we didn’t even know her really we just had her name
she giggled like she thought the whole affair was still a game
hiding from the world inside the playground bathroom stall
a beautiful disaster, we couldn’t just let her fall
didn’t owe her anything, we could’ve let her go
now all the vodka in the world cannot change what we know

he told her let’s be reckless but she just couldn’t agree
not if reckless made her someone that she didn’t want to be
not when reckless smelled like poison, toxic axe sprayed in his mouth
she didn’t know if he would live to spit the reckless out
from that day on she knew she would never forget the smell
the reckless scent of stories she could never bear to tell.

TOPIC OF THE DAY : SEX

I can think of three negative angles from which to write about sex. Off the top of my head. Immediately.

The first – medical consequences. Teenage pregnancy. STDs. When was the last time a teenager heard something good about sex from someone other than a “worldly” older teenager who walked with that been-there-done-that air, the one which the virgins envied and figured they’d never attain?
Second – the unwanted. The risk of that baby, that huge responsibility, that living, breathing, permanent reminder of that one encounter with that one other guy or girl… and what about the babies? What if some, realizing how unplanned and unwanted they were, end up wishing they never occurred in the first place; not even a happy accident, just an accident?
Third – emotional anxiety. We spend all our teenage lives hearing about the consequences of sex; that the first time should be special, that we have to choose that first person very carefully, that it opens us up in a raw, new way, forming an emotional connection that’s very difficult to reverse. There are so many things that could go wrong, really, so many ways to lose control, it’s as if the general adult populace wants us all to become nuns or feel so restricted that we bust out into full-on Playboy bunny gear.
Wouldn’t sex be a little easier to deal with, a little less feared, if it was less taboo?

After all, isn’t sex the reason we’re all here? When was the last thing a teenager heard something positive about sex? Why do adults discuss it in hushed tones around us, with furtive glances over their shoulders and constant watch over the TV channels we check out when they’re gone, the websites we visit… what is the big deal, really, when we have hormones and we’re young and we were born and bred with a natural need to reproduce?

Yes, I believe by now that we all understand the dangers sex can produce for us. The constant drills of health classes and HIV/AIDS awareness days, the watchful eyes and looming consciences of our parents… But, if you think about it carefully, sex, like everything else, is a mix of good and bad. Positive and negative. The adults seem to know it. So why are they so determined that we don’t find out? Isn’t it a given that we will? And wouldn’t it be better coming from them than, say, some older friend, that friend with the mystery of someone who’s done something you haven’t, who makes it seem like if you do it you can get that too? And all of a sudden you’re so very sick of hearing the voices in your head. Be good. Hold back. Pregnant. AIDS. Consequence. All that matters is what your body wants and your mind shuts down, as it was programmed to do for centuries—millenia, even—as your instincts take over and your hormones do the talking.

All of you over the age of 27 need to loosen up, before your constant preaching about the consequences you worry over become the trigger for those consequences to be brought upon your children and the children you mentor, those who look up to you. Sex, like learning to walk, talk, laugh… is inevitable. Consider it a passing of age, really. Equip those around you to be ready for it. Warn them against it. Even repeat the warnings a few times every now and then. But don’t surround it with stop signs and strips of caution tape—because all that makes us want to do is break through them.

It was fabulous.
The skirt was a dressing room experiment, a small neon purple square of impossible on the hanger that was so “LOOK-AT-ME” that my born-again singleton couldn’t possibly resist. It was hard to believe it was designed to fit over anyone’s ass when it could barely provide enough fabric for the hanger. Of course I had to try it.
You know those pieces from Loehmann’s and Filene’s Basement that look either really bad or really crazy on the racks but just go bam on your body?
This was one of them.
It was my adolescent life’s first shopping trip of singledom and I was determined for the purchases to show it. American Apparel wasn’t even part of the route. It was a just-in-case, a what-if-there’s-something-wild… “Get it,” said Arielle. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was a command. And the skirt was echoing it at an even louder decibel.
20 city blocks worth of stores, 3 hours, and 40 blocks of walking later, returned to American Apparel and bought the skirt. Why not? It made my legs look like the center of the universe in the cracked dressing room mirror and it was so loud it might as well have had “FREEDOM” spray-painted on the butt in bubble letters. Best part?
It, like the single life, was now mine.

