Dear Blogger (aka Blogspot),

We've been together for awhile. I started blogging with you back in 2001 when you were the cool one to hang with. You offered me flexibility with design, allowing me to customize my own templates using HTML, unlike those others, like LiveJournal and Xanga (Oh goodness! Remember them? We used to laugh at them so much!).

You were good to me. You saw me through my angst of high school, my confusion of college, and my overall development into the woman I am today. I've probably shared more with you than I'd like to admit. Those posts are pretty embarrassing, aren't they? I suppose it's a necessary component of that growth I mentioned earlier.

But, I've changed. Perhaps it's my 20-something desire for constant change, that even just creating a new blog within Blogger isn't enough. I need a new domain name.

Already, the transition with Wordpress has been hard. I've debated moving my stuff in with him, but a part of me feels like I need to keep my life with you archived with you. It just doesn't seem right. Is that weird? I was hoping he'd make it easier for me to have that spiffy, magazine-style design that you seem incapable of, but he's not. But, I think it's going to be worth the effort.

I'm sorry I can't stay with you and try to make these changes with you.
It's probably best for the both of us that I just move on while we can both find better partners for the future.

Love always,
t

P.S. You can reach me at http://lotsix.wordpress.com in case you ever want to connect again. I'll miss you.

Where One Means All

The shooting at Fort Hood has been claiming the airwaves and the pages of the newspapers, and rightfully so. It's a tragedy, plain and simple. Innocent people were killed and injured and it rocked the lives of countless others.

From the beginning, there has been a lot of misinformation and speculation about what was happening behind the gates of Fort Hood -- first there was one shooter, then many, then only one, then he was dead and then miraculously alive again. As the military remains tight-lipped about the accused, the victims and pretty much the whole situation, the media pundits will continue their speculating and misinforming. They will speculate about his motives-- try to put his life together through a series of paper applications and documents to understand who he is and what he is about. They'll talk about his ethnic identity, Middle Eastern (Jordanian/Palestinian to be specific), his possible religious beliefs, his legal case against being shipped off...

And what will it all accomplish?


Countless mosques called in for heightened security, with a few already having received threats. Community organizations have already prepped and released their statements, distancing themselves from the individual, while trying to convince the country of Arab-American's loyalty and commitment to the United States.

That, I suppose, is the big difference between being White and being Not-White.

Being Not-White means that when someone within your community screws up, you are looked upon with a bit of extra scrutiny. Being Not-White means that when a Korean-American kid loses it and shoots his classmates, an entire NATION formally apologizes.
Being Not-White means that when someone, who may or may not even be of your faith but has a name that makes it seem as though he might be, screws up, buildings have to go into lockdown and your life, 1,500 miles away, is disrupted.
Being Not-White means someone, who looks clean-cut and respectable, has to come out in front of the news camera and apologize-but-not-apologize and remind people that the actions of one person in no way reflects those of an entire community.
Being Not-White means you, who are so removed from the entire situation, by distance, by faith, by life, will have to have a well-prepared statement about what happened, because you too are being judged in that moment.

While I hope that this situation will be treated in the context of what it is-- a soldier, for whatever reason, lost it and shot his fellow soldiers-- and that all the communities of Not-White people around the country can rest easily and not think about what might happen to them because of him.

A-polly-ologies

I realize that my posts have been:
1) Few and far in between;
2) Completely random in content; and
3) Rather sporadic in terms of quality

I've been mulling over a whole different blog in my head, but lack the time or motivation to make it happen. I've been debating moving over to WordPress, but I feel a certain amount of loyalty to Blogspot after all these years. Basically, if I had my way, I'd have a complete website, with entries separated topically, so people who come hear hoping for some amazing, political insight doesn't have to read about my mini-life crises.

That being said, man... oh man... I have been eating A LOT. I don't think I've ever cleared a plate of food in the last ten years. I know that this is sad given the state of food in the world, but it's because I usually have a small appetite and can't finish most meals.

Yesterday, however, was different. Crispy waffle + 2 eggs + sausage patty, all gone before you could 'gee willikers'! It's like I'm going through puberty all over again and eating my way through it.

Then I ate again an hour later.

I wonder where all of it is going...

one year

During my annual eye exam, my optometrist asked, "So, what's been new?" I thought for a moment and responded with a, "Not much."

The response wasn't so much a passive aggressive way of telling my optometrist to cut the chit-chat; rather, I couldn't think of any tremendous shifts in my life that was worth noting (she, on the other hand and just recently become a homeowner, so that's pretty exciting).

