Hear me roar.

today

i was daydreaming, and looking at my hands and arms rather dismissively, the way i do sometimes when i daydream. frequently, my eyes will land on old scars, and i’ll start to think about them — where they came from, what had happened, how old i’d been. 

there’s one scar on my left pinkie whose story i remember very vividly. 

the story of this particular scar usually flashes through my mind quickly, but today, for some inexplicable reason, it decided to hover around for a while. in the seconds that followed, a strong sense of curiosity unraveled, preceded only by a short stab of guilt.

in seventh grade, there was a kid in my class named andrew. all i remember about him was that he was japanese, and that the other kids liked to make fun of him a lot. i don’t know if this is actually what happened, but it’s the feeling i remember, which is all the truth i have to go on now, isn’t it? i remember we had many mutual friends, or perhaps, “friends.” they made fun of his japanese name, taunting him repeatedly. when you’re that age, jokes like those never grow old. it was terrible. even then i remember feeling a bit sad about it. i don’t remember if i ever made fun of him myself, but i’d thought he was a nice kid. quiet, maybe, but nice.

sometime that year (it was a nice sunny day, so probably sometime in the spring near the end of school).. maybe it was because we’d been discussing weaponry, or slingshots specifically, or something like that.. i went to school expecting nothing, as always. during lunch that day, he pulled out a large, Y-shaped branch from his backpack. it was cut a bit crudely, and there were still knots along its surface, but it was sturdy, and it was a slingshot! 

“i made this for you.”

that quote may or may not have happened, but that was the implication i felt. he might have just said, “here.” or maybe even nothing at all.

that afternoon, i took the slingshot home and stored it quickly away in my room lest my parents recognize its identity as a proper weapon. however, when it came time for dinner, i couldn’t stop fidgeting in my seat. there was no way i was going to go that long (after receiving such a prized gift) without making sure it was still alright. i asked to go to my room for a bit “to grab something” (hah, i still use that excuse now). what if it had somehow been stolen, or broken and snapped in half during the four hours it sat in my drawer? these were real fears, i assure you.

in any case, i went upstairs and carefully brought it out to examine. i held the handle in my hands, and wished it were smoother, when suddenly.. AN IDEA!

middle school was my prime model-making phase. it follows, then, that i had easy access to various hobby knives. you know how adults are always going on about not letting children near knives? yeah, it’s probably much safer (that said, however, i’m totally giving my kid knives). 

welp, 7th grade me thought it would be a great, spontaneous idea to take that knife and shave off the bark from the damn slingshot handle. that night, i learned the hard way why keeping body parts away from the knife’s path of destruction is generally the smart thing to do. needless to say, i totally sliced my pinkie open, down to the bone. and it totally started bleeding.

i’ve never been afraid of blood, so it was easy to stay calm as my finger peed profusely onto the carpet. i don’t think the pain had really set in yet. plus, there were more pressing matters to attend to: how the fuck do i explain this to my parents? i had to go back to dinner. shit.

in the end, i settled on the best excuse i could come up with, tossed the knife back into my drawer and headed back downstairs, finger dripping all over the goddamn place.

“mooooommmmmm, i gave myself a papercut with a highlights booooookkkkk…..”

yeah, highlights. remember those? dangerous. i swear.

i have no idea whether they really believed me or not, but they sure acted the part. i think they probably just couldn’t think of a better explanation, y’know? it healed after a while, and i got this scar, and the story to boot. anyway, the slingshot is still in my room, in the closet, in a box somewhere.

oh, right. so what happened to the kid? well, the only other thing i remember about him is that when we were in 8th grade, he sat next to me in art class. he was good, i remember that much. he made this painting once, and the only thing i can recall clearly is that it featured killer whales. i complimented it, because killer whales are badass. i think he shyly thanked me.

after we’d all “graduated” from middle school, he left hercules forever. no one knew where to, no one knew why. we just knew he was gone. some said he’d gone back to japan, some said he’d died.