All we can do is try, day to day, moment to moment. To believe without bleeding, to fight without losing our way, to make it to somewhere worthwhile. It’s not that easy, and we’re not perfect. We’ll screw up, we’ll fall short.

Please, if you see this, cut us some slack. Cut everyone some slack. Especially yourself. We’re all still young in that we’re all searching for something to believe in and the only thing we can do about that is try our best, even if it’s not that great.

You’re not alone. It’s all the same underneath.
Take a step back, let yourself breathe. It’s okay.

Tyler came back on August 3rd. August 5th, I saw him for the first time all summer. There were still sparkles on his backpack from my skin, even though it was three months after I’d fallen asleep on it in the back of a biology classroom.

When I woke up that morning, each individual limb felt like a geometry textbook–heavy, useless, and completely not worth the effort it would take to drag it around. I nearly lost my right contact and didn’t even have time to make coffee to nurse my insomnia hangover. My mind was a haze and I could not remember what happened the evening before, only that it had resulted in getting five hours of sleep on a summer night. Life was a mess. I was a mess. I had too much baggage and too little space.

You know how you take comfort, during the craziest times in your life, in the thought that you’re alone in your confusion? That your friends are leading stable, familiar lives back home, and will be there for you to return to?
It never works out that way. At least, it didn’t for us.

We swapped a glass full of milk chocolate granita almost as fast as we swapped secrets, skipping from faraway Europe to life stateside in a matter of seconds. The phrase “and I thought I had it bad” soon became overused. Almost three hours of nonstop talking had occurred before a massive helping of sugar-coma-in-a-bowl shut us both up.

On the way home, we applauded random passersby in the 42nd Street subway station, paying particular attention to uptight pricks in Brooks Brothers business suits with too much in their briefcases and too little time. On the E train, we hopped from one car to the next every time it stopped, dreaming of mayhem worthy of the Step Up 2 opening dance sequence. Switching to the 7 train, I tried to have a normal conversation with him while fully aware that he’d constructed a shirt penis and belted his backpack to his pants.

This is the guy I trust with everything?

But of course.

About a month and a half into summer and the only thing that turned out as planned was that we changed. Apart. Yet still in the same direction, ending up in the same place. Which, when it comes to people you care about, is the biggest stroke of luck you can hope for.
We didn’t have any answers after the day was done. Hell, we had more questions. But it didn’t matter, because we had the real answer, the one to the question neither of us needed to ask. And because of that one answer, we believed that all the other things would eventually make perfect sense.
The answer? No matter what happened, we would have each other’s back.

At the start of the day, tomorrow in its uncertainty was bleak and terrifying. At the end, it looked promising, every possibility breathing mischief; because you know what your life boils down to, every time, every tragedy?

Your friends.

Welcome home, Tyler!
I think the city missed you almost as much as I did.

Would you rather have loved and lost or never loved at all?

Then – why?!

R+R ; by that, I mean read and respond. It’ll only cost you a minute, and 60 seconds of writing (loved and lost ? never loved at all? why?) may change someone else’s outlook.

Examples from others –
1. Never Loved At All …
… because the pain is not worth what you might have learned from it
2. Loved and Lost…
… because at least you can say you tried. 

I don’t know what I believe. My count is zero.
Convince me.

LOVED AND LOST : 0

NEVER LOVED AT ALL : 0

- flurry of text messages
- failed opportunity
- pair of bored teenagers
- replacement
- walk across a bridge
- decision or lack thereof
- day
- change of plan
- conversation
- step back

… later, the future is shifting all over again — in directions that I still can’t anticipate but am not afraid of. It’s a relief, really.

