crap.

I miss high school.

So much.

I miss the pep rallies

the lip syncs

the talent shows

the senior square

the showcases

the international days

the basketball games

the homecomings 

the homecomings when we lost

cheer.

the dance room

the gym

the senior shirts

the spirit days

the alma mater

I miss being a part of something...so tangibly. 

For some reason, nothing in college gets even close to that feeling of together-ness.

But I guess it's supposed to be that way.

how about a baseball in the face?

I'll admit it.

I'm not an avid fan of baseball.

I don't look for the Sports section every morning.

I don't keep up with the statistics.

I don't jump in when my dad and brother are wasting the afternoon away on the couch.

Heck, I don't enjoy the sport at all.

I hate hearing it.

I hate watching it.

I hate my brother stealing the remote from me so I can't switch it to Food Network when he's not looking.

Mostly because in my brain, the sound of SPORTS on the tv directly connects to males being lazy and clueless and jumping into sporadic moments of cacophonous yelling, which then connects to giant HEADACHE for yours truly.

So forgive me if my home country happens to OWN in a certain World Baseball Classic and make it all the way to the final round.  Forgive me if it's against only our biggest, longest, strongest rival ever - JAPAN.  Forgive me if this is a game that everyone in your household is excited about (with good reason), and I SORT OF WANT TO WATCH IT.

But wait - you're probably wondering where all this negative energy is coming from.  Maybe I'm a little too ahead of myself.  Let me rewind to approximately one hour ago, when I was checking out my Facebook newsfeed and snickering at all the evil statuses being posted by bitter Koreans - when I saw this one from a high school alumni whom I will not name:

__________ is thank God the WBC is over so people who don't watch baseball can stop pretending like they do!!

Oh haaaayl no, right?  Those "people" have a freakin right to be excited, and at that moment, I wanted nothing more but to shove that in his face.  So, even though I think I've spoken...zero words to this guy in my lifetime, I respond:

"It's called patriotism."

Woohoo!  Bold/clever response, huh?  Yay me!

So I'm all reveling in my little victory, but a little too prematurely because soon after, I get another notification - it's him.

"Myofb." (For the tech-challenged: Mind your own f-ing business.)

First thoughts: 

1) ...what?

2) Uh, excuuuuse me little seasoned baseball player (imagine the palm thrusted in the face).  If you never watched baseball, and Mexico was in the final round, would you really not watch it just because you wanted to stay true to your non-fanship?  Oh, but wait, they weren't even close to being in the final so I guess that scenario's a little hard to comprehend.  Sorry =/

3) How bout YOU "myofb" and not care about the background of each person watching the game.  How bout YOU just "myofb" that we have a little thing called national pride.  How bout YOU "myofb" and just watch the game.  Mmm?  Yeah.

But then I thought none of these would be appropriate responses.  After all, I like to think I'm above cyber wars on Facebook statuses with someone I'd never address in person.  And...well, I just got owned on all public newsfeeds of the 155 mutual friends we have, and I'd rather not draw any more attention to myself.

But really.

I'm sorry that I don't watch baseball every single freakin day and decide to watch tonight's because dang, that just makes me a little stinkin hypocrite.  Staying true to hating sports > patriotism, for SURE, right?

-______-

Puh-lease.

mamma mia

I guess the story begins this past Monday, around 10pm.

My sister, who's in Chicago for grad school at the moment, had an accident in the bathtub and fractured two rib bones.

She's doing ok right now, just healing slowly - thanks for your prayers if I told you about this already.

So my mom ended up flying to Chicago the next morning to help my sister out for a week, drive her around, just be there to support her.

Last night, I had THE most regular sleep of my life in the last, I don't know, two months.

I slept at 10pm and woke up at 7:30 (I know, right?).

Since I was up, I wanted to make breakfast - I mean, for the last three days there were only three clueless males in the house...they must have been starving.

So I went downstairs, surveyed the refrigerator to see what I could scrape up, and started making a mini menu in my head.

But I couldn't find the sausages for the egg/potato/veggie scramble I wanted to make.  You know those chicken and apple sausages from Costco?  Yeah.  Mmm.

So I called up my mom in Chicago.  I swear, she could tell you where anything is without ever having to look.  Mother intution, I tell you.

Anyway, she asked me why I was up so early, and we chatted for a little bit, and then I hung up to continue cooking.

Fast forward two hours later.

I get a text from my mom: "Kyungha was so responsible today. she woke up at 8 to make family a gourmet breakfast!"

...so I text her back: "Thank you for telling me Umma...Are you sure you sent that text to the right person hahaha"

She promptly replies: "Oh man!"

HAHAHA.

While I'm having a kick out of this in my room and thinking about how typical it is for her to do something careless like this, I get another one that's a little more unsettling.

"Good thing that was a good comment!"

o.o

P.S. The picture was taken yesterday while vchatting with my sister and mom.  She was so intrigued by being able to see my face - I don't know if you can tell, but she's still marveling at me in the picture.

cute meet-cute

meet-cute: (thank you, Urban Dictionary)

scenario in which two individuals are brought together in some unlikely, zany, destined-to-fall-in-love-and-be-together-forever sort of way (the more unusual, the better). 

Have you ever thought about yours?  And I mean the meet-cute you have with the person you spend the rest of your life with, not the kind you have with some "summer fling" a la Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (although a gorgeous Italian boy on the island of Santorini isn't bad, either...kidding).