Time has had a strange way of eluding me lately. I step into work, look up from my desk and realize that it's already lunchtime. I start the week on Monday and before I know it, it's Thursday and I'm thinking about how to spend my weekend. While some would consider such huge lapses in time to be a good thing (time flies!), it's a little bit unnerving because I don't know where that flying time is going.

Thinking back on this past year, a lot, in fact, has happened. I met my maternal grandmother for the first time. I went back to Korea for the first time in over 20 years. I got promoted at work. I watched my brother become an engaged man. I watched a friend get married to a wonderful woman. I fell into a wonderful relationship and fell out of one. I went on two vacations with best friends. I've been meeting interesting and fantastic new people on a regular basis. I'm strengthening old friendships that I want to last a lifetime.

But at the same time, it feels like nothing has happened at all. Everything has been happening at such a gradual rate that it doesn't feel like it's happening at all. Perhaps this is the lull of adulthood -- moving from day to day with a certain level of satisfaction, but no big thrill. Or maybe this is just my life... who knows?

As I'm becoming more conscious of my body (working out has introduced to me muscle groups in my body that I never knew in my entire 24 years of life!), I'm also becoming more aware of my life in general. A little less monotonous work, a little more sporadic and spontaneous play.

Here's to another year.

I'm waiting for a rage that isn't coming. You would think I would feel angry.

Instead it's just utter heartbreak. That deep, empty-hole-in-the-soul, kind of heartbreak. The kind caused by a type of disappointment that will never be recovered or repaired.

After a year of participating in a public leadership fellowship and a year at the service of students, appearing as the shining example of democratic leadership, I find myself struggling to believe in something that just continues to disappoint me.

All these years I have been taught to believe in a system of beliefs that says that the minority is protected, that the collective opinion will somehow resolve itself and equalize everything, that wrongs will find a way to be corrected. Yet, all I keep seeing is act after act of this democratic public that does everything it can to oppress the minority and to perpetuate any inequities that can be exploited.

Someone needs to show me, and I mean really show me, what has changed in all these decades. Slums are still starving people to death, in the shadows of wealth and capital. Anyone who is different is still being forced to hide, pretend, and suffer a silent shame. Color still determines who receives help and who doesn't.

I'm not angry.
I can't feel the anger anymore. After years of pretending that I wasn't disappointed and pretending things will be better, I've learned to suppress whatever feelings I have.

I'm tired of patience-- of holding in frustration, of waiting until the next day for things to improve. Patience didn't get anyone anywhere. The impatient-- the ones who would stay up all night looking for an answer, the ones who hungered for something more than what was given to them-- they are the ones who succeed and the ones who shape the world.

Maybe if we, the silenced, the oppressed, the separate-but-maybe-not-quite-equal, stop being patient we will actually get somewhere.

Daydreaming about Dreams

(I'm going to completely disregard the fact that I haven't written here in about a lifetime or more and proceed as though I have been a very diligent and up-to-date individual...)

I woke up this morning from one of those dreams that kind of lingers on your consciousness for that extra minute between sleeping and fully waking. I woke up taking in a lungful of air, catching my breath from that moment of... something.

How to best re-tell this?

After a long and involved dream, involving close friends and acquaintances and tattoos and going clubbing, and living in a mess of a house, I open the door and find myself in the 1950s, in the bedroom of a teenage boy. I find that I have been transformed to a 1950s girl, wearing the typical "Pleasantville" type full skirt with cashmere sweater set. I don't recognize the boy, but I know that I know him. We are friends.

My heart beats as though we could be more than that.

The door to the bedroom is closed, but we are still nervous. His parents are hovering nearby and we are both aware of the unusual nature of our privacy and we respect it. I take off my cardigan and carefully place it on the desk, making sure that it doesn't wrinkle. I'm in a short sleeved sweater top, standing by the window, looking out the window. I don't know if we're even speaking. Suddenly, we turn to each other and it happens.
A kiss.
The only kind of kiss you can have as a shy teenager-- one filled with desire and love and passion that has no other outlet than a kiss. There is no groping, no pushing to take it one step further-- it's just that all-consuming kiss.

Suddenly he stops, hearing soft footsteps approaching his door. We separate and catch our breaths just in time as his father opens the door. Finding nothing suspicious, he moves on, leaving us alone again. The boy sits in a desk chair, his eyes still blazing.

I take another breath and we are together again and we stop for the briefest moment to look at each and I think, "God, am I in love?"