One or two days ago (one or two nights, really; recently my life has been more a series of nights than of days, beginning at 3 pm and ending at 5 am), I faced a decision that had the potential to significantly change the lives of a handful of people. Potential, mind, not guarantee. But even sans guarantee, the prospects of being able to make that big of a difference were so fucking terrifying I literally could not make the decision. The present was hazy. The future was hazier. The past was not too hazy to understand, but it was too hazy for me to want to understand it. And regardless of what I’d learned in the past few months, all of it in all its extremes, that’s just it — I learned the extremes. I did not –  do not –  know how to recognize middle ground. Where’s the line between my fear and my logic? Are there more reasons to say no than the burning humiliation of a rejected yes?

You’d think this is something that would take time to understand. But I didn’t have time. On August 9th, I’m leaving for liberation; to be technical, a beach house, but to be truthful, a chance at freedom. Freedom from my consequences, not my regrets, but even without the regrets I still want it.
This is a blessing and a curse.
Blessing? A crapload of opportunities to do things and say things and finish things I would normally leave as is, because I have a way out. Curse? Same opportunities. To take or not to take?

The first decision had a deadline. The extension of that deadline due to the failure of my original plans for today and the plans that took its place killed the need to make the decision, but no sooner was one dilemma dead than the other was born ; those new doors really do open when the ones down the hall are closed. Actually, scratch that — the doors to the first dilemma weren’t even closed when the second ones opened, so now I had two sets of entrances, two directions, four possibilities. One shot.
What did I do with it?
Nothing. I didn’t.

I stepped back.

The doors slammed shut.
Life looked manageable and ordinary.
But just as my subconscious was making that tough choice between relief and regret…

A third pair of doors swung open, when I wasn’t even looking, and unlike the previous two, this one doesn’t scare me.
A reward? A reassurance? Whatever it is, it proves life still is not that easy, not black and white, scared and not scared. This should probably be sobering. It will be, I think; at some point (knowing life, some point soon) I will look back wishing it was really a matter of fighting only fear, letting it win or beating it. But if tonight proved anything to me, it is that there is more, always more, even (or perhaps especially) when you settle for less. Particularly if settling means throwing the ball in someone else’s court. Who says I have to make the move all the damn time? What if an opportunity I pass up means an opening for someone else? What if there’s something to learn from saying no that I would never discover by saying yes? What if not knowing what I want means I’ll be okay with more than one outcome? What if, by stepping back, I give others the opportunity to step forward and find that they’re meeting me halfway; that we all wanted the same things, all along?

What if, in my determination to make things happen, I miss things that are already happening? Situations that I couldn’t possibly think of but situations that I like and– the best part– are right. in. front. of. me?
Hey, not everyone is worth the price of yes.

So maybe I learned to take control of life for the first time.
Now, I have to remember that when life takes control back, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to suck.

See, that’s the part that I don’t know anymore.

Once upon a time, my life felt like it sucked. It didn’t. But it felt like it did. Except for that one thing I had which no one else did–love, love, love, love, looooooove.
Bullshit.
I don’t know anymore. Don’t know if I was ever actually in love. Don’t know what I believe about love, about now vs. later, fine vs. extraordinary. Short-term, long-term, my pursuit of happiness. The one thing I thought I had is the one thing I now believe that I don’t. I don’t know anything about love, really, and–let’s face it–who does?

But you know what I do know?