I guess its more of a girl thing, but I like to think about it from time to time.  It all started with The Moffats by Eleanor Estes (again, probably more of  "girl" book) - I went through this whole Eleanor Estes phase in fourth grade after reading The Hundred Dresses, but anyway.  In the book, the son (and I remember it being the son because I thought it was odd that a boy would care about such a thing) was talking about how proud he was that his parents didn't meet like Harry's or Sally's or John's parents - at their high school prom, in college, at work.  No, his parents actually had a story behind their meeting, a story worth telling, a story he was proud to share.  They met on a descending escalator in a mall - the dad, for whatever reason, was attempting to run up the escalator while his future wife was riding it down.  I don't really remember all the details, but I do remember thinking, 'Dang I wish my parents met on an escalator...they just found a matchmaker, met each other, and then got married.'

As amusing as that is now that I think about it, and how unlikely meeting the love of your life on a flight of mechanical stairs really is, that darn immutable, hopeless romantic side of me has longed for a "meet-cute" ever since.  I actually fantasize about it sometimes.  Maybe I'll be lost and ask some random stranger on the street for directions.  Maybe we'll get into a car accident (minor, of course) and by the time everything's all sorted out, well, you know.  Maybe we'll walk into Yogurtworld and I'll have to wait behind him, only to realize we're getting the exact same things - plain tart, asian peach tart, fruity pebbles, mochi, strawberries, and blueberries.  Cue cutesy music and witty conversation.  And of course, in each hypothetical scenario, this random stranger would turn out to be single.  And Korean. And...

Sad, isn't it?  How I totally swear like I'm a jaded, the-male-race-solely-consists-of-male-chauvinist-pigs, cynic type of girl with a head on her shoulders, but everytime something remotely close to a meet-cute happens (a bump on the shoulder, a glance on the shuttle), I envision a mini-series complete with k-drama worthy moments in my head.

So, so sad.

And the thing is, you probably won't end up having a meet-cute.  The most exciting thing that'll probably happen is you fall for the new intern at work or someone you sit next to in class.  But even that's a little unlikely; you'll probably end up with someone you've known from school, church, or mutual friends.  Probably not on an escalator.

Probably.

Because the world doesn't exactly play cutesy music when you first meet that person, and it's not exactly filled with eligible bachelors and bachelorettes running around, all candidly bumping into each other and falling in love.  And, most of all, because the underlying rule of all Mr. and Mrs. Moffat-esque meet-cutes seems to be that you can never know it's a meet-cute when it happens.

But.  It's fun to dream.

:)

...and she does it again!

12 hours left to write 6 pages.

So far, I've been reading the same page

over

and over

and over

again.

Haven't even started on my outline yet.

I want to pull out my hair.  I can't focus to save my life.  I don't even know what it's saying.  I don't even know anything about my topic. Panic mode settling in.  Omgomgomg.

I really wish this was another one of my stressful dreams where I freak out about not having enough time to turn in a paper and then I wake up and realize that I never even had a paper assigned in the first place and my whole body tingles with the exhilarating sensation of utter relief. 

*pinch*

Sigh.

you thought it was challenging

two years ago

when everything came to a stop

you felt sorry, but even that couldn't change anything

he showed up at your doorstep, and you were terrified, flustered, confused

you didn't know how you could brave the world; it seemed to be everywhere

so you ran away.

you thought it was challenging

one year ago

when you did it again

couldn't really live with yourself this time

so sick of explaining, so sick of facing

everyone.

the only thing you could do was escape from it all, so you did it

you ran away

you thought it was challenging

a few months ago

when all of a sudden, you really were tested

you weren't sure if you really meant what you said

but you braved it, you stared past, past at the blank wall behind them

singing to no one, just get it over with.

and then. run away

but no.

None of that was challenge.

Because challenge is when all of those things already happened.

Challenge is when you think it's all over.

    and then all of a sudden,

         it's not.

Challenge is when you think you've finally mastered it, conquered it - now, now, surely you can do it!  And then you realize that you can't.  No, you can't...you don't even want to.

but 

Challenge is when

running away

isn't an option anymore.

.

.

.

Challenge is when we grow the most.

When we realize, we really can't.  We can't...

   

      but He can.

things you can do in an hour

• sleep in
• watch an episode of Iron Chef America
• make breakfast (and eat it, too)
• upload and tag a couple of albums on Facebook
• bake a couple batches of some mean homemade brownies
• skip a class
• catch up on a Kkotboda Namja episode
• learn a new song
• eat a meal
• watch half of a movie
• drive to LA
• do absolutely nothing

Darn you, Daylight Savings...

gender studies.

Interesting how some traits can be so predictable.

After I got a haircut this past Saturday, I thought I would conduct my own mini double-blind experiment (is that even used right?  I don't know, I honestly hate stats).

Basically, I just went to where I had to go without ever mentioning the trip to the salon.

Literally, every single girlfriend I met:

"Oh my god, you cut your hair!"

"Haircut?  It's really cute!"

"WAIT, STOP.  HAIR."

or something to that extent.

Literally, every single guy friend I met:

" "

(those are purposefully empty quotation marks)

I mean, not one guy.  Not even the more metro ones whom I thought had more hope.

 Really, it's not like it was a measly trim to get rid of the split ends.

It was one of those I-asked-for-two-inches-but-the-korean-ahjummah-just-chopped-off-half-of-my-hair haircuts.

Noticeable, to say the least.

I just read over what I wrote, and I think might need to clarify: I wasn't waiting for a compliment - just an acknowledgement of the difference.  HAHA otherwise I just sound really cocky.

But yes.  

Long story short.

Boys, you fail.