I gasp for air, as I feel the butterflies escaping my stomach and I wake up...



I woke up feeling nostalgic for that feeling. I miss that feeling-- that kiss that leads nowhere else but that kiss... a kiss that's enough. I hate the introduction of sex to adult relationships. It ruins that kiss.

When I'm sick...

I really start craving my dad's chicken porridge.

Simple, but takes a good part of the day to make properly, with only a whole chicken, rice, and a little ginseng and Chinese dates for good measure (and their medicinal properties). He takes the time to shred the chicken for me after it's all stewed together and the rice is perfectly soft, choosing only the white breast meat because I don't like dark meat that much. A little salt and it's warm perfection for my belly.



I've been feeling rather ill this week and am fighting the urge to go whining to my dad to take care of me.

New Space, New Vibe

I think I'm going to come into the office on Sunday with the sole intention of redecorating my cubicle.

Things have been rather depressing in the office and I think it's impacting my productivity (I'm very sleepy at work and I typically equate sleepiness with depression with myself). Perhaps a lively and well-coordinated corner will brighten my mood and allow me to blow past my deadlines with ease.

That and I've accumulated an unusual pile of things as people have left the office (and decided I was the person to give things to) and they either need to be trashed or memorialized.

Coming in on a Sunday also will be a great excuse to check out the Hole in the Wall burger joint for lunch, seeing as it's only a few blocks away.

Two Reasons Why Life is Pretty Good

The typical, kick-off-the-conversation question:
How is life?

The typical, continue-the-conversation response:
Pretty good.

Quick call and response. Practiced. Natural.
But, when asked to provide two reasons why life is pretty good, I had to think for a moment.

What is making life so good these days?
There's the having-a-job thing.
The obnoxious and smelly, but ultimately cute cat thing.
The lovely parents who send me back home with oodles of Korean food thing.
The roommates who clean to de-stress and leave the apartment looking spic-and-span thing.
The roommates who are just all-around the greatest people to live with thing.
The boy who keeps me warm because I am fully incapable of body core temperature control on my own thing.
The girlfriends who shower me with endless amounts of support and love thing.


Here's to Tuesdays thinking about the good things in life.

How far do I have to go to get to you? Many the miles

I haven't even kept track of the number of days/weeks we haven't spoken. Despite all those tears, I guess it was a lot easier to move on from that relationship that I thought it would be. I dreaded that conversation, writing to my friends about it, asking for advice of what I thought would be impending doom.

And then, it happened.
At night, as it always does.

I was trying to be reasonable, to not be angry with him for keeping me waiting for several weeks while he sorted out his thoughts. The anger didn't pass until I admitted my frustration, and then poof... gone... and we were talking again.

The conversation proceeded far more easily than expected. It was easier once I gave into the inevitability of it all. Of course we wouldn't stay friends. Feelings were too strong-- feelings of love and hate, of comfort, of trust and distrust. They were all there and a friendship can't function with so many conflicting emotions.

I made him promise me that we would see each other again at some point in the future. My first-love-silliness makes me believe that we will find each other again and love each other in a way that we never could before. But then again, it could be as simple as keeping in touch. It's what I do. I'm a pack rat-- I keep everything, including ex-boyfriends. It would be exciting to see how far he's come along in the world in five years time. I'm certain he will be doing amazing things, making me envious of his travels and worldly experiences.

And though I don't miss him, I want to talk to him. I need clarification about what went wrong. Did I really make so many mistakes as to cause the terrible breakdown of our relationship? I am doomed to repeat them? Was I that selfish and careless about his feelings, or was he just using me as a scapegoat for his own role in our demise? And, without knowing this, how do I know that I won't do the same thing all over again with someone new?

I don't need reassurances from the new. I need reassurances from the old. The new doesn't know what I am capable of, and I don't know what he's capable of. But the old? We've been through it before. We can't study anything but history, so I'm trying to study my history, but I can't. I have half the pages in the textbook... he has the other half. I'm getting stuck, mid-sentence.

I need someone to tell me I didn't fuck up that badly.
I need someone to tell me that I won't fuck up that badly this time around either.

We can argue and fuss all night / But I propose that we go to the floor and we slow dance

One of the pitfalls of working in an office environment is not being able to dance whenever I feel like it.

This is one of those moments... but fortunately I have a cubicle divider so I can leave groove in my chair, head bumping and swaying side to side.


Sometimes even my feet start tapping.

