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Technology saves the day.

I love my iPhone. Seriously. It’s a little too intense for life, how much one can love an electronic device. But here we are, me waxing poetic about my love for a stupid phone.

the top five reasons I love my phone

5. instant communication.

4. the ability to stay connected to people that you normally wouldn’t.

3. the information highway.

I love being able to be on a road trip with my family and have discussions such as these:

Dad: I believe the background Book of Mormon was written by Joseph Mormon and was based on these golden plates that an angel gave to him to translate.

Me: How did he translate it?

Dad: I think he had some sort of translating stone.

Me: Also given to him by the angel?

Dad: Of course! I don’t know, I could be making this all up. Look it up. Do you have your phone? Google it.

This also lead to the information drought of 2015, when we drove to Canada and didn’t have access to the internet, only texting and phone.

2. Selfies. On selfies on selfies on selfies. I love photos. AND NOW A CAMERA IS IN MY POCKET FOR EVER. #SNAPCHAT (@LA_theGirl)

#Selfie #MirrorShot

#Selfie #MirrorShot

And.

The number one reason that I love my phone:

1. Spider just crawled on my desk and that phone killed it dead.*

*Author’s note: the next day, another spider jumped on her desk, and she did not have her phone and she crushed it with her bare head because scared of spiders and BAMF.

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No, but really.

I made a New Year’s Resolution this year that I was going to try and stop over-analyzing things. Granted, I made this resolution about a week into the New Year, after over-analyzing exactly what my New Year’s resolution should be and how much of an impact it would make on my day-to-day life and if I was even really going to keep my New Year’s Resolution, because duh.

It’s a New Year’s Resolution.

So, I made this resolution and basically a week later, was on the verge of breaking it. It started simply enough – kind of the way that an old school AIM conversation would, if I remember 2004 correctly.

You: Hey

Them: Hey

You: What’s up?

Them: N2M. U?

You: NM.

Them: Cool

Except instead of acronyms, we used proper spelling, and instead of the ding-a-ling IM sound, it was the generic Apple text sound that everyone checks their phone when they hear because #teamiPhone. So, really, it went something like this:

Me: How’s Mohawk?

Mohawk: Mohawk is fine.

Simple enough. It should be, at least. Simple question, simple answer, and we all move forward in our lives. Except for the fact that I had made a New Year’s Resolution, and Resolutions are apparently meant to be broken.

Are you fine?

 

One of the reasons I decided to try and give up on “over-analyzing” the shit out of everything is because I over-analyze the shit out of everything.

But I’m fine, guys, I swear.

There’s this assumption that comes with being a girl and being fine. Are you really fine, or are you, like, the completely fucked up not fine at all that is now associated with saying that you’re fine?

It’s to the point where I don’t even try and say that I’m fine — or even better, I disclaim my fineness to accentuate the fact that I’m seriously okay.

 

I’ve realized that hearing that someone is fine is really like going through the five stages of grief.

Stage One: Denial

Untitled

Stages Two and Three: Anger and Bargaining

Anger

Stage Four: Depression

Stage Five: Acceptance.

photo 2

I DIGRESS.

Seriously, what was this post about again? [Scrolls to top of post, re-reads…]

Right. Over-analyzing.

Resolutions: 1.

L.A.: 0.

I’m fine, guys. Really.

Basically, my journals are my horcruxes, but not really.

If you haven’t read Harry Potter, you might wanna go the fuck away. One, because WHY NOT?! Two, because there’s sort of spoilers in here. Like seriously. Come back when you finish the series.

I’m such a pack rat, guys. Seriously. I save fucking everything.

I have all of the Blue and Whites from when I was in high school (that’s my high school newspaper). I have old corsages from dances. I have wristbands from particularly memorable nights out. I have ticket stubs. I have the chapstick of the guitarist from Sanctus Real from a concert I went to in high school.

I’m not kidding. And that is so fucking creepy. I’m embarrassed that I’m not kidding.

Among all the hubbub that I keep though, there is something that if you know me, I mean really, really know me, then you know I have these.

Journals. Scads and Scads and Scads of journals.

“It’s not a diary. Diaries lock. 12 year old girls keep diaries. This is a journal.”

