Lately I’ve just been feeling so sad.
I just feel so fearful and small all the time. I absolutely dread the upcoming week. I need to calm down and just take one day at a time. I need to. But I just can’t and I feel so pathetic. I’m so sad and I’m so scared.  I feel helpless. I’m driven into anxiety attacks, fits of terror, when my mind wanders even a little. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to express a sadness that bullies me into silence.

English 229e

So I’m supposed to be giving an oral presentation today about propaganda to the beloved Doctor Ian Hill and his subordinates (the rest of the class), but I woke up to a whirlwind of snow and Vancouver’s Transit incompetence. So now, I’m sipping some coffee at cafe Artigiano, and I don’t really know what to do with myself.

I really want to give my presentation today. I absolutely dreaded it the entire week, (hell, even the first day I signed up), but now that I’ve mentally prepared myself for a full month and the oral isn’t happening, I feel like I’m a Wacky Inflatable Tube Man that lost willpower and is now just a Wacky (wo)man with no inflation.
I emailed my professor and told him that I’m immobile in 1 inch of snow and knee-deep in disappointment, and that I won’t make it. He responded in 000.2 milliseconds with a very kind “Understood. Good luck”.
I told my friend to Skype me in class and blow my face up on the projector so I can do my oral presentation. I don’t care– I stayed up all night, shaking in fear and muttering the first 3 lines of my presentation over and over again to imprint it in my mind. I will– absolutely must– deliver my oral.
Of course, it’s not gonna happen. But in the off chance that it does, the students and homie Doctor Ian Hill will probably just hear the cranking of coffee machines and other miserable people in the background.
I was lining up for the bus for maybe 40 minutes. A dozen other people stood out there with me, pale faced, in solidarity. A hoard of people then appeared from behind the hill and told us, “Bus ain’t coming. Stuck on the hill somewhere near Fraser”. And so, some people rolled their eyes, some marched on to catch another bus, and there was me and some other dude that looked at each other and said “I’m not walking to UBC”. And here I am now.
I look outside the window and see the few old Chinese ladies that waited with me for 40 minutes at the bus stop. All the others have left, but there they are: stout and eager, holding bags of groceries under their pretty umbrellas. I feel pride and warmth in me when I see them. It’s just a feel-good sight.

Anyway, I’m just gonna chill here for the while.
Thanks for reading, if you did. I just wanted to rant about the funny things in life.

mushy mind

I feel like my mind is just getting kinda mushy.

Articulation is hard.  I don’t remember specific words anymore, so I grasp for broad ones that don’t necessarily fit the context. I don’t know how to express things. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m trying to express– I just know that I don’t know how to but I’m still trying.
Memorization is hard. I will turn a page and not remember what I just read. I will try to duplicate a formula I used seconds ago, and won’t remember what I wrote.

I feel like there is a block in my head. There is something that is blocking my thoughts, my intelligence, my zeal for things. I’m like a Google search that never loads because the WiFi is shit and then I get frustrated because sometimes I’m convinced that the WiFi (or whatever I’m blaming my slow brain processing on) isn’t the problem, but that I’m just stupid.
It feels like the time I had a concussion and my head just couldn’t consume or output anything. But I don’t have a concussion right now and I think that’s even worse.

My mind is becoming mush and I don’t like it. I feel really bad.


Edit: I feel like this



I take out a sweater and a pair of sweatpants.
I love how worn the sweater is. I like how soft it has become, how the smell of my home is woven into its thinned and yellowed fabric. I love how it is so big, and protects my small body.

I look at them for a long time.

The rising sun, the crescendo of traffic, the bus I always take at 8:44AM, presses me to hurry, but I just can’t stop staring.

Would I look too much like a slouch? Will people think I’m ugly? These pants and this sweater are both grey in colour; I’ll look like I’m wearing pajamas.
These sweats are so old. Threads are coming out like fallen hairs. This sweater is too big.

I blink, and finally let go of my breath.
I put away the sweater– tuck it into the far back of the drawer.
I pull out a newer top.
It doesn’t hug me the way my old sweater does, like kind arms that mould themselves to fit my comfort. Instead, it is tight. It is unforgiving of my hunch, and warps my body to fit its own curves.
I look better this way, I think.
Though, it makes my skin itch the whole day.

I see my friend today.
She is wearing shiny, black shoes that go click and clack when she strides. She is in fitted jeans cuffed perfectly at her ankles. She wears a long, creamy coat. Light in colour as it is, she has somehow kept it spotless.
My eyes drift down at my clothes.
I should have put away these sweatpants too, I think.

I walk on, the rain darkening my shoes, my head a little lower.



Why is it even a word? When do people ever use it? And if you do, please, tell me why?
It’s more of an onomatopoeia, I think– an imitative word for the sound of coarse laughter, so Google says.

When I hear or see the word guffaw, in my head there is a resonating guffaw-haw-haw-haw!
I hear a woman, her skin powdered plenty so her pale skin has made her pallid. She has thin, bleached-yellow hair, curled to the crisp. Long necklaces of pearls drawl over her sagging breasts, and the collar of her dress is low, revealing her wrinkly, prune-like chest. She fans herself, not necessarily in need of a fanning, but more for the aesthetics and to show off how ‘diversely cultured’ she is as she flaunts to those around her that the fan has the ‘Chinese styled colours and printings’ sewn in the fabric. Now imagine her in a pub, standing out, a glimmering fool, against the brownness of the place. She’s there for the men, but not to find one to sleep with, but to find joy and pride in the juxtaposition of her life and theirs. She guffaws, Guffaw-haw-haw-haw! full and bellowing, driving the drunk men around her into a sad and annoying sobriety.