I want to tell 16 year old me to chill the fuck out. Fondle some legs. Drink some beer.
Don't smoke weed though because all of your guilt and regret will hone in on the top of your brain with the pinpoint devastation of a laser, making all the more apparent your loneliness
as you sit stranded on stools, thinking about your life.
If I were to talk to 16 me I'd let him know what game to spit, what girls to talk to, what medusas who make him stone-cold to the core to avoid because he doesn't really believe in bros before hoes you know. If a girl has your tongue tripping over itself she's not the one you're looking for homes, I'd say as I'd pat his shoulder and flash him a smile. I'd talk to him with an irreverence reverberant of grandparents he never had.
I'd tell him to buy clothing with better material because he's going to go through a lot and shit rips easily, man.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
aSas
On the topic of talking to her and deciding I could take on the entire world in that single instance:
WHAT UP HOMES I FEEL YOU ON HOW YOU FEEL BUT YOU GOTTA GET OVER IT YA KNOW
Whenever I hear a particular guitar strumming it tends to make the waves in my heart move a little bit stronger and recede a little bit slower, each time its coming and going uncovering more memories I wanted to bury in the sands of forgetfulness. A chord here, a smile there. A strum here, a laugh there. There I am were at my best; thinking back on it makes me feel worse. In a quiet melody I see traces of faint memories I would like to leave behind. Time capsules or disgraced mementos, buried treasure or hidden traumas: unearthing history brings out the best and worst in all of us.
(What the fuck, you're too young to be so sentimental at your age. You know this, right?)
I'm old enough to know the more pressing issues of life but still too young to be completely rooted in the process. Questions without answers without knowing who or what is testing you; it's a terrifying thing to be involved in. The consequential anxiety derived from this awkward point in my life drifts silently in my conscience mind, with whispers of the precariousness nature of life always shaking my soul, keeping me from sleep. Growing up means recognizing just how infinitesimally small our understanding of life is, how our so-called boundless imaginations cannot even scratch the surface of the underlying tapestry of this world we're bounded to. To be knowledgeable is to realize that essentially you know nothing of the circumstances you're thrown in.
You don't think that's a petty way of looking at things? And even if you were to think in this way then why would you care so much about finding more about this world?
Despite the fact that everything bound by this realization should be rendered small, inconsequential, and especially insignificant I cannot escape the strangle of certain memories of attempting to define the boundaries of my soul; their fingers clasp tightly around the neck of my subconscious. The white light of fires I don't want to revive smolder in the unlit corners of what I believe to be my mind. They are the now incorporeal refuse of a dream that will never substantiate itself, now simply ghosts that dance around the delineation of my nostalgia and regret. I grasp at their ethereal tails only to have them slip between the cracks of my fingers, mocking my very human attempts to confine something much bigger than me. And yet I still try to conquer them so, with the verve of Alexander the Great without realizing that his greatness is simply our own device and creation and in the greater scheme of the universe he is an atom like the rest of us.
So?
So what I'm attempting to get at is that there is something much bigger that seems to propel us through life, some synapse or function within the brain operating ourselves in a machine, a complex to which we as cogs will never be able to fully comprehend. We see our gears rotating, the gears rotating with us, but will we ever see what the heck we're propelling in our efforts? Nope, no, nunca, never. C'est la vie, such is life.
Okay then.
Okay then. Back to the point of this: our pursuits in life are simply attempts at understanding what is what, or deluding us into thinking so. Or maybe it really is a way of comprehending what all of it means. It's the processing of a metonym: using constituents to define the very structure it composes. It's a gigantic jigsaw puzzle where we're using the corner pieces to guess the whole picture, and who the heck knows we may be right. David took down Goliath. Maybe within the puny scopes of our understanding we can define the impossible, who's to say. There's been stranger things in life.
What was my attempt anyway? My alchemy was love, or the defining of, as a means to understand what life was about. It is the will of the youth defy life through transfigurations; it is the will of the old to defy life through acceptance. By attempting to define the question is the route I took; by accepting life as unstable is the act of defiance you took. But back to the topic at hand. I tried so hard to understand her, and I learned a lot about her, but I never really understood the depth of her. I never felt that I really knew the essence of her. What she was continued to elude me constantly.