I know consequences are better than regrets. I know the sound the city makes when they open the lawn in Bryant Park during summer movie nights. I know what it feels like to kiss someone with the sun in your eyes. I know the way time freezes when you jump without looking, almost completely certain that you will fall on your ass–but you do it anyway because god, what if there’s that one small chance that you’ll be able to fly? I know what it feels like not to pass it up. I know I’m one terror-stricken step closer to victory because I have finally dared to fight fear. I know failure. I know the taste of teenage passion. I know the way he looked at me. I know the mortification mixed with relief that comes the next morning when you remember what you said last night. I know what it means to want more. I know what it means to live for now and not for later. I know tomorrow is a gift. I know what it is to give up a good thing because there just might be a great thing, even if sometimes there isn’t. I know adrenaline, I know crash, I know burn.

I know not knowing is worse than a no. I know the lyrics to my heartbreak. I know what it means to take a chance–because you’re afraid opportunity only knocks once, more afraid than you are of the risk that comes with it. I know the release that only comes with truth. I know the space outside the box, the world outside my comfort zone. I know consequence, I know rejection. I know how vivid everything becomes when I breathe life into the words I used to write. I know despair, I know betrayal, I know what it means not to sing alone. I know the hand of a beautiful stranger. I know the world isn’t fair and we can’t change that, but we can change whether we have to go through it alone. I know what it means to have secrets worth keeping. I know when you don’t love too much, you don’t love enough. I know wrong. I know wild. I know instinct. I know fear, but I know courage… I know pain, but I know life. I don’t have any more of my shit together than I did in March — if anything, my life is twice as chaotic and three times as exhilarating. So, in a strange way, I have it all figured out.

I’m still in love.

I’m not in love with a guy. Not you of my dreams, or you of my nightmares, or you of my past, or you of my future, or you of my late-night secrets or you of my poetry or you of my songs ; I’m not in love with any of you.
I’m in love with my life.

That is the one thing about me that has always been the same — my capacity to love. I do it all wrong, all reckless and all emotion and all music and too much and too stupid but I do it and I do it with every single fiber of my being.
Once, I was afraid to live.
But I was never, have never, will never be afraid to love.

Internet, I hope you’re happy to see me. But even if you aren’t, I’m not going to shut up.
Why? Fuck, it’s easy. Because I no longer care if what I have to say is stupid.
I don’t write to sound perfect.
I write to sound human.

Congratulations. You’re 15.
And you didn’t even realize it until you saw your Facebook notifications. How pathetic.

Soundtrack to the Day:
Living on a Prayer – Bon Jovi
The Dynamo of Volition – Jason Mraz
Viva la Vida – Coldplay
Livin’ la Vida Loca – Ricky Martin
Unwritten – Natasha Bedingfield

It’s 1:09 AM, which really shouldn’t strike you as a surprise, although when you look back on this you should smack yourself–because, hopefully, you will never be this tired again. (What a lovely and therefore unrealistic thought.) You are up because you over-tampered with an iPhone you meant to use as an iPod touch, a direct result of losing your OWN damn iPod nano for the 3rd time. Allow me to repeat that you are pathetic, particularly since you were so engulfed in your three hours of hacking attempts that you failed to notice when the clock struck twelve. No wonder you were an anti-princess for Halloween; you totally lack the Cinderella instinct.

Despite these tremendously irritating setbacks and the heavy weight of my eyelids, the last day of your 14th year was a good one. Though the first few bands were relatively unremarkable, Jane gave you a balloon (and three delicious types of lotion from Bath + Body Works, one of which I just rubbed obsessively onto my already moist hands) during lunch that had you fielding “Happy birthday”s all the way till 3:50, when you were released early from bio lab. It’s not like this helped, considering you meandered around the lockers hitting people with aforementioned balloon and waiting for Laurie.

Kari Wei-Tu believes in love. love. love. love. love. love. [six times]

Aminah. Laurie. Melany. Stephanie. Ivy. Max.

