My Love/Hate Relationship with Starbucks

Starbucks, I love you for the following 3 reasons:

1. You are always there for me.

I love your reliability. If I need you, wherever I may be on the planet, I know that you'll always be within a 10-minute drive away.

2. You provide me with free Internet access.

If all the sudden I need to talk to my boss and realize that it's 3:55 PM, and we have a meeting at 4 PM and I'm not at home... all I need to do is drive over to you, and everything's taken care of. Thanks to you I have not been fired.

3. You keep me alive.

When I'm driving home on the freeway after a long night or a busy day or both... and the sun's setting.. and all the sudden my eyelids are getting heavier... all I have to do is take the next exit and find you, MY SAVIOR, nearby with your delicious caffeinated drinks that infuse me with the power to survive.

Starbucks, I hate you for the following 3 reasons:

1. You eat my money.

As much as I love you, I love my money more.

2. You are a ruthless corporation.

Unfortunately you are not a kind, small community business that you pretend to be. You're an evil global corporation that preys on people's addictions and kills smaller businesses. You craftily use your advertising skills and other techniques to sell products for like 3 times as much as they are actually worth by just decorating it with your special cups and logos.

3. You fuel American obesity.

Your addictive sugary, fatty drinks make the world grow round. Stop making us all fat.

That being said...

I pick Coffee Bean over you

Storytime: Death of Fate the Hummingbird

Yesterday, while walking to my car I noticed a moth-like figure flying low to the ground crash into my mail kiosk. Curious, I decided to investigate further, and upon closer inspection I realized that this creature was not a moth but a hummingbird. A beautiful, injured hummingbird.

It was the first time that I was able to come so close to a hummingbird for that extended length of time. I had no idea what was wrong with the bird but observed that it kept on moving its head up and down like it was choking on something. Originally, I mistook the little stick coming out from its beak, which I later learned was its tongue, for a food particle that he was choking on. Yes, as you can obviously tell, I am in no way qualified to give you any diagnosis of the hummingbird's problem. All I can tell you is that it couldn't fly properly and looked like it was suffering greatly.

I stared at it for about 10 minutes because I wasn't sure what to do. I was too afraid to approach it because it was making erratic movements, and I was afraid it was going to peck me rapidly and hurt my hand. I did not want to scare it and put it into any more panic than it was already in. Eventually it kept on moving further and further towards the center of the street, so I ended up kneeling down by it to make sure that no one would run over it. 

Helena, having planned to come to my house beforehand, ended up coming about 10 minutes after I discovered the bird. Together, we moved it to the side of the street, and eventually Helena and my dad crafted a sort of box, hummingbird habit-y thing out of plants, a FedEx box, Saran wrap, and crumpled up tissue paper. My dad also made some sort of nectar concoction that Helena fed to the hummingbird using the tip of a chopstick. While they were busy accomplishing the above activities, I aided them as well as searched online for wildlife rehabilitation centers around the area. I finally found a lady who specialized in hummingbirds and gave her a call. She said she lived in Lomita and that she was about to go the store and would call us back when she returned. 

Helena and I prepared the box and were ready to go to her house even though she didn't give us her address. As we were heading in the general direction of her house, however, the bird ceased to breath and died in (the box in) Helena's arms. I called the lady as soon as Helena noticed the bird's stillness, and she told us she had just come back from the store. We described the symptoms to her and all she could do to us in return was ask us if we had a place to bury the bird.

It was a scarring experience to say the least. The bird was so full of life, drinking the nectar, fluttering its wings around.. and then all the sudden while I was driving, Helena started freaking out.

 Eyes closed and body completely still. It was all too quick to believe.

Poor hummingbird. I suggested naming the bird "Felt". Helena suggested some Native American name options. I am deciding right now that I am going to name the deceased bird "Fate".

I will dedicate a poem to Fate later this week. RIP Fate

The One-Way Window

The One-Way Window

Outside on the streets

In the pouring

Rain I stand,

Peering hopefully

Inside your second-floor window.

Inside you're dancing

To music I can't hear,

Her perfectly pointed toes

Tracing circles in your floor

Her twirling blue dress

Making soft ripples

In waves of mahogany.

Outside on the streets

Under the burnt-out

Lamppost I stand,

Gazing longingly

Inside your second-floor window.

Inside you're laughing

At something I can't hear,

Her perfectly long hair

Shading your face

Her darkly stained lips

 Whispering something more

In your ear.

Outside on the streets

Against the unrelenting

Wind I stand,

Staring desperately

Inside your third-floor window.

Inside her perfect hand

Searches for the light switch.

----------

The Stage Headlights

The stereo blares,
The siren wails,
But I can't hear a thing
Past the
Thud
Thud
Thudding
Of my own heart.

The red lights blind,
What the rear-view mirror intensifies,
But I can't see a thing
Except for the
Tears
Tears
Tears blurring
In my eyes.