What was worse still was what I thought would be an anchor to hoist myself down in the chaos of life ended up being unraveling my understanding of self even more. I'd see my reflection in her eyes and obsess over whether it was really "me" talking to her, or the "me" that was just accustomed to her personality. What in turn was supposed to be a process of understanding ended up throwing my perception further into chaos. Trying to soak in the reality of this world only eluded my senses further. I don't understand how someone can define life on such uncertain terms such as love and truth, virtue and meaning.
I think the root of your disillusionment is that you guys didn't end on good terms.
...
...Maybe you shouldn't worry so much.
...
...And try to sleep more.
(notes on a therapy session between a self and his self 10 years into the future)
WHAT UP HOMES I FEEL YOU ON HOW YOU FEEL BUT YOU GOTTA GET OVER IT YA KNOW
Whenever I hear a particular guitar strumming it tends to make the waves in my heart move a little bit stronger and recede a little bit slower, each time its coming and going uncovering more memories I wanted to bury in the sands of forgetfulness. A chord here, a smile there. A strum here, a laugh there. There I am were at my best; thinking back on it makes me feel worse. In a quiet melody I see traces of faint memories I would like to leave behind. Time capsules or disgraced mementos, buried treasure or hidden traumas: unearthing history brings out the best and worst in all of us.
(What the fuck, you're too young to be so sentimental at your age. You know this, right?)
I'm old enough to know the more pressing issues of life but still too young to be completely rooted in the process. Questions without answers without knowing who or what is testing you; it's a terrifying thing to be involved in. The consequential anxiety derived from this awkward point in my life drifts silently in my conscience mind, with whispers of the precariousness nature of life always shaking my soul, keeping me from sleep. Growing up means recognizing just how infinitesimally small our understanding of life is, how our so-called boundless imaginations cannot even scratch the surface of the underlying tapestry of this world we're bounded to. To be knowledgeable is to realize that essentially you know nothing of the circumstances you're thrown in.
You don't think that's a petty way of looking at things? And even if you were to think in this way then why would you care so much about finding more about this world?
Despite the fact that everything bound by this realization should be rendered small, inconsequential, and especially insignificant I cannot escape the strangle of certain memories of attempting to define the boundaries of my soul; their fingers clasp tightly around the neck of my subconscious. The white light of fires I don't want to revive smolder in the unlit corners of what I believe to be my mind. They are the now incorporeal refuse of a dream that will never substantiate itself, now simply ghosts that dance around the delineation of my nostalgia and regret. I grasp at their ethereal tails only to have them slip between the cracks of my fingers, mocking my very human attempts to confine something much bigger than me. And yet I still try to conquer them so, with the verve of Alexander the Great without realizing that his greatness is simply our own device and creation and in the greater scheme of the universe he is an atom like the rest of us.
So?
So what I'm attempting to get at is that there is something much bigger that seems to propel us through life, some synapse or function within the brain operating ourselves in a machine, a complex to which we as cogs will never be able to fully comprehend. We see our gears rotating, the gears rotating with us, but will we ever see what the heck we're propelling in our efforts? Nope, no, nunca, never. C'est la vie, such is life.
Okay then.
Okay then. Back to the point of this: our pursuits in life are simply attempts at understanding what is what, or deluding us into thinking so. Or maybe it really is a way of comprehending what all of it means. It's the processing of a metonym: using constituents to define the very structure it composes. It's a gigantic jigsaw puzzle where we're using the corner pieces to guess the whole picture, and who the heck knows we may be right. David took down Goliath. Maybe within the puny scopes of our understanding we can define the impossible, who's to say. There's been stranger things in life.
What was my attempt anyway? My alchemy was love, or the defining of, as a means to understand what life was about. It is the will of the youth defy life through transfigurations; it is the will of the old to defy life through acceptance. By attempting to define the question is the route I took; by accepting life as unstable is the act of defiance you took. But back to the topic at hand. I tried so hard to understand her, and I learned a lot about her, but I never really understood the depth of her. I never felt that I really knew the essence of her. What she was continued to elude me constantly.
