Planty

I did not expect, in the heart of a city, to foster some greenery of my own, yet I visit the rooftop deck of my house nearly daily to tend to six lil plants.

I have basil, lavender, chives, oregano, and a mini sunflower.  More practical than flora I used to take care of back in suburbia.  Purchased as teenage seedlings from the farmers market.  I’m not much of a chef myself, but my housemates have used my basil for dishes like lasagna.  It delights me to be useful. Continue reading

Traveling Solo

Amsterdam, Netherlands

The door’s bell tinkled as I entered the red-painted restaurant, and the waitress caught my wide-eyed look. “You can have the corner if you’d like,” she said, directing me to far right.

Feeling special, I walked over and sat at an embroidered stool.  The tiny counter was attached to a wide window overlooking a castle-like building, some boutiques, and a wheelbarrow full of flowers.  There were salt and pepper shakers and a bowl of rock salt on the counter.  But I am not special; I’m just traveling alone.  Continue reading

Monthly Me (June ’17)

June, a landmark month in many ways: it was my first time I was responsible for my own rent, food, and employment.  Adulting is hard!  I spent most of the month merely adjusting to the new independence.  I’ve enjoyed myself immensely, but I’ve also already learned a lot within these few weeks.

Continue reading

Souvenirs

Hello!  Welcome to my first blog post about my May trip to Amsterdam/Budapest/Spain.

In this incredible vacation, I collected mementos very lightly, but mostly because I was so concentrated on living in the moment.  In many ways, this was my first travel experience as an independent adult, so there was a lot to relish at the time.

Still, I picked up a few things to remember this special trip by.

20170603_015409640_iOS

Continue reading

a dark side of journaling

I reread some of my old journal entries from last semester, and the intensity of my preserved feelings shocked me.   They were so raw, uncensored, intimate.

My journal entries are startlingly frank because they hold nothing back: as my private outlet, there’s no self-consciousness for conventions or melodrama.  So there’s something terrifyingly real about them.  It’s like I dipped my heart in ink and rolled it around the pages, and the imprints are just as fresh and poignant as if written yesterday.

For the first time, I wished that I hadn’t amberized that time in my life.   Continue reading

Emotional Containers

This past semester, I felt locked in a post-you era.  Even though, after you said those fateful words — “I’m not looking for a relationship” — I stopped liking you and even stopped hurting for you, I failed to restart, like some stuttering obsolete computer.   I felt like I couldn’t, not without some sort of signal to transition.  I wanted to flip over the page to the next chapter of my life, but it felt like the same chapter kept going on and on — even though different stuff started happening, even though you stopped being a character.  I guess I wanted to look up at the night sky and see the stars aligned in the words: THE END.  I wanted a sign.

But now, the semester is over.  There is no boundary as definitive as the beginning of sweet summer.  I brush the dust of you and my leftover feelings into the container called Freshman Year and seal it off for good. Continue reading

Summer Plans

Hey!  Some exciting announcements.

After my last final exam of freshman year (!!!), I’m flying straight to Amsterdam to visit my sister, who works there.  Then I think we’re visiting Budapest and a few other places before meeting my parents in Spain.  We’re seeing Madrid, Seville, Granada and Barcelona.   Continue reading

Oyster and Balloon

It was a late college night, and a girl and a boy and I were sitting around a table talking about feelings.

“That’s why I prefer more open guys,” I said to Fiona, shaking my head.  “Like, so many guys are emotional clams: you always have to fuckin’ rip them open just to talk.”  I aggressively mimed an invisible round oyster in one hand and a knife in the other.  “I can’t spend time forcing people to open up.  My arm gets tired.” Continue reading