Lunchables

I used to envy the kids in my school who brought Lunchables to lunch.

 

In case you don’t know what Lunchables are, here’s a nice picture:

 

 

They’re pre-made, fake lunches that they sell cheap at stores like Shop Rite or Target (our local Target has a mini-grocery store inside of it). It’s basically the epitome of unhealthy lunching, and when you’re young, unhealthy=awesome.

I envied my friends and the other kids who would bring Lunchables to lunch. It was just so—cool! That you could bring your lunch in that pre-made, bought, cardboard box, and show the entire world that you have a piece of candy for an aftersnack. Oh, how I envied them. It was first or second grade.

I remember asking my mom if she could buy it for me, whenever we passed that aisle at the market. She’d shoo it away like it was some inferior piece of artificial food. (Which it was, but at the time, I was not aware of it. It was a piece of unattainable heaven to me.)

 

 

Now that I’m older, you know, at least five years older, I look back and I think about those kids who brought Lunchables to the lunch tables and had to eat them every day (or at least, nearly every day) for lunch. And I realize how sad it is.

Not sad as in the sarcastic, mean sort of ‘sad.’ I mean sad in the original way. Sad as in, it makes me teary. (Fine. Not teary. But you know what I mean. That kind of sad.)

 

To have your mother buy lunch for you—not just any lunch, but the cheap sort, I realize, wasn’t exactly the ‘unattainable heaven’ I once thought it was. I’m not trying to offend anybody with Lunchables—they’re still cool and everything, but it kind of signifies that you either can’t afford a healthy lunch every day (because, unfortunately, let’s face it—it’s not exactly recommended by the United States Department of Nutrition, you know) or that your mother doesn’t have the time/attention to make your lunch for you. I’m talking about first graders. Second graders.

At the time, I idolized those kids, having no idea what it really meant to bring a Lunchable to lunch and seeing your friends bring out foil-wrapped, ham and turkey sandwich with the homemade applesauce. I wasn’t living in the richest town when I saw my friends and peers (some of them) with Lunchables. And thinking back on it, it kind of signifies a lot of things in life. Some things we take for granted, some things we think too good of, and some things we don’t think of at all. Sometimes, we really do need to sit back and appreciate the things we have. Like parents who care for you. Or a somewhat stable financial position.

And this is regardless of the Lunchables thing. It might sound cliché (in fact, it does, I admit it), but we need a time to give thanks other than Thanksgiving. Because Thanksgiving is, like, Costco’s party day or something. Thanksgiving where we don’t scramble and stress and complain about getting turkeys and making millions of dollars worth of food that some kids at the other side of the world are dying because of the lack of it. I’m talking about a sort of thanksgiving when we sit down, we eat a normal dinner, and then we think about why we’re here, how blessed we are to be here in the first place (and not the other sperm of your father or a different egg of your mother—that’s some intense competition, you know. We’re the chosen ones), and just let it all sink in. The food in front of you. Bam. Gone.

 

The roof above you.

Bam. Gone.

 

The nice, warm, thick clothes you have.

Bam. Gone. (Except for rags. Let’s keep you clothed.)

 

Your smiling parents. (or ranting. But either way they love you deep inside.)

Bam. Gone. (Or on drugs or something.)

 

Your loving brother who pulls your hair out.

Bam. Gone.

 

The nice weather.

Bam. Gone.

 

There you are, sitting in a hot, dry, arid place with no food, no family, and a few pieces of cloth as garments. There are people like that still living on the same Earth that we’re standing on, stomping on, complaining about the slowness of our computers or the suckiness of our school. And while it might be too much to ask everybody to stop (because, let’s face it, I complain, too), we should at least acknowledge and appreciate the things that are always there for us.

 

Like that street light that stays red and won’t turn green on that street in our town.

 

Because there are always people who are worse off than us. (The fact that you’re reading this means that you have a computer, so this is probably mostly true.)

And if not, then think about the other sperm cell that could have fertilized your mother’s egg. Think about how close that was. You almost died before you were born.

(Sorry I was studying Biology.)

(Sorry not sorry.)

 

So yeah. Through that reminiscent memory of Lunchables, I have just given you a rant, a lecture, about thankfulness.

Chew on that.

Bug Season: Get Prepared.