What was worse still was what I thought would be an anchor to hoist myself down in the chaos of life ended up being unraveling my understanding of self even more. I'd see my reflection in her eyes and obsess over whether it was really "me" talking to her, or the "me" that was just accustomed to her personality. What in turn was supposed to be a process of understanding ended up throwing my perception further into chaos. Trying to soak in the reality of this world only eluded my senses further. I don't understand how someone can define life on such uncertain terms such as love and truth, virtue and meaning.
I think the root of your disillusionment is that you guys didn't end on good terms.
...
...Maybe you shouldn't worry so much.
...
...And try to sleep more.
(notes on a therapy session between a self and his self 10 years into the future)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
lol wuzzat
It seems like everyone's getting up while I'm still trying to sleep in. I don't get how everyone can wake up so early either! I keep hearing alarms in my head too, but I haven't felt a particular urgency to answer them until now. It makes me want to hit the snooze button on life. I know that it'll continually ring and I will inevitably wake up. I'll have to answer that ringing in my head eventually. Shuffle out of my bed and take responsibility and seize the day and all that. But dammit, come on. Let me sleep in a little longer. Have you been outside at all? The sun hasn't even risen yet!
Time is ticking, ti-time is ticking ticking, time is ticking, ti-time is ticking away! One year ago I was in fifth grade and committed to getting into Harvard, one month ago I was a junior in high school obsessing over my SATs and trying to get into Northwestern, and one week ago I was ditching all of my obligations to see some girl because I settled on going to UCI. Yesterday I was a starry-eyed freshman amazed at how huge the campus was. And today? I'm a second year stressed on some midterm I'll forget about as soon as I finish taking it.
What the heck happened to you Rante!? At some point in my life, when I listened to bands I loved in high school and realized how shitty they were now, when I decided to reread my favorite novels and realized how boring I found them, when I stopped seeing people from high school because I just didn't get them (and them me) anymore, I changed. I don't want to admit it but I did. I look at old xanga posts and think to myself, "woooow really man. You're such a tool." It seems like I'm lost in transit. Everyone woke up and went to college, everyone boarded the train on time, and everyone is speeding off to the next stage of their lives. And you? You're still trying to rub the drowsiness out of your eyes. Sheesh, get on the ball man.
People have either: A) pursued their subject of study with such a vivacity as meant to accomplish dreams or B) so indulged in the irresponsibility acquired in their high school that college is the catalyst for fucking your life up even more. I shouldn't say either, either. I mean, people don't necessarily fall in one category or the other; there are a bunch of people that fall in the cracks in between, doing a little of both, leaning one way or the other. It's just that category A) and category B) are the most apparent in my scope of vision.
To all those writers and poets and musicians and doctors and lawyers and veterinarians and teachers and all those others involving themselves in a profession that will both fulfill and substantiate their lives, aka those pursuant of a dream:
You bastards! Do you realize how lucky you are?! Be thankful!
I'm sorry. I'm just really jealous.
I figured that if I pursued my interests something would pop up eventually. Out of all the subjects in school, I enjoyed reading and writing the most, so I put two and two together and declared myself an English major. It's not like I have much else. I don't have the patience to commit science to memory, I get my numbers mixed up and can't do the math, and I don't think I'd be able to keep a straight face for social studies. How about a foreign language? Homie I haven't even mastered English yet; why go for a second language when you hardly know the intricacies of the first?
But anyway, with no real plan in my head, I hoped that by following the faint etchings of my major I'd stumble upon something that would bring some definition to my life. As if one day goals and dreams just drop into someone's head and they see their life plans in moments of brilliance. "You mean it's not that easy? Aw, shucks." Perpetual motion is non-existent. There is no such thing as a thing that substantiates itself. For every reaction there is an impetus behind it.
If anything, being an English major has managed to make me worse off. I mean, I still legitimately enjoy what I learn. I don't, however, like my peers. Don't get me wrong, there are definitely great English majors. Nice people. Decent folk. Basically, I'm not saying that every person is reprehensible; it's like life. There's good and bad people. It just seems that in every class I'm stuck with the bad portion of it.
