. And so, the majority pops “avoid” the minorities simply because of the toxic nature the minor-class just develops overseas. The cats bring disease, attitude, servitude, whatever they bring, it just ain’t fit for us Americans! That is the usual spiked wire every minority must face and endure.

So last stop, freedom, so the cats thought, a dark, sinister, ghost….instead awaited each and every single

Peace Corp App: Part I

I embark on this dutiful journey as I’ve submitted my 1st peace corp application via the online portal. I am in agony and inquisition about this process, how long it will take, what is needed from me, and if I will be accepted into this program.

This trip, if accepted, will be a grand chance to build my career and my resume/qualifications. But on the flip side, if I am rejected this invitation to serve with peace corp, I will be saddened but hopeful that some other adventure awaits me. If I get in, I will be so excited!!!! I wonder how long it takes for contact with a recruiter. Will they call me or email me? Hmmm… Or will I have to wait for months on end, re-checking all my voicemails/calls/texts &/or emails. I am at this point where I want a change of pace. I may not be the star candidate, seeing I lack a prestigious degree in an ivy league school, or a fully accredited school, I still hope to be accepted. Luckily, my school was listed on the peace corp application, drop-down menu for attended colleges/universities. Horray, I thought to myself! Maybe, I’m really getting in! Maybe humble beginnings will thrust me into a cross-cultural dynamic. I’ve been the inquisitor of cultures around us. Though my degree may not acclaim for it, I’ve grown more curious day by day how this planet really works, but from a social/anthropological perception. Will I, I don’t know, learn anything with this decision? Will I be aged before I hear anything back? If I do get rejected, what will become of my future? Man, I wish I could tweak the minds of recruiters to have high favorability of my application. I wish the world was more sensitive to my plea, and more flexible to my humble start. I feel like scum. No future, getting older, but with a blank canvass with limitless possibilities. Considering my luck in securing employment in the recent past, and securing internships, and painting, and playing piano, maybe there is a autonomous form of hope. Hope that rests not in the acceptance or rejection of a volunteer opportunity, but hope in the fact that I tried, and yet, despite my small beginnings, and dissonant choices, I tried in the end.

The Reason I Left the Oneness Pentecostal Church

I grew up in a very conservative home. My parents immigrated from Southeast Asia during the Reagan Presidency. My dad built churches to support minorities in the states. And the rest of us simply supported him in his endeavors. Sometime later we were invited to become Oneness Pentecostals. It didn’t happen that quickly, it was a gradual, time-consuming, laborious process, but we dipped our toes in the thought, ready for the next step.

This moment in time was quite a challenge for many reasons, with the most definite reason being the internal confusion that landscaped my whole entire experience in the Oneness cause. Never for once did my mind ever conclude that women must wear skirts to receive salvation. Not for a split second did my mind ever feel at peace with that thought, idea, and outright belief. However, the peer pressure to dress in such uncomfortable clothing, long sleeve shirts too hot during summers, and long, train-like skirts too out-dated and uncomfortable, and no make-up to even cover a scar on my face, made this feel very phony at the end. There were days when I was just confused. How does any sane person conclude that strict adherence to a set of protocols, for instance, dress-codes, give them a leg up in finding eternal salvation? It baffled me!

Peer pressure is one of those things you will always have to face. You will time & time again, run into very stubborn persons that demand you live a certain way. Those are the moments you have every right to decide your own true destiny. Those moments help develop your internal instincts and help you deal with each punch with pride. Alas, with peer pressure, you can expect the worst case scenario. In my case, I faced persons left and right demanding that I follow in their footsteps, because what ways I was presently living, was all too wrong for them.

I left the Oneness Pentecostal church for good, December 8th of 2010. My prayers at the time were for God, if there was even a God, to give me direction, focus, and strength to do this very thing. I still cannot profess if God really was there, out in the big, sphere-shaped earth, somewhere hidden behind the puffy clouds, really heard me pray, or even existed to listen. The prayer I prayed felt like eternity bur for one minute it felt like eternity shifted focus and zoomed in on my sad situation with a look of condolence and empathy. For once, I felt more than Oneness Pentecostal, I felt like an organic human being connected to all other living things, like a tiny little bug, a flea, that just was looking for her way home. After that delirious seizure, I felt the courage to have hope in other things that didn’t pertain to anything, even remotely associated with Oneness Pentecostalism. I threw that bag away, kind of like casting off an evil spirit, I gave it a good whack, and it fumbled along the way.