And just take it easy / And celebrate the malleable reality

... waiting for inspiration ...

or something to whop me up side the head and re-align my brain.

Aliso Street: 1854
When early settlers arrived at the Los Angeles River (El Rio de Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles de Porcinucula) by way of Mission Road, they picked as a nearby gathering point a huge sycamore that gave them shelter and became a landmar, "El Aliso." That Spanish word for sycamore was later used to name the road carved out near the river, which then was not a concrete channel.

Alpine Street: 1887
Before it was named for one of California's 58 counties, it had been known as the Street of the Virgins, a place where the young ladies of the pueblo strolled with their duenas (chaperones) past admiring caballeros (gentlemen).


Alvarado Street: 1855
Named after Governor Juan Bautista Alvarado, who in 1836 became the first governor to promote public education.

Arcadia Street: 1872
Aracadia Bandini, born in 1823, was the daughter of prominent ranchero Juan Bandini. She came to be regarded as one of the most beautiful belles of Los Angeles and was just 14 when she married 40-year-old Abel Stearns, who had come west from Massachusetts and acquired Southern California's largest land-cattle empire. Stearns built a home for his bride one block south of the Plaza--the community's central gathering area-- and the house, called El Palacio, became the social hot spot. In 1858, Stearns constructed a two-story business block on Los Angeles Street nearby and called it Arcadia Block. The street was officially dedicated one year after Stearns' death in 1871.

I like it in the city / When two worlds collide...

Good night.
Bad morning.

As we usher in what I hope will be a new era of politics and society in America, several states, including California, just pushed us back into an age of ignorance and what could only be seen as fear and hate.

Californians went to bed last night with the first Black President of the United States. People across the country and the world erupted in celebration and tears. I don't think there is anyone out there who doesn't understand and feel the significance of seeing Barack Obama accept the huge responsibility of being the face and leader of this country.

But, we woke up this morning to find out perpetuating a wrong that so many has tried to fight-- discrimination on the basis of something as basic and unchangeable as the color of one's skin or the reproductive organs we are born with.

It's a hard morning.
I want to celebrate with the same vigor and enthusiasm as last night, but it's hard to knowing that so many people, including many of the people I love and would give my life for, have just been told that they don't deserve a fundamental right-- that it is somehow okay to publicly say that they deserve the rights of a second-class citizen.

I'm thankful for last night... thankful to the people who stood in line for several hours to vote and to the people who canvassed, donated, and lost a lot of sleep to put forward a successful campaign. We have a Democratic President who actually inspires people to care about their government supported by a Democratic House and Senate.

But, I'm more thankful to the people who are going to continue this fight, because as the passage of Prop 8 shows us, it's far from over. People still can be forced to vote against their gut by fear and hatred.

Si se puede!

Seems growing up / Didn't take long / I feel strange, I feel good / I feel better with you

It's amazing how a little paradigm shift can make such a difference in one's life.

This was the weekend I finally did it-- a cathartic cleansing of the bedroom. The final moving boxes have been emptied, three years later, and it felt good to just throw the entire thing out. It's nothing like the 100-thing challenge my friend is doing, but for me, it's a pretty good start.

There is a pile of clean laundry on my bed and a pile of dirty dishes in my sink, but right now, it's great to just enjoy the newness of an old room. Perhaps this will motivate me to reorganize the other parts of my life-- to usher in a new self, from the old pieces.

I'm ready for a real fall... no more Santa Ana winds bringing 90-degree weekdays and firestorms. I want crisp breezes whisking my skirt up for one dangerous moment, orange leaves, and blue skies. I want evenings to be just chilly enough that snuggling into my down comforter with a book is the only perfect thing to do on a Saturday night. I want an excuse to wear long coats and scarves to the office and an ever better excuse to disappear to the park next door during my lunch hour to enjoy them both.

Rain, rain go away / Come again another day ...

I choose not to celebrate the day that Columbus arrived to North America, bringing with him disease, colonialism, and what could really be considered the end of entire, non-Westernized civilization.

Instead, I choose to celebrate the 50th birthday of a beloved childhood friend...

(And I commend google.com for not buying into this Columbus-Day crap and identifying a much more significant holiday for its splash page graphic.)

I always wanted a stuffed version of this cuddly-marmalade-and-tea-loving lost little bear. Perhaps this is when I fell in love with well-designed coats (look at his little peacoat!) and floppy hats.