English in UCI, despite the fact that it's nationally ranked, within the single digits, and has prestige in both its staff and its program, is the major within the school with the highest admission rate. It's something that confuses me. With a relatively high number of applicants and a great program, it makes sense that... it'd be less selective than lower ranked schools? But anyway, all of the negative archetypes of people associated with my major are here. There are the people that raise their hands in class to use their desks as podiums, expounding to the professor about their very wrong opinions to practice being the professors they aspire to be, the girls who want to write the next Twilight saga, the smug assholes who describe themselves as well-read and articulate, and of course, the aspiring writers who think themselves akin to Fitzgerald, Faulkner and Steinbeck as they bask in the glory of their latest, masterfully written Star Wars fiction. Watch out America. Your literary landscape is about to be broken with FANFICTION.
Ahem. Excuse me though, that criticism is neither here nor there. I thought I'd find someone that would understand me but so far I haven't. Within a major that loses cultural/social relevance everyday, wouldn't you be more freaked out for your well-being? In a specialization that finds itself increasingly unimportant, wouldn't there be any one person in any of my classes who are as freaked out in life as me in finding a job to anchor some stability on? Apparently not. Everyone seems pretty satisfied with their lot; everyone seems pretty assured that their dreams will work out. I talked to a professor about this, about this mounting crisis of joblessness and futility and whatnot that buzzes incessantly in the back of my mind, and when I told her I was a sophomore, she simply said it was too soon for my to be worrying about all of that.
Is there a specific time when I'm supposed to worry? Am I not old enough to worry, is that it?
Haaaaaaaaah. Maybe I'm taking life too seriously.
Someone told me that as long as I keep my grades up and study hard opportunities will shine like diamonds to me. But will they be the opportunities I want? What the heck DO I want?
When I was 16 all I really wanted in life was to live quietly with a girl I liked in a cozy apartment in the city. After my shitty 9-5 job I'd spend the rest of the day with her cooking, talking, and reading. But that kind of thinking is both naive and foolish, I'd find out later. Later being now. A hah hah.
Hmm. Writing this made me feel better. I feel that it's losing a lot of momentum and I should just let it end early before it crashes. It's kind of aimless, but I hope it was written nicely. What I mean to say is, dreams are very nice things and I really should find one to pursue seriously. I think I'm going to try to invest myself more in English and pursue a master's at the very least. Maybe the stars will align and illuminate the way I'm supposed to go or something, who knows.
Time is ticking, ti-time is ticking ticking, time is ticking, ti-time is ticking away! One year ago I was in fifth grade and committed to getting into Harvard, one month ago I was a junior in high school obsessing over my SATs and trying to get into Northwestern, and one week ago I was ditching all of my obligations to see some girl because I settled on going to UCI. Yesterday I was a starry-eyed freshman amazed at how huge the campus was. And today? I'm a second year stressed on some midterm I'll forget about as soon as I finish taking it.
What the heck happened to you Rante!? At some point in my life, when I listened to bands I loved in high school and realized how shitty they were now, when I decided to reread my favorite novels and realized how boring I found them, when I stopped seeing people from high school because I just didn't get them (and them me) anymore, I changed. I don't want to admit it but I did. I look at old xanga posts and think to myself, "woooow really man. You're such a tool." It seems like I'm lost in transit. Everyone woke up and went to college, everyone boarded the train on time, and everyone is speeding off to the next stage of their lives. And you? You're still trying to rub the drowsiness out of your eyes. Sheesh, get on the ball man.
People have either: A) pursued their subject of study with such a vivacity as meant to accomplish dreams or B) so indulged in the irresponsibility acquired in their high school that college is the catalyst for fucking your life up even more. I shouldn't say either, either. I mean, people don't necessarily fall in one category or the other; there are a bunch of people that fall in the cracks in between, doing a little of both, leaning one way or the other. It's just that category A) and category B) are the most apparent in my scope of vision.
To all those writers and poets and musicians and doctors and lawyers and veterinarians and teachers and all those others involving themselves in a profession that will both fulfill and substantiate their lives, aka those pursuant of a dream:
You bastards! Do you realize how lucky you are?! Be thankful!