Brace yourselves. It's the all-famous, well known, infamous Bug Season slowly approaching us.

Scratch that.

Slowly crawling towards us. Slowly using-their-hundred-legs-to-scramble towards us.

Summer is the season of bugs. It is the Season of Bugs. I am serious right now. I hope a lot of people think the same (because if not, that means there's something seriously wrong with our house and me).

In the summer, bugs dominate. They grow three inches. They find their armies. They gather their artillery and men bugs. They go to the armory to stock up on new ammo. They train hardcore for a few weeks. Then they're ready. They're armed.

First, it's the flies.
The flies attack first. They're the front-line soldiers. They buzz into the homes, slowly but quickly (I know. Just go with the flow.), secretly slipping into your home beyond your knowledge until you hear that weird buzzing near your window and see one of them (finally cracked under the military pressure) spazzing out at the window, hopelessly reaching for the sun.

They land everywhere, rubbing their hands and pleading for mercy while you (shaking) threateningly hold a newspaper up to think: to slap or not to slap?


Then, it's the mosquitoes.
They're the night-shifts. They're more powerful at night, when people are unsuspecting, vulnerable, and fleshy. They silently lurk nearby and then dive right into your skin. They might carry Plasmodium, which are their special biological weapons that they have genetically engineered to make us malaric. (Did you forget? With the flow.)
They make sure that they leave you injured in at least three places. They leave you sore, itching, and irritated. Their little signature is that familiar red bump that whispers: "Scratch me. Scratch me."


The worst are the ants.
The ants are the invaders. They're the tiny little invaders that you don't realize they're there until it's too late. With their massive number and invisible vessels, you'll never know where they're docking at or, for that matter, where they came from. They're there, and they dominate. They're not even that strong, either. It's just that there's too many of them.
They outnumber us.
(Hah. By a lot. Four versus practically five hundred)
Once one of them gets into your house, it's the end of the world. (Please don't take this seriously.)

You need to evacuate the house and immediately contact the FBI. They might be planting bugs into your house to listen in on top secret conversations (like what you did at school today. That's code red intrusion--nobody should know what you did at school today.). Or even worse, they might be getting ready to put in a bomb.

And then, the real bombs of their army--the centipedes. The centipedes are their last resort, the solitary soldier that has a massive amount of power, strength, and fear-inducing looks. Their numerous limbs makes them nimble and quick in their ruthless trampling of the house. One centipede passing by is an equivalent to a level 5 hurricane. They leave houses annihilated, trees dismantled, and lives lost. The name itself gives shudders and shoots fear into the hearts of even the best of us, and they do not stop at any point. Their roar is fiercer than a lion, mightier than a bear. It is so loud that it may permanently damage our hearing. Thee deep voiced grumble that rolls into a loud and barbaric roar is perhaps the only warning before they begin their mission. Their only motive is trample. TRAMPLE AND ROAR! Anything that dares to get in its way, under its humongous, heavy feet are doomed to die the most terrible death.
(Don't even get me started on the millipedes.)


So here is my inspirational speech to my fellow Homo sapiens:

We, humans, are an indestructible race. We are one tight knit people (who throw bombs at each other) and love each other ever so dearly (so dearly that we throw bombs at each other). We are united as one people (that is cut up into hundreds of countries constantly bickering) and we can. We can. Defeat these puny bugs! (Don't forget the puny millipedes, guys.) They invade? We do not hinder. Fear does not stop us. It strengthens us. Together, humans. Together. We shall defeat the merciless bugs. We shall live! We shall prosper! We shall taste victory!


P.S. I think I have formed a theory as to why we are often afraid of bugs. (Not all of us, but a great bunch.)
It's because of their blatant invasiveness. Their obvliousness of our power. We are at the top of the food chain, and anything that is above us scares us (naturally). But what scares us even more is when we cannot control those under us. Bugs are one instance. They are under us in the food chain, but we cannot control them from entering our houses, invading our homes, and buzzing around in our house. They are ubiquitous. Everywhere. And we can't do anything about it, which drives us crazy. It scares the wits out of us, because we thought we were 'better' than them, that we could kill them (as predators) and naturally 'control' them. But we can't.
I dunno. A guess.

Hi

I really have not posted in a long time.