♥

♥

♥

♥

♥

♥

It was held at Mulan, in the ‘FIRE’ room, with blaring karaoke that carried us effortlessly through two lovely hours. On the way there, you had inappropriate conversations with badly masked sexual innuendos in a crowded bus where, according to Max, “for every perosn that disappeared two more popped up”. It made him angry.
Laurie also happened to chose to sit next to this ridiculously gorgeous guy that appeared to be our age and was wearing a red hoodie. Considering your temporarily disbanded and dysfunctional Y-radar (you know, Y for Y chromosone), you did not notice him until you saw him shooting us looks of amusement; after all, you and your party WERE discussing everything from incest to shirts that exposed too much non-cleavage to Kaplan books right in front of his face. You wanted to talk to him, simply because he was hot and he looked like he could take a joke. So, eventually, you did.
And he could.
On the way out of the bus, you uncharacteristically mustered up the balls to take a parting shot as he turned. “Hope we didn’t creep you out too much.” The momentary silence that followed gave you a second-long impression that he hadn’t heard before he slowed down, as if he’d just realized you’d been speaking to him (which he probably had), and laughed before walking away.
Pandemonium ensued. Aminah and Melany stalked him for about three blocks to Stephanie’s angelic chagrin before we frogmarched them in the direction of the restaurant. “YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND,” you said very loudly to Aminah, not quite if the words were directed more towards her or towards yourself. “YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND AND HE LOVES YOU.”
“But I love that guy back there,” she complained convincingly. You threw an affectionate arm around her. Oh, humans. A cute guy shoots us a smile and we’re half in love with him by the time the smile goes away. “You spoke to him? Did he have a sexy voice?” “He had a sexy laugh, at least.” “Ohhh, baby.”
Later that night, you pondered the irony that this stranger who laughed at your attempt to be witty interacted more with you in those fleeting nanoseconds than your boyfriend did all day.

We sang–a lot. We danced. We stole things; like friendships and strawberries and numbers and vocal chords and calamari and pride. Laurie gave me the CD “We Sing. We Dance. We Steal Things.” by Jason Mraz. You, in particular, stole a lot of love, from the moment Janie handed you that balloon to the moment you clambered back into the car from the chilly cold in Howard Beach, three doors away from Stephanie. What a night it was.

So. You’re 15. You have no idea what to do with your life, a point which was further accentuated when you were asked that very question in the car. You don’t even know your first marking period average and you hate math too much to try and calculate. You hit a stable 97 lbs on the scale today but it could be back up to triple-digits tomorrow. You can’t kick a soccer ball in the right direction and it just won’t seem to stop being cold. You can’t understand why your relationship and your social life can’t be mutually beneficial as opposed to vice versa. You haven’t heard a word from your boyfriend all day. You think your father is one of the greatest men you know with whom you make crucial political decisions and yet you bitch with/at him about highway directions. Your best friends keep shifting, and you wonder which of them is really going to stick around for good, these days. Your heart–or what’s left of it–is being torn into three pieces thanks to two guys and one city which may eclipse them both combined.
You don’t know what’s going to happen next.
But that’s okay.

Friends. Love. Life. Me.
Happy birthday, Kari.

Weekly Love (This Week)



Pisces
2/19 – 3/20
Your mind is on relationships and how they work this week, which should
serve you well. Monday and Tuesday see you focused on maintaining or
acquiring a working relationship, and you can easily see what is right
for you. Expect some troubles midweek if you're currently partnered,
though they are surmountable if you both want to move beyond them. In
fact, they may bring you closer together in the long run. The weekend's
good emotional energy may keep you from resenting your date's or mate's
selfishness -- but only for a short time. Say something! 

Today, I lived.

I added to my iambic pentameter collection in Linguistics.

If it's a little laughter that you need
Ignore the alcohol; just smoke some weed.
---
The only fast food choice with mass appeal
Is R. McDonald's Dollar Menu meal.
---
Although they say the truth will set you free
The price to pay is far too high a fee.