I'm sorry. I'm just really jealous.
I figured that if I pursued my interests something would pop up eventually. Out of all the subjects in school, I enjoyed reading and writing the most, so I put two and two together and declared myself an English major. It's not like I have much else. I don't have the patience to commit science to memory, I get my numbers mixed up and can't do the math, and I don't think I'd be able to keep a straight face for social studies. How about a foreign language? Homie I haven't even mastered English yet; why go for a second language when you hardly know the intricacies of the first?
But anyway, with no real plan in my head, I hoped that by following the faint etchings of my major I'd stumble upon something that would bring some definition to my life. As if one day goals and dreams just drop into someone's head and they see their life plans in moments of brilliance. "You mean it's not that easy? Aw, shucks." Perpetual motion is non-existent. There is no such thing as a thing that substantiates itself. For every reaction there is an impetus behind it.
If anything, being an English major has managed to make me worse off. I mean, I still legitimately enjoy what I learn. I don't, however, like my peers. Don't get me wrong, there are definitely great English majors. Nice people. Decent folk. Basically, I'm not saying that every person is reprehensible; it's like life. There's good and bad people. It just seems that in every class I'm stuck with the bad portion of it.
English in UCI, despite the fact that it's nationally ranked, within the single digits, and has prestige in both its staff and its program, is the major within the school with the highest admission rate. It's something that confuses me. With a relatively high number of applicants and a great program, it makes sense that... it'd be less selective than lower ranked schools? But anyway, all of the negative archetypes of people associated with my major are here. There are the people that raise their hands in class to use their desks as podiums, expounding to the professor about their very wrong opinions to practice being the professors they aspire to be, the girls who want to write the next Twilight saga, the smug assholes who describe themselves as well-read and articulate, and of course, the aspiring writers who think themselves akin to Fitzgerald, Faulkner and Steinbeck as they bask in the glory of their latest, masterfully written Star Wars fiction. Watch out America. Your literary landscape is about to be broken with FANFICTION.
Ahem. Excuse me though, that criticism is neither here nor there. I thought I'd find someone that would understand me but so far I haven't. Within a major that loses cultural/social relevance everyday, wouldn't you be more freaked out for your well-being? In a specialization that finds itself increasingly unimportant, wouldn't there be any one person in any of my classes who are as freaked out in life as me in finding a job to anchor some stability on? Apparently not. Everyone seems pretty satisfied with their lot; everyone seems pretty assured that their dreams will work out. I talked to a professor about this, about this mounting crisis of joblessness and futility and whatnot that buzzes incessantly in the back of my mind, and when I told her I was a sophomore, she simply said it was too soon for my to be worrying about all of that.
Is there a specific time when I'm supposed to worry? Am I not old enough to worry, is that it?
Haaaaaaaaah. Maybe I'm taking life too seriously.
Someone told me that as long as I keep my grades up and study hard opportunities will shine like diamonds to me. But will they be the opportunities I want? What the heck DO I want?
When I was 16 all I really wanted in life was to live quietly with a girl I liked in a cozy apartment in the city. After my shitty 9-5 job I'd spend the rest of the day with her cooking, talking, and reading. But that kind of thinking is both naive and foolish, I'd find out later. Later being now. A hah hah.
Hmm. Writing this made me feel better. I feel that it's losing a lot of momentum and I should just let it end early before it crashes. It's kind of aimless, but I hope it was written nicely. What I mean to say is, dreams are very nice things and I really should find one to pursue seriously. I think I'm going to try to invest myself more in English and pursue a master's at the very least. Maybe the stars will align and illuminate the way I'm supposed to go or something, who knows.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
cathartic
Someone once told me that I was a poetic drunk and that I should blog whenever I'm inebriated. Hence, that's how this blog was born. Not to say that I ALWAYS blog drunk; the last time I drank was way back in September, a period of sobriety equivalent to eons considering that I'm a college student. No, when I'm drunk I always tend to expound on things I don't normally talk about, aka my personal problems.