Unfortunately, the only coat I had at the time I met Paddington Bear was a bright pink, puffy jacket, that was about two sizes too big (so I could wear it for several years... oh that economic mommy!). I have a diary entry, written in my 3rd-grade scrawl (oversized, bubbly letters, a little slanted, and certainly eager), about that jacket and the Santa Ana winds. It was the only thing keeping me warm during recess during the winds, and the only thing heavy enough to keep me from flying away.

Now, I have lots of coats (and they aren't two sizes too big thankfully). The Santa Ana winds are still blowing, spreading little fire sparks across the southland. I have the protective shell of a well-made Japanese car to keep me from flying away and a lot less recess time. Instead of a Paddington Bear, I have Noah, my little brown bear that's absorbed a lot of laughs and tears since we met in 2003.

Cheers Paddington Bear.
Keep rocking that peacoat.

I probably should have asked for permission before stealing this, but I figure so long as I keep it anonymous (until the person I stole it from demands I give credit and lunch), it should be okay.

It is astounding that at this part of the process you still find yourself thinking outside the box of that which you represent. But, what do you fear? Where do you want to go? Whose ideas will you challenge and how much are you willing to give up?

Remember everything about this process because it will never happen to you ever again in your life. You are privileged to know these things and ensure that others can understand the life of multiculturalist movements.

Find answers for others and yourself. I don't want to forget where I am coming from nor who who has been there at the worse moments. Try to love but not fall in love. Learn people's names. Make people smile. Stay humble. Dress calmly. Smell good. Read more.

In more concrete terms, remember this as a moment of concientization about the powers of privilege, the balances of power, the way in which the things you say are perceived. Challenge yourself. Be an intellectual. Be daring.

Recognize that fighting apathy is nearly impossible, and doing so might have to be as complex as the tools needed to manufacture consent.

Be fair. Let go. Grow up.

Honor your father and mother.

Change people's minds.

Live on other people's shoes.

Remember we are a people of advocacy. No flashy promises.

Fight (with a smile on).

Lovely.
Just lovely.

me: what you know about commercial paper?

e: not a whole lot
very similar to cash... or a CD

why?

me: government purchasing commercial paper to aid in "bail out"

e: so here's my understanding of commercial paper

big name companies, usually financial institutions, use it as a short-term borrowing tool
so think of a company like... Lehman Brothers, for example, issuing something like a 3-month CD
the CD is actually commercial paper... and Lehman leverages the money they get for their operations

whoever buys the commercial paper (usually big institutional investors like money market funds since CP's are considered relatively low-risk) are due the principal + interest when the CP matures

just like how a CD operates

me: yah

e: but... if a company like Lehman is unable to make good on the CP when it matures... the value of the CP on the open market suddenly drops significantly

which is what happened with all of these firms being over-leveraged and the on-set of our current credit crisis

and alot of these companies rely so much on short-term borrowing

so essentially, the govt wants to step in and buy up these CP's acting as the short-term lender to these companies

and then there are asset-backed CP's... which are CP's that have a pool of asset-backed securities used as collateral... mtge crisis has rendered the asset-backed securities worthless

meaning that those ABCP's are 'guaranteed' by worthless securities

me: so basically...

banks have no money.

banks going bankrupt.

government = new bank.

e: exactly

me: woot woot

COMMUNISM HERE WE COME!

e: hooray

let's move to Canada

Still can feel you kiss me love / Still can see your brown skin shine...

Dear You,

I'm not sure who I am writing to. Perhaps it is for the people that hurt me in the past. Or maybe it's for those I have hurt recently.

It's been a strange month. On top of dealing with my own romantic mishaps, I was fielding calls from multiple friends trying to talk them off the ledge of their own circumstances. Maybe the heat is making us a little crazy and the remnants of the always-too-indulgent summer are being stretched into what is supposed to be autumn. Regardless of the cause, there is a lot of heartbreak and confusion in the air.

For once, I can't claim myself the victim. I've now been placed in the interesting position of being the perpetrator.

I've hurt someone I care deeply for, despite the fact we haven't known each other very long. He is someone that reminded that good-hearted and generous people still exist in the world. His kindness is completely natural and actually even makes me feel ashamed of my inability to be that good. It may not be apparent to most people, but he contains a type of inner-strength that is not displayed by many people his age. He's learned to forgive people for the gravest errors with an open heart and learned to believe in change. He can take abuse and hurtful words, without so much of a flinch, and turn back around and still be supportive and loving. Most of the time he looks happy-go-lucky, as though he isn't thinking about much beyond the task in front him, but like most things, his exterior is deceiving. His mind is constantly busy with thoughts of his friends, his family, his life...
I hurt him by pushing the boundaries of his kindness and generosity. I exploited the very things that drew me to him and that I have come to endlessly respect. I tested the number of times he would forgive me and the things he would forgive me for. I'm testing him even now, offering myself as a friend, when the last thing he might even want or need from me is my friendship.