A hand,
Taps gently on my back,
But I can't feel a thing
Save for the
Brake pedal
Pedal
Pedal
My foot is gripping
Onto for dear life.

Round the corner,
Behind the curtains,
The open road lies,
But I can only focus on the
Oncoming truck's
Headlights
Headlights
Headlights
Keeping me from the other side.

----------

I hope that this poem may resonate in different ways for different readers, but I just wanted to include my intentions behind this poem because, after talking to a couple of my friends who I shared it with, I realized it may be unclear. I was thinking about stage fright when writing this poem and was drawing a parallel between the truck's blinding headlights around the street corner and the critical eyes of audience members behind the stage curtains.

My Elementary School Writings

Today I rediscovered a pile of old papers of mine from elementary school in my parents' closet. My mom always liked to keep samples of my writing so I could be able to read them later. I am very glad she did so because I found it entertaining to read the off-the-wall stories young me used to imagine. While reading through my writing, I was surprised at how dark some of my writing was. I had no recollection of ever writing them. I hope you will enjoy reading a few of them as well!

----------

"Dada"

by 10-year-old Michelle

     Deep inside the heart of a South African jungle in a small clearing, lived a Native African girl with a beautiful long braid. The girl was an orphan and had run here to escape the bustle and violence of her poor village on the outskirts of Africa. To live in the peace and beauty of her native land was the girl's life-long goal. She was only 16 years old but already knew how to forage and to survive in the wilderness.

     The girl's name was Dada. Dada is a traditional African name for girls. Dada means: girl with curly hair. Dada' mother had long beautiful curly hair, exactly like Dada's hair, and her name was the same too. When Dada's mother passed away, Dada couldn't bear to look at her own curly hair. She couldn't withstand all of those memories about her mother overflowing her head. One day, after she couldn't bear her hair any longer, she decided to braid it.

    Before she braided, she washed her silky, curly hair as she washed away her tears. When Dada began to braid her hairy, she felt weak, as she braided more and more, she felt stronger. Finally when she was finished braiding her hair, she was as strong and everlasting as her braid.

----------

"The Village of Okrah"

by 9-year-old Michelle

     As she stumbled while fleeing away in the crowded streets of the city, the rain poured down, casting shadows over her eyes. The rain thoroughly soaked her clothing, so the girl threw off her apron to cast off some weight and kept on running. The poor orphan girl was trying to escape the stressful village ruled under the tyrant Okrah.

     All of the sudden, she was startled by an unfamiliar sight. It was the exit gates out of the land ruled by Okrah. She had finally found them! She rushed out of Okrah trying to lose the guards chasing after her. She turned a sharp turn and ran as far as she could. Then she rested.

     She woke up to the smell of fresh biscuits with jam. Where was she?

     A lady that looked like a grandma greeted her. Before anything else, she stuffed a biscuit down the poor orphan's mouth. The flavor tasted nothing like a biscuit. The girl managed to swallow it down her throat though.

     The quiet lady, saying nothing more, massaged the girl's blistery hands and feet and dried the girl's clothing. She handed the girl a new apron that was very unlike her other one. It was all starched and crumbly.

     After making sure that the girl was healthy and safe, she croaked, "My name is Anne Roathe and who should you be?"

     The girl answered, " I have no name, father, mother, house, friend, belongings, or," she whispered quietly, "soul". 

     The old lady laughed. Her laugh sounded like the creaking of the walls in her little cottage. 

     She said to the girl, "Of course you have a soul!"

     The girl said quietly, "Okrah took it away from me."

     The old lady stopped laughing and almost choked on the biscuit she was engulfing. While gasping for air she replied, "Okrah is a greedy, cruel man, but he can't steal souls".

     She paused.

     Then she asked, "Did you really escape his village?"

     "Yes."

     The old lady pushed her out of her house and punched her. Her punch had no effect. It was as if someone threw a wet sponge at her.

     However the girl looked so sad that it appeared as if the lady had broken her bones. The old lady had shattered the girl's confidence of finding her dream village.

     It was raining outside still. No one could see the tears that blurred the poor girl's face. She was a nobody. Forevermore.

---------

" The 'Place' "

By 10-year-old Michelle

     As the space creatures approached us, we ducked into the spaceship. We could hear those "aliens" chant a wicked song too wicked to hear. We covered our ears. "We are aliens here to come and get you! Get You! And eat your spirits and turn your hearts into us. If you come with us -- wait-- you have to come with us. You must turn into dust like us!"

     I, who looked very horrified at that moment, terrifingly lifted my hand to cover my face... BANG, BANG, BANG! Bad. Bad. Bad. Janet hit the lever. the door opened and the alien dust creatures fought us. Trying to force us to go with them to the "place" with them. Trying to hit them was pointless. The dust brushed through the gaps between our fingers. It did them no harm. Oh. No. More aliens approaching. Janet and I tried using all the controls in the spaceship to close the door and fight back. It was too late! Janet pushed that button and that door would be open for eternity! I tried to fight the aliens off by punching them. No! I could hear a distant sound. Someone was saying something to me.