I don't really talking about stuff that concerns me. I mean, I'll complain about work or school or whatever, but the bigger things, the things people would consider as crises in their lives, I tend to keep those to myself. It's more out of politeness and tact than anything else; I mean, no one wants to hear constantly about another person's problems considering that they have their own to deal with. On top of that, it's not like the problem magically goes away when we let it out into the air. If anything, when we talk about it with other people, we're simply letting off a little steam, which will come back eventually, and burdening our patient listener with another concern for us.
So anyway, I tend to keep things that deeply, truly concern me to myself. It sucks, and I definitely know that it's not healthy, which is why I only talk to people I deeply trust about certain things. If I were to put it on levels 1 to 10, I guess the extent that people know about my problems would be about... level 7? Stuff that's sad but not necessarily tragic, stuff that concerns but isn't life ruining. In essence, normal, everyday crises that everyone experiences deeply in their day to day.
Well actually, when I said that I don't want to burden people, that's a lie. I look at people and I suddenly want to stop everything, to try to get them to understand me. I want to let go of everything at once and just have a good conversation with someone. The thing is, I don't really get people. I know this sounds angsty and preteeny or whatever, but it's true. I realize I'm not necessarily someone that can get along with everyone, and I think others can sense that in me. Still though, on another level: I don't want people to know too much about me, because it scares me to know how much someone knows of my vulnerablity.
I tend to get my thoughts organized around writing. I never really wrote this way-memoir style-until I started this blog. Like, I never really committed myself and just myself into writing. You know, instead of trying to establish a narrative and a character and a story, I'm simply unfurling words to reveal me. It's a very cathartic feeling, and it's a lot less stressful than writing fiction. For one thing, I'm less concerned about diction and syntax; why would you care about organization when all you're doing is transferring your literal thoughts onto paper? For another thing, there's no finer details to concern myself with; I'm just writing. It's like talking to my screen: spontaneous and easy.
That's why I feel like more of me comes out when I write. It's like I'm talking to myself. I know that this blog is public, and that anyone can stumble upon it and see me vent me out without concern for anyone else. I even know that some of my friends may be following this because it's under my links on facebook (hi friends!). But at the same time, it still doesn't take away its appeal. It's like shouting your secrets from the top of a tall mountain: it echoes everywhere and you can't stop anyone from hearing it, but you still really want to do it anyway.
Not to say that I'm going to unveil everything, but just enough to make me a functioning member of society. You know, a normal person (ish...). I don't really know what I'm talking about. Do you? I'm just saying, when I get all of this out it feels nice.
I don't really talking about stuff that concerns me. I mean, I'll complain about work or school or whatever, but the bigger things, the things people would consider as crises in their lives, I tend to keep those to myself. It's more out of politeness and tact than anything else; I mean, no one wants to hear constantly about another person's problems considering that they have their own to deal with. On top of that, it's not like the problem magically goes away when we let it out into the air. If anything, when we talk about it with other people, we're simply letting off a little steam, which will come back eventually, and burdening our patient listener with another concern for us.
So anyway, I tend to keep things that deeply, truly concern me to myself. It sucks, and I definitely know that it's not healthy, which is why I only talk to people I deeply trust about certain things. If I were to put it on levels 1 to 10, I guess the extent that people know about my problems would be about... level 7? Stuff that's sad but not necessarily tragic, stuff that concerns but isn't life ruining. In essence, normal, everyday crises that everyone experiences deeply in their day to day.
Well actually, when I said that I don't want to burden people, that's a lie. I look at people and I suddenly want to stop everything, to try to get them to understand me. I want to let go of everything at once and just have a good conversation with someone. The thing is, I don't really get people. I know this sounds angsty and preteeny or whatever, but it's true. I realize I'm not necessarily someone that can get along with everyone, and I think others can sense that in me. Still though, on another level: I don't want people to know too much about me, because it scares me to know how much someone knows of my vulnerablity.