…

so the point of this post. it got me thinking about that kid, and i started wondering how he was doing. what was he up to these days? i even went back to take a look at his xanga. oh, xanga. and then, after deciding i’d never know anything more about this guy than what middle-school me remembered, mark zuckerberg bitchslapped me with facebook. i was like, “oh, duh.”

i looked him up, and lo and behold, he’d gone back to japan for high school and college. he still looks approximately the same, so my memory has served me well. part of me wants to add him and see if he remembers the slingshot. the other part of me thinks that’s creepy. 

it’s creepy, right?

yesterday,

i was at costco, grabbing some lamb chops and strawberries for my parents. i zoomed straight from the entrance to the meats section, threw four racks into my cart, and headed directly to the fruit area for strawberries. i took a pack of strawberries and remembered that my dad had also asked me to get a box of grapes. 

as i headed over to the grapes section, this man standing alone nearby — he was probably in his late 50’s or 60’s — turned to me and said, “Hi. You know how to shop.”

I looked at him, confused. Strange compliment. Also, he didn’t have a cart, any groceries, or family members nearby, as far as I could tell.

“I was watching you, and you really know how to shop. Not many people do.”

“Watching you.” Creeeeepy. That made me become slightly wary, so I gave him a tentative “haha, thanks” as I started walking away towards the grapes. He followed me.

I picked up a box.

“You know, I went to Japan once, it’s a wonderful place.”

Sigh, Japan. I bet he thinks I’m Japanese.

A bit annoyed, I humored him. “Really? Yeah, Japan’s nice. I’ve been there once, myself..” I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of injustice.

“…But ah, I’m not Japanese.” For some reason, my earlier wariness had all but disappeared.

He had a surprised look on his face as he asked, where was my family from, then?

“Uhh, China.”

“Oh, yes, yes, the Chinese are interesting people, yes.” 

How do I even respond to tha-..

“So where do you live?”

Wariness, return!

“Uh, the bay area.” I realized this was redundant since we were at the Richmond Costco and debated clarifying my answer, but as he started to respond, I became increasingly interested in scrutinizing the grapes.

I don’t really remember what happened after that, but he eventually walked away. I think my dad might’ve called or something.

Anyway, afterwards, I felt sort of bad and wondered if he was really just a nice guy trying to make conversation. Is it sad that I’ve been hardwired to be on edge around certain demographics? Technically, I was stereotyping him the same way he did to me. Maybe I should’ve just given him a chance to talk about Japan and the bay and interesting Chinese people, or why he’d thought I was good at shopping.

After paying for my groceries, I walked back to the car wondering if I would have responded the same way to a younger guy asking the same questions less creepily (or just less directly). I thought back to the Sac State student from the Hotdogger who’d impressed me with his ability to make conversation with the strangers he served. Perhaps this guy was just an awkward, tact-less old man.

In the old days where everyone in a town knew everyone else, this wouldn’t have been a problem. I probably would’ve stopped and had a long talk with the guy, maybe offered him grapes or asked if he knew how to pick the good ones. 

Maybe he was a friendly guy, and maybe I had shot down his faith in humanity.

Or maybe he was just a creep. Well, better safe than sorry.

Anonymous asked: can i bring a tupperware of chili on an airplane?

i… well yeah, i guess you could. but you’d best poke holes in that shit or it’s about to a’splode all over you and your bag.

doing things

today at my internship, my supervisor let me put on a pair of farrier’s pants and pull off my first horseshoe! :D it was AWESOME. and much harder than it looks.. but awesome. and next week he said he’d let me try it again. but man, it’s such a workout on your thighs/back… i only did one, maybe about 5 mins worth of work (it should only take like 30 seconds..) and my back was like STOP IT. STOP. NOW. i guess it doesn’t help that i have back issues, haha. i need to get me one of those lumbar support things to put on my chair :(