But yes, I am alive.

Leeleelee.

Eugh

Time for me to complain! :D

You see, every weekend of this month, I have a piano audition. It's driving me nuts, because I don't feel prepared for any of them (and I'm auditioning with the same 3 pieces heh).
I need to practice, I know.
But I feel lazy!
I get home, and I'm all hungry, so I eat.
Then I get really tired for some reason. And I don't feel like doing anything (so I don't). Then I decide that I don't want to sit down at the piano (for some reason) so I walk upstairs to do my homework.
Then I finish my homework late and then I don't practice piano.
For some reason, even if I actually think deeply into it I know that piano is better than homework (as in, I like piano better than homework), I just can't get myself to do piano as soon as I get home.

I do, every once in a while.
And I barely practice piano. Which is why I feel unprepared. !!!!

Today I wasted two hours on the computer searching up stuff about school. Afterwards, I felt this horrible feeling where I didn't do anything and just wasted my time.
I mean, if I had slept for two hours, I would feel no remorse. At least I enjoyed it, you know? Or if I had drawn for two hours or something.
But searching up stuff about school!
And it got me nowhere, too.

Heh,
well I finished my homework early today, too (which is good :D).
So I'm happy. I'm finishing my homework early these days. (early = 10 PM) Which is good. Because early means more sleep, and more sleep means more growth.

More growth means happiness.

...Okay I sound pathetic.

Whatever! :D

But I will
OH SHOOT
TOMORROWS FRIDAY
AND
I DIDN'T PRACTICE
AND
UHHHH
IT'S ON SATURDAY
AND
OH
OHMY


Spasm done.
D: I'm screwed.
But wish me luck!
Kaybye.

Happeh

Oh yay!

I got some new Prismacolor art markers, and they're really cool. Although I don't know how to use them to their fullest extent to shine their beauty to their greatest, I still think that they're pretty neat. I don't have marker paper, which is half of the reason why I can't do as much with it.
I'm gonna have to make-do with printer paper for now. Maybe I'll go to Michaels or order some marker paper when I'm good and able to use it well.

Anyway, that's all I have to say. I'm posting on nearly every blog I have, because I am bored.
I finished my homework early!!
It's amazing, I know.
I'm so happy.
Plus, I practised piano.
(Yes, I practised it. Heh. Practised.)

Kaybye.

What's it with Doors?

So you might not have heard about my other blog post some whiles ago.

But just to summarize, our front door is strange. The actual handle, if you're not careful, can be ripped out of the door  (leaving this neat hole for us to awkwardly place back in), and the second lock above that is our only means of security. As for our screen door, it used to be super creaky and open at the randomest moments so that while you were in the living room, you would suddenly hear this creaking from outside (the screen door). Then, after my father 'fixed' it, it would not prop open and would constantly shut itself closed no matter how heavy the groceries were and no matter how limited the use of your meager two overwhelmed-with-groceries hands were after mass-grocery-shopping on an empty stomach at Costco with a bucketful of coupons.

So there's your background information on my family's (and my) encounters with doors.



This is why I have reached a conclusion.
A very vital piece of information that must not be ignored.

Doors are plotting against us.

I'm telling you!
You can laugh all you want, but they are more intelligent than you think. They are secretly plotting their revenge of being slammed, locked, kicked, knocked, and other things people do with doors. They are smiling on the inside, thinking of the soon coming desolation of the human race, at our ignorance in thinking to oversee the numerous intelligent species that just communicate in different ways than we do, sneering at our stupidity and our stuck up specio-centrism (the belief in the inherent superiority of one's species).

"He did not perceive that my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation."

           --Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amontillado


Plus they're laughing at how funny we look. (We're not geometrical!)

They're slowly rising to their deserved spot in the Thing-Food-Chain. They will imperialize all of Earth, and we will be helpless to their merciless punishments and torture. When the time comes, they will rise, they will defeat the human race with their massive, growing army of fierce, brutal doors. Because they are everywhere--they are omnipresent, they are ubiquitous.

(Don't ask me how I know all of this.)


ANYHOW. Back to the initial point:
Not only does our front and screen door not work anymore, but our CAR DOOR has decided to shut itself out from socializing or interacting with us.