I tend to get my thoughts organized around writing. I never really wrote this way-memoir style-until I started this blog. Like, I never really committed myself and just myself into writing. You know, instead of trying to establish a narrative and a character and a story, I'm simply unfurling words to reveal me. It's a very cathartic feeling, and it's a lot less stressful than writing fiction. For one thing, I'm less concerned about diction and syntax; why would you care about organization when all you're doing is transferring your literal thoughts onto paper? For another thing, there's no finer details to concern myself with; I'm just writing. It's like talking to my screen: spontaneous and easy.
That's why I feel like more of me comes out when I write. It's like I'm talking to myself. I know that this blog is public, and that anyone can stumble upon it and see me vent me out without concern for anyone else. I even know that some of my friends may be following this because it's under my links on facebook (hi friends!). But at the same time, it still doesn't take away its appeal. It's like shouting your secrets from the top of a tall mountain: it echoes everywhere and you can't stop anyone from hearing it, but you still really want to do it anyway.
Not to say that I'm going to unveil everything, but just enough to make me a functioning member of society. You know, a normal person (ish...). I don't really know what I'm talking about. Do you? I'm just saying, when I get all of this out it feels nice.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
today i made
Today I made a pulled pork burrito with roasted potatoes. The pork was seasoned with salt and paper, and stewed in the slow cooker with chipotle sauce and jalepenos for eight hours. After that, I shredded it and sat it in the slow cooker for another 15 minutes. I diced cilantro and onion and put them along with the shredded pork into two tortillas. I topped it off with a knockoff of the lava sauce from taco bell: nacho sauce made from sharp cheddar, flour, and milk, then stirred in cayenne pepper, Louisiana hot sauce, and siracha. I then heated up the frying pan to toast both sides of the burrito.
I also made roasted potatoes, which I seasoned with cajun seasoning, pepper, and garlic powder. I stuck it in the oven for 30 minutes at 440 degrees.
I fucked up the cheese though. I added too much milk so a lot of the bite and flavor were lost. It's not bad though, you can still taste a little heat on it. I really like cooking a lot; I hope to make people happy with it. I won't pursue a full-on professional job with it or whatever, but I'm living with a bunch of friends in Irvine next year, so if I can make them say "DANG THAT'S GOOD" I'll be happy. :D
I still have like a dozen articles I need to finish on this thing. Dang.
On another note I can eat cilantro raw. I wish there were cilantro chips OH WAIT YOU CAN MAKE THEM.
I also made roasted potatoes, which I seasoned with cajun seasoning, pepper, and garlic powder. I stuck it in the oven for 30 minutes at 440 degrees.
I fucked up the cheese though. I added too much milk so a lot of the bite and flavor were lost. It's not bad though, you can still taste a little heat on it. I really like cooking a lot; I hope to make people happy with it. I won't pursue a full-on professional job with it or whatever, but I'm living with a bunch of friends in Irvine next year, so if I can make them say "DANG THAT'S GOOD" I'll be happy. :D
I still have like a dozen articles I need to finish on this thing. Dang.
On another note I can eat cilantro raw. I wish there were cilantro chips OH WAIT YOU CAN MAKE THEM.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
lack of sleep causes:
I can't sleep very well anymore. When one is derived of sleep the world tends to shift in interesting ways. Or maybe it's just my particular senses or something.
Colors tend to dull. The clouding around my eyes makes colors a shade or two less. It's like messing up the tint of a tv dial: everything looks a little bit more washed out, like it faded through a washing machine or something.
Light. Light is much, much sharper. The sun gleams like daggers and casts it's horrible, horrible rays across everything outside. I try to stay inside as much as I can when I don't get enough sleep. I think it might just be psychological though; like, the sun is a process that reminds me of my lack of sleep, therefore, it drives me to go inside and sleep.
Music is a lot richer, if for the sole fact that it distracts my mind from sleep and keeps me awake. Try listening to your favorite CDs sleep deprived, it's cool. The sounds tend to make themselves more apparent when you're on the brink of collapse.
My brain races wildly, constantly thinking, simply because if I cease to think I'll go to sleep. And I can't really sleep right now.
However, because my brain is so active, it tends to fuel my paranoia as well. All of my interactions become much more frantic as my mind analyzes everything in seconds. Every minuscule gesture is something to find meaning in.
My fingers move faster, so typing is a breeze.