That was my excuse to people, who thought it was strange that I was a 14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21, etc year old, carrying around a blank book to scribble in. We’ll see how you feel if I ever publish these beauties. Mostly, I just always wanted to be writing. Short stories, poetry, gossip, crush of the year/week/day/hour/minute when someone brushed me on the stairs. My 3rd period Honors English III teacher was THRILLED that I was always writing, although I think she wouldn’t have been as enthralled if she’d read some of what I’d written.

i’m trying not to think of you now

but i’m wringing out the towel

and every drop drips your name

and your face

and god

i wish the sun would dry you out

drive you out

drive me in and love me

(excerpt from a poem from 2003)

But I couldn’t stop. Years later, I look at these journals, and I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Do I want to get rid of them? No. Would you? It’s a pile of reminders of who I was, or who I was when I didn’t know who I was, or just memories of times and changes and people that I might lose otherwise.

But other than that? It’s a pile of books gathering dust under my bed.

Until.

I was reading Harry Potter, for the 210394823 time. Because it’s Harry Potter, and that’s what you do.

So, I’m reading HP, and I’m crying, and I’m trying not to drip my tears on my book, because I totally turned down a night of underage drinking in college to get the damn thing at midnight, when my friend Mohawk texts me.

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Like any 20 something folks that grew up in the mind of J.K. Rowling, we begin discussion of the book. He, of course, brings up the second best Headmaster in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Snape. Snape. Severus Snape.

Which would be well and good until…

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And now we come full circle.

Journals.

Not just gathering dust under the bed. But useful when needed to one up someone in a debate on if or if not you considered Severus Snape to be a very, very bad man, or else you know…

Boom.

Boom. Courtesy of like journal…#34 or something.

I’ve never been so thrilled to have kept these books all these years.

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P.S. Dear J.K. Rowling,

If you happen to write another 7 books, could they maybe be about Sirius going through Hogwarts? Or James, or Remus, or Lily? I’ll settle for anyone except for Wormtail, cuz douchecanoe.

XO,

L.A.

 

That angry little ghost with the camera, and other social medias.

My friends tried for weeks to get me to get a snapchat. The latest craze, and whatnot. But I was bound and determined to never ever ever use facebook twitter instagram keek gifboom snapchat.

Let’s be honest. It was really just invented to probably make sexting easier for people. 

I actually used this phrase with the 9 year old that lives across the street from me and was trying to convince me to download the thing.

“When I was your age, I didn’t have a cellphone, let alone have snapchat.”

Guys, I’m old.

I mean, maybe not in like the big picture-the universe is ancient scheme of things. But like, in my regular I’m on social media too much for my own good life, I’m fucking old.

The progression of my life from then to snapchat.

Age 17: First Digital Camera. I am mad because if I had gotten the camera sooner, I would have been able to bring a smaller purse to prom.

Age 18: AIM adds direct connection and we are able to send our pictures via instant message. My computer instantly slows down with the addition of so many JPEGs.

Age 20. First camera phone. I embarrass the guy who sends me the very first dick pic in my life when I pull the phone out in a group of friends asking what the hell it was. You really couldn’t tell what it was. IT WAS A VERY BAD QUALITY PICTURE, AND I BLAME LG.

Age 21: First camera phone with flash. I am temporarily blinded by the next dick pic because let’s be honest, those things are fucking awkward, and those early camera phone flashes were fucking bright.

Age 26: Snapchat comes into my life.

A few weeks ago when I was out with AsianDave and Alto. We were chilling at Yesterdog when this hot mess of a woman(in a dress twelve sizes too small with a BAC that was above the legal limit to walk in five inch heels) fell all over herself, and the two of them went crazy snapchatting her sorry ass.

They were not subtle at all.

They were not subtle at all.

“You need a snapchat.” Alto tells me. “We can send pictures all the time to each other. It’s like texting, but better.”

“But let’s be honest.” I respond. “Snapchat was created by people who wanted to be able to sext and not get caught. AND NOW SMALL CHILDREN ARE USING IT.”

“That’s true,” Alto agrees. “I’m actually pretty afraid every time I get a snapchat, that it’s going to be a dick pic.”

AND THAT IS WHY I WILL NEVER GET SNAPCHAT.

Cue to the next day.

TomSelleck

Yeah. I gave in.

“Here’s my stance on snapchat.” I declare, while simultaneously sending the above snapchat, another one of the menu of the restaurant we were at, and yet another one of my hard cider. “The instant I get a snapchat of a penis, I’m deleting the app. I know why they made snapchat. I refuse to have random manparts on my phone.”

“Actually,” TomSelleck tells me. “I’ve gotten all sorts of balls snapchats, from when my friends are bored.”

“…”

“…”

“…maybe it’s a guy thing.” I shrug.

BUT WAIT.

I’m snapchatting with Mystique.