I fell asleep for the first time in a while during Geometry. I ate two bags of apples, some chicken, and a 90-calorie Rice Krispies for lunch. I learned that Function-F5 will fix the finicky SmartBoard display in our Japanese classroom. I got paint all over myself in Art. We talked about marriage in English. I spent Biology writing all over the board and fondly harassing Ms. Shen. I noticed a lock in the locker rooms that spelled out “ROSE” and consequently changed it to spell “LUST”. Funny coincidence.

After our workout in gym, I climbed over the side of the bleachers and collapsed between Melany and Tyler. Max proceeded to drop a final hint about my birthday present that caused a chain reaction which went something like this :

MAX: It’s a size of a small car.
KARI: What the fuck?!
-at that exact moment, Mr. A walks back into the gym and hears my blasphemous utterance.
I clap my hands over my mouth as my friends dissolve into hysterical laughter. He beckons.
I obey–without taking my hands off my mouth.-
MR. A: How many letters does that word have?
KARI: -still with hands over mouth, holds up four fingers-
MR. A: Okay. 5 push-ups for every letter. *laughter ensues and he looks at our audience* I think that’s fair, right? -I nod.- You have a problem with this? -I shake my head no.- Good girl.
-I do the push-ups; 20 in a ROW. This is very strange, particularly considering I am not tired at the end. I attribute it to the adrenaline and return to the bleachers somewhat of a hero, laughing.-
KARI: Mr. A! I applaud your sense of justice.
MR. A: Actually, it’s corporal punishment. But if you want to go ahead and report me, I’ll just send you to the Dean’s.
-Obviously I keep this to myself.-

After the Phoenix meeting I walked blocks by myself before being met halfway by my father, who had an interesting tale to tell. Today, he’d traveled with John Liu’s campaign (and numerous Chinese/Korean-Americans) to the Mets’ new stadium. Upon arrival, however, they were informed that the Asian media was not allowed into the stadium. Dismayed and unsure of what to do, the campaign and the press dithered for approximately 40 minutes until Councilman Liu’s arrival, but even his attempts to negotiate only resulted in the general manager informing the press that they would not be allowed to photograph or use video. The campaign was about to concede when they spotted the arrival of Channel 1 + 11; both of which, cameras in hand, were immediately allowed up.
My father knew what was going on and he called for a halt. Herding everyone outside of the stadium, he staged an announcement right there, with the cameras in his face. “Flushing has a large population of Asian-Americans. It belongs as much to us as it does to people of other ethnicities. So why is it that Channel 1 and 11 are allowed to enter without restrictions whereas the Asian media is not? We have supported the Mets for many years, but it appears that they do not require our support anymore. Therefore I say to you now–do not endorse or attend the games of a team which no longer needs us!” The roaring response was immediate. “He’s right; we must unite together!”
My dad exhaled deeply. “Alright, let’s go home.”

Not long afterwards, the vice president raced after Councilman Liu in an attempt to apologize. The Councilman responded that forgiveness was simple–if the president himself came out and offered an apology, perhaps the campaign would reconsider and reschedule a visit. When informed that the president was out of town and would not return until the end of the month, the campaign did not waver. They would wait until the president’s return.
Virtually minutes after this exchange, the campaign offices receive a personal call from the president. Midday tomorrow, he will be returning to the city to publicly apologize in person to the campaign and the media. My dad relates this outcome to me over dinner, the expression on his face a mixture of matured satisfaction and that of a kid in a candy shop. I drop my fork and applaud him for sticking by his principles, standing up in the face of racial discrimination, and putting yet another crack in the glass window.
Secretly, I am relieved. I’d received a free Mets t-shirt at my first and only baseball game that I very much liked, and I didn’t want to feel blasphemous when I wore it.

I spoke to Rose and Nira, a little to Jack, and even less to Ty.

I read my first comic, “The Sandman : Preludes Nocturnes” by Neil Gaiman, lent to me by Max. In the last chapter, I was introduced to someone who could very possibly become my favorite fictional character of all time.
Death.

Today, I lived.

Alone.