My eyes dart faster, so I read faster. Processing, however, is the eventual pratfall; I can't maintain everything in my long-term memory.
I sit more awkwardly. I hunch up even more than I thought possible. Craaaazy.
Colors tend to dull. The clouding around my eyes makes colors a shade or two less. It's like messing up the tint of a tv dial: everything looks a little bit more washed out, like it faded through a washing machine or something.
Light. Light is much, much sharper. The sun gleams like daggers and casts it's horrible, horrible rays across everything outside. I try to stay inside as much as I can when I don't get enough sleep. I think it might just be psychological though; like, the sun is a process that reminds me of my lack of sleep, therefore, it drives me to go inside and sleep.
Music is a lot richer, if for the sole fact that it distracts my mind from sleep and keeps me awake. Try listening to your favorite CDs sleep deprived, it's cool. The sounds tend to make themselves more apparent when you're on the brink of collapse.
My brain races wildly, constantly thinking, simply because if I cease to think I'll go to sleep. And I can't really sleep right now.
However, because my brain is so active, it tends to fuel my paranoia as well. All of my interactions become much more frantic as my mind analyzes everything in seconds. Every minuscule gesture is something to find meaning in.
My fingers move faster, so typing is a breeze.
My eyes dart faster, so I read faster. Processing, however, is the eventual pratfall; I can't maintain everything in my long-term memory.
I sit more awkwardly. I hunch up even more than I thought possible. Craaaazy.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
ehh
I'm 19 tracks into the discography of Asian Kung-Fu generation, and I'm liking it a lot so far. It's been awhile since I've listened to this kind of sound. You know, instead of those gentle indie rockers or hip-hop artists or soft-spoken bands or whatever. You know, a real band. With traditional guitars and drums and that frantic sound achieved only when you're playing out of a garage or while you're in college struggling to make a band while attaining your communications degree.
It's a very rough sound. It reminds me of high school, when I'd spend hours in my room just listening to alt. rock and emo and stuff. I'd spend hours with Pinkerton on repeat, staring at the ceiling and wanting my homework to do itself. I'd play The Matches when I was waiting for the bus to come. It was all just noise, noise, noise. I'm pretty sure that I can attribute my lack of hearing to this particular genre.
During spring break I took my old cds and listened to them again. It was weird because I was using an old disc-player I haven't touched in years, and I was listening to cds, which I haven't used in years. It was an interesting experience, seeing some of my songs inspire a nostalgia in me, and others... well, I didn't have the best musical taste back then.
When I was younger all I wanted to do was write in my room and listen to music all the time. But the me now realizes that can't happen, or if it were, it'd be very hard. Attaining good grades, recommendations, internships, graduate schools, and the money for affording such ventures... it seems that I've been straddled with a lot of responsibility lately. Sometimes I miss being young, back when there wasn't any pressure, when you didn't have to look out at the horizon simply because every day was the same.
on another note I'm kind of addicted to bean paste nowadays.
I need to start listening to rock again.
It's a very rough sound. It reminds me of high school, when I'd spend hours in my room just listening to alt. rock and emo and stuff. I'd spend hours with Pinkerton on repeat, staring at the ceiling and wanting my homework to do itself. I'd play The Matches when I was waiting for the bus to come. It was all just noise, noise, noise. I'm pretty sure that I can attribute my lack of hearing to this particular genre.
During spring break I took my old cds and listened to them again. It was weird because I was using an old disc-player I haven't touched in years, and I was listening to cds, which I haven't used in years. It was an interesting experience, seeing some of my songs inspire a nostalgia in me, and others... well, I didn't have the best musical taste back then.
When I was younger all I wanted to do was write in my room and listen to music all the time. But the me now realizes that can't happen, or if it were, it'd be very hard. Attaining good grades, recommendations, internships, graduate schools, and the money for affording such ventures... it seems that I've been straddled with a lot of responsibility lately. Sometimes I miss being young, back when there wasn't any pressure, when you didn't have to look out at the horizon simply because every day was the same.
on another note I'm kind of addicted to bean paste nowadays.
I need to start listening to rock again.
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