Our car is a minivan, a silver one. It's pretty old. We named it, but then I forget his name. (Actually I named it and my parents paused and continued doing their usual conversation-for-5-hour-car-rides-to-some-random-place, and my brother argued with me over what to name it for approximately 4 minutes and 38 seconds and we came to a negotiation that we would mash the name by picking one as the middle name, but then we argued over which name would be the first name, and in the end we just decided to call the car by two different names.)
It has one automatic door, on the right side. The left side is manual (or whatever you call it, I have no idea). To open the automatic door, you have to pull the handle, and then let go. The automaticity of the door will do the rest for you. Pull the handle and it opens up for you, honoring you as its great master. (Technically, the great master should be the driver, and there is no automatic door for the driver's seat. Hmmm.)


Here is the story of how our devoted car door turned against us.

My mother carpooled with a few other middle-aged mothers to some sort of middle-aged-mothers' meeting of some sort (or at least, there were a lot of middle-aged mothers there). They rode in the back seats, and apparently, one of them decided that the door was not an automatic door, despite the numerous times my mother informed her of its automatic nature.
She then decided that she would pull as hard as possible, using all of her upper and lower body strength (regardless of its necessity for opening car doors)--power from her mind, spirit, and body, summoning it all into that POOR LITTLE CAR DOOR--to close the door. Basically she pulled the door shut (even though it was automatic) with all of her strength, right until the moment the car door clicked closed.

Since then, our door has never been the same. It is disappointed in us. It has lost trust. What once used to be a loyal, automatic door, is now a strange, creaky, semi-automatic door. It trusted us, maybe not humans, but it trusted us, our family, that we would treat it right. Yet we betrayed it by letting an outsider harass the automaticity out of the poor little door. And now it has lost faith in us. In humanity. It shall join the door revolution. Humans are merciless monsters of no sentiment. They are ruthless and emotionless. They deserve death. They deserve to meet their end.

So, now that I'm done using a somewhat sarcastic tone to bash on my own species, time to write a short how-to.

How to Open The Betrayed Car Door:
1. Click the Open-Automatic-Door button on the car keys.
2. Door does not open.
3. Pull the door handle of the Semi-Automatic Door Rebel after walking all the way from the door of the house (which is also a rebel of the Door Revolution).
4. Door does not open. Makes weird sound.
5. Pull door handle again, but this time use all of your strength to pull it open.
6. About a 1.5 second delay until Semi-Automatic Door Rebel responds.
7. Semi-Automatic Door Rebel responds.
8. Door opens.
9. Surprisingly, it opens automatically.
10. Get into car.
11. Click automatic door closing button near the Semi-Automatic Door Rebel.
12. No response.
13. Click it again, and then try to pull the handle (an attempt to see if clicking the button and pulling the handle will together do the job of making the door succesfully automatic.)
14. Makes weird noise.
15. Give up and just pull the car door with all of your strength until it finally gives in and decides to close.

(Will you believe me if I told you that I used Copy+Paste for typing "Semi-Automatic Door Rebel.)


So... yeah. That's the sad story of our once Automatic Door, whose soul is no longer with us. It has left the cause and decided to join the monstrous army against the human race.

Beware, fellow humans. I tell you. Keep your weapons ready. You never know when they might strike.

I fell off the face of Cyberspace

I did. I fell off the face of Cyberspace for quite a while now. And I've managed to jump right back up. (The face of Cyberspace is easy to scale.)
Of course, I can say that I was busy with high school, which is some form of an excuse. I could also say that I was busy, which is less of a form of excuse. I could also say that I just completely forgot about the existent of Web Logs.
But it would be more honest to say that
I was.
Lazy.

I thought of things, yes, my fellow humans, I thought of things to write for a blog post.
It stops there.

But I'd like to drop by and say that yes, I have survived the few months of living as an accursed human, and that yes, I'm managing to feed myself so that I am not malnutrition-ed (it's a word, let's just say).

I have lots of things to write about, so yeah, I'll use the handy-dandy date-changer to lie and cheat this post's date into being somewhere around last week. That way things are in chronological order.


~
Indigo

It’s sad

You know, it’s sad that Rosalind Franklin died at age 38.

It is.

Yet she managed to (pretty much) change the world right before she did.