Tanner Jones is my right boob, by the way.

Mystique’s boobs have names too.

the age old question

Rhetorical question, clearly.

Rhetorical question, clearly.

Back to that conversation with TomSelleck.

“Now that I think about it.” I say. “I actually get boob pictures on snapchat all the time.”

TomSelleck frowns. “I’ve never gotten a boob picture.

GChat

Dear Snapchat,

Thanks for not letting any dick pics get through to my phone*, and for showing me that men and women, we aren’t so different after all.

Love, me

*I’ll for serious delete snapchat if I get any. Don’t send me any. WEIRDOS.

Almost losing a bet in 54 minutes. Day 2.

It occurs to me, as a man who is talented with card tricks entertains Alto and I, that I am 54 minutes away from losing a bet.

A man came up to us, with our hard ciders and our crack fries, with a deck of cards.

He’s MAGIC, you guys. I’d italicize that, but I’m not sure how to do that on the iPhone app.

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I’m picking a card.

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He’s setting it aside.

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He’s putting down another card next to my card. My card is closer to my drink.

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Saying magical words, and then…

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I don’t know how it moved. But it did. I’m not sure which is more magical. The fact that he keeps doing all these tricks, or the fact that he used card tricks to come up to the table, or the fact that all his friends joined him at our table as the tricks continued.

I wish there were a better way to illustrate this. Maybe I’ll take a video. Blog posted. Crisis averted.

Day 1YOU ARE HEREDay 3Day 4

Just in case you didn’t believe I was an Asian woman…

Poof is constantly giving me shit for being Asian and being a terrible driver. Her purse always falls over in my car when I drive. Apparently, I’m just building upon the stereotype.

I’m really not that bad of a driver. Similarly, I’m not that bad at directions. But I’ve fucked up things enough on a few occasions that I don’t really help the stereotypes. Asian Women suck at driving, and all women suck at directions.

Example:

The very first time I drove to the D to see BabyDaddy was in 2007. Smart phones were not smart enough to have GPS on them. I did not have a functioning printer to get MapQuest. Thus, I went on BabyDaddy’s word that I was to exit the highway at the 11 mile road exit. Simple enough, right?

Look at exit 21 and exit 28. Do you see an issue?

My roommate and I were scoping out the signs looking for 11 mile. We hit exit 21.

“11 Mile!” I shout.

“We found it!” She shouts.

We’re so thrilled with ourselves. We haven’t gotten killed on our road trip to Detroit! We exit the highway and follow BabyDaddy’s instructions to his house…until we realize that this doesn’t look like the nice suburbia neighborhood that I remember.

I realize this when a purple car pulls up next to us at a red light. It had lights underneath it. It is bouncing. And the large men in the front seat are giving us the nod. One of them mentions to me to roll my window down.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” I whisper.

“Do not. Look at them.” My roommate is staring straight ahead, eyes locked on the road.

We pull forward as the light turns green. I scramble for my phone and call TheCousin.

“We got off the highway and we don’t know where we are and there are scary people and BabyDaddy got me lost,” I tell him instead of a greeting.

TheCousin laughs at me and asks where we are. He says to pull over in a public location and that he’ll come find us and lead us to safety.

We hide out in a Wendy’s and eat frosty’s with the doors locked until he gets there. I jump out of the car and give him a huge hug.

He’s still laughing at me. “How the hell did you end up here?

FAST FORWARD.

It’s my birthday weekend. GoldDust and I have dressed up and are prepared to paint the town red. The destination? Royal Oak. I’ve never been out there before. I’m useless, direction-wise.

GoldDust is texting JukeBox. He’s asking where we’re going. She tells him the location, and he replies:

No one goes there.

We shrug this off, and park GoldDust’s rabbit. She pulls up the bar on her GPS and off we go. Her iPhone is telling us we’re only a couple blocks away, which seems okay to walk…says the two girls in five inch heels.

After walking awhile, the only thing I’m thinking of is to concentrate on walking and not falling. Eyes on the sidewalk. Nothing else matters except staying upright. Normally, I’m intoxicated when I’m thinking like this. But that’s the only thing I’m concentrating on.

“It should be…right…here,” GoldDust is glaring at her screen. She hands me the phone. “It says we’re here.”

She’s right. The blue dot is right on top of where the bar supposedly is. I look around. There is nothing that looks like a bar around us. I look back down at the phone. It blinks cheerily at me, announcing our arrival.

Then the blue dot flicks me off, then moves to another block away.

Fucking GPS making me walk further in my five inch heels.

