The Definition of "Life Sucks"

is running from your house all the way to church, where upon entering the foyer, you see the chapel ushers with the attendance cards leaving the sanctuary.

On Being Mentally Ill

Ever notice how it's the crazy ones who are smart?

Or is it the smart ones who are crazy?

Life as a mentally ill member of society doesn't seem much different from life as a normal member of society. A label doesn't generally have much effect on reality, save for the self-fulfilling prophecy.

Don't have much motivation to do much, though. You just kind of sit there and exist, wondering about life. Your mind kind of preoccupies itself with the problem of how you got to where you are, and how to get out.

I mean, duh, if you're mental, the way to fix yourself is to think your way out, because obviously your mind is the healthiest organ you've got. Or perhaps... it's the only one. And that's the problem. Or is it?

Doesn't it make sense now? Just sitting still and asking questions. It worked for Thomas Aquinas.

It's pretty easy to get lost in all the questions. How does one act without questions? You don't. You ask questions every moment of every day. When you get up, when you decide what to eat for breakfast, when you decide whether to go to work...

So many questions. When does anyone ever have any time to do anything, when there are so many important questions to answer?

Questions about existence, for instance. Why am I here? Why am I asking questions? Is this post sarcastic or serious? Do I even know?

I'm done writing. I have to go think about questions some more.

Best Superbowl Ad Ever

I've never been prouder to be an oboist :-)

Culture

I am Chinese. I am White. I am of two races; and I am of none.

It is true that a culture is simply a way of thinking—in which case, I am probably White. I was born over here, grew up over here, and learned the values, roles, and stereotypes of Caucasian culture.

At the same time, I was a Caucasian kid who grew up eating rice and noodles every other day, who still knows a little Chinese, who was taught to work hard, and who could do multiplication and division in kindergarten.

When I was young, I understood who I was. I played with the White kids, and I played with the Chinese kids, and was accepted by both as a member of their race, who knew intimately what it was like to be one of them. I could tell stories about hearing another language at home, but I would never have to translate for my parents. I knew what Hello Kitty was and I knew what WWF was (and, to be honest, had an interest in neither).

One day, something happened. I and my friends hit puberty. Girls became the main attraction. Relationships became the centre that life revolved around. And we were taught that interracial relationships, while on occasion could work, would only add stress and complications.

It wasn’t like they needed to be told. Black people dated black people. White people dated white people. Hispanic dated Hispanic, and Oriental dated Oriental. It was true there was the occasional adventurous girl who would go for something a little more atypical; but their relationships never tended to last very long.

It was then that I learned the truth about who I was. White people thought I was Chinese; and Chinese people thought I was White. It was really hard to dispute either point. To a Chinese person, I acted, thought, and looked like a White person—I didn’t have Asian eyes, an Asian nose; I couldn’t speak any language besides English. To a White person, I had black hair and brown eyes; therefore, I was different.

Eventually, I got to college, where professors believed that all goodness in the world came from asking questions. I looked within, and asked, “Who am I?”

A culture is simply a way of thinking, impressed on each and every person from such a young age, that no one remembers the difference between themselves and their culture. I am a culture clash. This is who I am—a person who consists of two elements that don’t always agree with each other.

I want to look deeper. I want to strip away all the layers of culture in me, so that at the very bottom when it’s all gone, I can find myself. When all of the clutter is removed, I will be able to see the world without any pre-existing notions and stereotypes—I will see the world for what it really is. But I’m afraid that when I take away all my ways of thinking, I will instead become a vegetable, without any remaining mental capacity.

My culture is my blessing and my curse.