     "You are too late!" said what I thought to be the alien chief.

     "Ahhhhhhhhh!" I screamed.

     Something cold touched my face... everything blurred. Then came clear. I could see my mother telling me to wake up and stop fighting the air and my blanket. Where was I? Was that a bad dream? Or was this the "place"? I will never know.

----------
Excerpt from an assignment titled "What Bugs You"
By 9-year-old Michelle

    "I don't seem to like complete silence all that much except for when I am reading or resting. It just bugs me crazy! When people have stared at me and not expressed their thoughts verbally and instead simply smiled at me, it drove me nuts to figure out what their thoughts were, why they had those thoughts, how to react, why they were looking at me,... it was hard for me to digest the information. When people acted in weird ways towards me, I processed it in my brain. I tried to figure out the reason of their behavior towards me before I went to sleep. A person can only take in so much thought before they fall asleep though.

    Thoughts BUG me. They pick away at your brain. They scratch your skin. They interrupt your dreams. Thoughts, worries, facts, quotes, statements, memories swoosh and twirl around your skull knocking on its bony walls trying to get into your brain. Thoughts about life, death, choices, and worries of all kinds usually are the main things that inhabit my head. My head sure looks small on the outside, but in the inside there is a little machine processing long lists of worries and thoughts. The stuff that steams around in my head is the stuff that bugs me all the time, especially when I am tired and while I am resting. 

    Most of my thoughts are based on people and what they do to me during the day. I also worry about tests, life, friends, and family and how I should change myself to become a better person. Sometimes when things bug me, I have a chance to see how to change myself so that something won't bug me anymore. I sometimes find myself becoming a better person when I try to adapt to the environment or situation that is bugging me."

Diminishing Disappointment

I never write poems but decided to write a terrible one today on the plane home from Chicago, IL. I wanted to experiment with expressing my feelings in a different form. I had an interview day with Northwestern's School of Medicine but was disappointed with how I performed as you probably could assume from the title of this post. I don't officially hear back until April 1st, but yes, it was a challenging learning experience for me.

Disappointment,

That horrid feeling,

Leaves me with worse than nothing.

Merciless Disappointment

Haunts me

Day in 
             and 
                        day out,

            Hour            
                               upon            
                                                 hour,

                                   Minute        
                                                        upon    
                                                                         consuming       
                                                                                                       m  i     n       u         t         e       

 With e m p t y hopes,

                                                       E   m   p   t   y     dreams,

   E      m      p      t      y      thoughts of what could have been,

                                         

But what can never be any more.

Instead of the shiny red wrapping paper,

                                                   

                                                                               The fancy silver ribbon,

                                                            And the large green box, 

                                   Promising so much,

But containing so little, 

I think that it would be much better if,

                                                                Under the tree, there was

Nothing at all.

Well, on a more positive note, after I finished writing this post originally titled "Disappointment" I checked my email and found out that I was accepted to UC Berkeley and invited to apply for a UCB Regents' & Chancellor's Scholarship. My disappointment has diminished greatly in light of my acceptance. Today really has been an emotional roller coaster for me. Teenage years. Gah. What can you do about them. 

I guess the point of this post is that there is an endless number of life paths out there for us all. Sometimes I know that it may not feel like it, but there really are. The world holds so many opportunities, and we shouldn't discouraged if our original plans get changed. The world holds billions of potential unwritten futures. We just have to change our mindsets to take advantage of them. I don't know what I'll be doing or where I will be next year, but it is important for me to keep an open mind about everything.

Thanks for reading,
Michelle

Those Perfect Rainy Nights

While the rest of the nation was preoccupied watching the Broncos and the Sea Hawks battle it out over chips and guacamole, Anna, Marissa and I spent a night together that I shall never forget. I am going to miss them so much when we go our separate ways next year.

I decided to include an 8 second iPhone video clip filmed by my lovely friend Marissa in this post to commemorate the night. Nothing of the illegal sort occurred, but we would all prefer to keep the details of the night to ourselves. Anyways, I believe that Anna summed everything up quite well in my opinion. As Anna put it, the night was "dream-like". Vegan food. Laughter. Tears. Coffee. Driving the open streets of LA with friends with no particular destination in mind.. Left-right-left-straight-North?-South?-West?-Where the hell are we? In the darkness of the night. During the heavy rain. Blasting the car radio. Sirens. Flashing lights. Casinos. Taco joints. Strange astronomical events. It's hard to explain, but everything about it was peaceful and perfect. Everything seemed like a dream. I had to post this to remind my current and future self that it did indeed happen.

Unfortunately the above clip ^ is unable to be viewed on mobile devices. Sorry.