No wonder JukeBox told GoldDust that no one goes to this bar. It’s because no one can find it.

We finally discover the Lost Bar of Atlantis. Sit, order, put up your feet. We were supposed to meet up with Tits McGee, but she’s nowhere to be found. JukeBox was talking about meeting up with us too, but he’s sidetracked in some other area of the D.

“What are your thoughts?” GoldDust asks me.

I shrug.

I think we both know that getting lost in R.O. is a buzzkill on the night. We decide to carry our heels, walk back to the car, and call it a night.

…which we do…

Until we’re walking down the street, barefoot, and GoldDust proclaims,

“Where the hell did we park?!”

Technology, you bitch.

I had this whole post I was going to write about how I’m on this letter writing kick. Seriously. It’s my latest obsession.

#LettersFromLA

I’ve hashtagged it. I’m trying to use up all the stationary I’ve accumulated over my life, which is an excessive amount.

This is the just pile that fits in my desk drawer. There’s more. Lots more.

Do you want a letter on Pohacco stationary? I’ve got that. Hello Kitty? Got it. Beatles notecards? I’ve got oodles. Those dollar bins at Target tend to sell cute little notecards, and they are only ONE DOLLAR. I must buy them. In case, you know, I write letters someday. Like today.

But while I was prepping to write this great post about letters and HOW YOU CAN GET ONE FROM ME, complete with doodles and Gelly Roll writing, I decided that I needed some inspiration.

I head to iTunes, ready to sing along to “Amsterdam” by Guster.

I wanna write you a letter, wanna write you a book…wanna…NOT BE ABLE TO PLAY THE SONG BECAUSE MY HARD DRIVE IS NOT WORKING.

I seriously start hyperventilating. My life is on this hard drive. All my music, every single photo I’ve taken since I got a digital camera back in 2005, every book I’ve written, homework going back to at least the seventh grade (God only knows why I’ve kept that), my effing TAXES, did I mention EVERY SINGLE PHOTO THAT I’VE TAKEN SINCE 2005?!

My first thought is to call theAsian and cry. Since he is 100% Asian, he has a tendency to be able to save my life when technology fails. Which is a lot.

Maybe it’s because my parents decided to marry and thus create a little half n’ half baby. But Technology and I do not get along. Someone told me once that I need to defriend Technology. And they are correct.

Case in Point:

I finally get an iPhone. It’s so shiny and pretty and the best phone I’ve ever had. Two weeks after getting it, I’m biking to soccer practice. I put the iPhone into my sweatshirt. The sweatshirt into my stuff sack. When I get to the field, the screen somehow managed to crack to oblivion.

“Did you drop it?” asks HSM while I cry to him at the Apple store. “You have to drop it just right for this to happen.”

“It was wrapped up in my sweatshirt in my bag on my back!” I wail.

He shakes his head. “This would only happen to you.”

While typing one day, LeBebe tries to Houdini out of his playpen (He’s just learning to walk at this point).

I immediately jump up to catch him, and when I’m holding him and telling him why we do not climb out of our playpen, I turn to see my computer. Which I dropped on the floor. Oops.

“I brought a computer for you,” I tell theAsian.

He laughs. “I’m guessing that means it’s broken?”

“No,” I say defensively. “It works!”

“But…”

“I dropped it and the screen flashes now.”*

I load all of my worldly possessions onto a hard drive to attempt to keep my computer from being overloaded. I go to plug in said hard drive and it will. not. load. It won’t even recognize. I take the thing to Best Buy. Geek Squad, save me.

“I can’t figure it out.” The guy hands it back to me, shaking his head. “It should work fine, but it doesn’t even want to load.”

“What about my files?” I am about to cry.

“SOL.” He shakes his head at me. “But I won’t charge you since we couldn’t fix it.”**

I buy a new digital camera. A few weeks into owning it, Macy and I are out and it somehow drops and breaks.

I cry.

We go to a casino. I win big money. I buy a new camera.

Fast forward five months. Macy and I are at a hockey game. I put the camera into my pocket. We climb on a tree.

I wake up and the camera screen has cracked.

Technology. Hates. Me.***

*Normally, I don’t drop things. Technology just blows up on me. I have witnesses.

**theAsian managd to successfully pull all my data off the broken hard drive and put it onto a new drive. Fuck you, Geek Squad.

***Feel free to donate to the “Buy L.A. a new hard drive foundation.” It will be my third hard drive. Although, I did manage to get it to connect by using a camera USB cord. I just can’t touch it, or it yells at me and starts making scary noises.