And now, I find myself in the situation of possibly repeating my mistakes, mistakes that I made only a few weeks ago.

You see, I have a cycle. A very predictable and a very sad cycle.
No matter how wonderful or terrible the individual in front of me, they get three weeks. After three weeks, everything comes tumbling down. My expectations of the other grows exponentially-- anything less than perfect is unacceptable. Perfect means being appropriately attentive and independent, being available on a whim without appearing overly eager; it means being both loving and cruel. I guess I put a whole new spin on wanting everything.
Suddenly, the closeness I felt to the other, the need to include him in my life, disappears. My independence is threatened... my identity is threatened. The idea of trading my impetuous ways for stability and support suddenly appears absolutely unacceptable.

In the envious position of having one too many desirable suitors, I find myself with another who is willing to put me pretty high on his list of priorities. I arrived as a disastrous disruption in his life and rather than running from me, he's embraced me closer, embracing the instability that is... well... me. Although I argue otherwise, he asks for very little in return for indulging most of my whims. A phone call, an hour of face time, a hug... and in return I get a gopher, driver, personal cook, receiver-of-my-anger-rants, and overall supporter/cheerleader.

It shames me to think I'd be willing to jeopardize it all to have a night of doing-whatever-the-hell-I-want. My love of adventure, of meeting new people, of engaging with the world around me, and of expanding my list of ridiculous stories makes me almost hate the thought of being attached to any one person. I'm willing to gamble my whole bank account, for the rush of taking the risk and the (small) possibility of winning even bigger (whatever that means).

Three weeks have passed and I am stuck. I can't bring myself out of my head and I'm awaiting my best friend to help me cut through the confusion.
I need to figure out what I want.
Do I want to be in a relationship?
If I don't, what do I want otherwise?
What do I enjoy about relationships?
What scares me about them?
Can those fears be overcome?
Is this the time to overcome them?
Am I willing to accept my own realities and face them?
Am I willing to accept that I might not be able to fulfill everyone's idea of what I should be doing?
Am I willing to accept that I like being alone? What does that mean if I do?

Thanks You, for reading.
It's been a hard week.

I just want to know today, know today, know today / Know that maybe I will be okay

I keep seeing him everywhere.
On the street on a skateboard.
Eating an ice cream.
Exiting the elevator.
Waiting on the street corner.

He's a little shorter,
a little younger,
a little fatter,
slightly different hair.

Different iterations of the same person, appearing everywhere.


Maybe it's because school has started again and the village is filled with 60,000 more people than before, increasing the chances that my eyes will play tricks on me.
Or maybe, I just need to sleep more.
Or maybe, I just need to mail him those cookies he loves so much and I've been thinking about sending him (for the last week).

Or maybe, I have a good thing going and it's approaching three weeks and I'm having the same old freak-out session that I always do.

I have the strong desire to run away, to buy a plane ticket somewhere and not tell anyone that I'm leaving for a few days. I don't think it is natural to be this turned off to commitment... it seems like one of those things that would have been evolutionarily weeded out a long time ago (although, I guess promiscuity would be more genetically favorable, man or woman, if it means I am diversifying the future gene pool by mating with many partners). I'm searching for anything to ruin what I have so I don't take responsibility for the fact that I am a genetic sport (hooray for self-sabotage).

I wonder how he and I ever made it as long as we did. Granted, we fought to the point of breaking up everything three months, but we still made it pretty far. I suspect that given the difficult year we were both living, we just needed something, even if it wasn't that great (and possibly more damaging than either would care to admit). That, and he took my abuse and bizarre/sarcastic comments better than anyone I know.

It's been nearly two and a half years since we first met.
A year and a half since we broke up.
Almost a year since we began speaking again.
Two months since we stopped.



And now, it's been two and a half weeks since he asked for a modicum of commitment from me.
A month and a half since hypotheses were tested.
Two and a half months since we began talking.
Sixth months since we first met.


Approaching three weeks.
Temptation's right around the corner (several corners, actually) and I'm concentrating on not succumbing to it.
I have to believe that people are capable of overcoming their own terrible judgment, otherwise I'm condemned to make a lot of enemies.