Do you really love me?

Recently, I’ve been swamped with school, and most dreadfully, college apps (to explain for my lack of blogging recently). As the issue of college  gets nearer and nearer to me, an inevitable conflict has risen up as my parents get involved in the college process. The problem is this: I want to pursue journalism and politics and something of that sort as my major; whereas my parents disagree.

Now, they don’t straight up disagree with me. They did, but now, they just say, “You know, Titus, it’s unfair to force you to do something you don’t want to, especially since you worked so hard. So we’ll support you.” Yet, it’s obvious they reluctantly did so. And reluctant support is not support at all.

I recently found out that if I had wanted to go to any top journalism university, it was very likely that my family would have to pay around 40k to 50k. My parents said that was too much. Yet, I found out to my dismay that had I been pursuing the typical STEM that everybody at my school was chasing, my dad would have willingly hopped onto the board and invest his 50k into my education. The reason? Because journalism doesn’t pay much to be worth the 50k, my dad says.

So I wanted to ask him, is the worth of a career really dependent on the salary or on the content of your job? But it’s his goddam money, so I didn’t do much and dropped back.

I perfectly understand why he’s concerned with the salary part. If I don’t have a good enough salary, I might have to spend most of my time worrying about the next place I’m eating or sleeping at. I might have a harder time trying to make a living. He’s concerned with my future, definitely, and that’s why he wants me to pursue STEM. Many people interpret this concern as love. My parents do. But.. I don’t. So the second question I’ve always wanted to ask my parents: Do you really love me?

In class, I rewatched 500 Days of Summer, a fantastic movie by the way. It narrates in achronological order the experiences of one guy (Tom Hansen) who helplessly falls in love with a beautiful girl named Summer. So much so that he doesn’t see the fact she only sees him as a friend. And when reality hits him, he goes into super depression mode and has a change in perspective on life. My teacher brought up the theme of love and had us think about it. So I did, and I asked myself, did Tom really love Summer? I thought back to all my crushes, and I was like nah, it was just lust. But “lust” didn’t feel like the right answer for Tom– he really put so much thought and emotion into their shared experiences and he really, just really, “loved” her. It didn’t feel right to dismiss his efforts as merely lust. But yet, it wasn’t love.

Actually, now that I think about it, it was love. No, he didn’t love her. He loved himself. Tom had carved for himself the perfect image of Summer and placed it so high on a pedestal that he truly loved that image. But that image was formed by his own thoughts and ideas of what the relationship was like. None of that was from Summer. And I guess all the girls I fell for in the past weren’t those actual girls, but what I thought was the perfect girl and how she was the most cute and charming. Both Tom and I loved our own ideas, not the girl.

And so it’s the same here. I remember overhearing my dad say, from middle school to now he has been doing all the right things, getting good grades, good scores, good extracurricular activities, yada, yada, yada and all that bs. And now, says my dad, he takes the last wrong step and decides to pursue journalism. Now, when in the world did he have the supreme authority to decide what I did was right or wrong? I aimed for good grades and good extracurricular activities for myself, not for what my dad thought was right. I now aim to be a journalist for myself, not for him. And I realize that in the end, I was just an attempt for him to make his own ideas of a perfect son come true. He never loved me; he loved his own ideas of what his perfect son should be.

And I realize I’ m probably not the only parent-child pair in this situation; I can imagine many of my peers at my school being forced to pursue STEM are like this. But I will never buckle down to what my parents think is right for me. If a parent loved his or her child truly, he or she would freely support the child to follow what he wants of himself.

And now I ask myself, do I really love my parents? And to be honest, I don’t know the answer myself.


Girls… and Me

I don’t know why, but a new sense of feeling has come over me. I feel…. kinda free. Like that guy who’s been sentenced to life in prison, then suddenly, he’s found innocent, and he’s free to go. Like taking that first step outside the cell room after all your life you’ve only seen four white walls… and then you breathe the fresh air, and you’re like, “God, it doesn’t smell like shit anymore.” Or perhaps the best way to describe it as if you’re being born, and you’re seeing the light for the first time in your life. And you can start life all over again.

Now, this cell I’ve been stuck in… are my girl problems. You laugh. You say in your head, “What the hell?” You can brush it off as me being silly. I mean, please, it’s just young love, right? Yet, if you’re one of my friends I’ve confided into, you know how badly girl problems affect me. They don’t just affect me; they drive me crazy. It gets stuck in my freaking mind and it never seems to go away.

Girls. Who are they? I don’t know. Society defines them as anyone with female genitals. Biology defines them as anyone with two X-chromosomes. My friends define them as people with long hair and feminine qualities. But me? I don’t know. But I wanna go back in time, and I wanna see if I could find my definition of them. Because there’s something about girls I can’t pinpoint. Something more than just their figure or personality or style. Something…. I can’t seem to get a hold of. But I’ll go back in time… to my first girl.

My first girl. Was my first friend. Was my only friend, back in Baldwin Stocker Elementary School, when I was in first grade. I think everybody else thought I was weird, messed up, and in truth, I was kinda messed up.  But she… accepted me for who I was. She loved my weirdness, I’d say. I still remember, every recess, I would go the playground, and we’d always meet under the slides. And then we’d chase each other and play tag, slid down the slides over and over again, talk about childish bs, etc. Then one day, some of my guy classmates taunted me for having a girl friend. Called me messed up. Told me I had cooties. And I remember how she viciously defended me and scared them away. And how she asked me, with a sweet smile, “Are you ok?” But I somehow didn’t see it as love or friendship, what she did for me. I was too immersed in my own shame, too immersed in how my peers viewed me. So I cut her off. I told her sorry, but I don’t want people to think I’m friends with a girl and have cooties and all that shit, and that… we couldn’t be friends no more. And I remembered how she cried, her eyes red, the look of hurt on her face, so painful… and she ran off. Sometimes, I think maybe she could have been the one. Sometimes, I wanna go back to that moment, and say, “Jasmine, I’m sorry. I love you.”

Jasmine became Alina in 3rd grade, when I just transferred to Holly Avenue Elementary. Alina was not beautiful or hot or anything. She wasn’t Asian like me; she was Latino. She probably wouldn’t seem to be my type….but it was her giggle. Whenever I cracked a retarded joke, nobody laughed, she laughed. She was the only one who recognized me. I would always sit next to her in lunch, and we would talk and talk and talk. Then one day I confessed. It was my first confession. And I remember how she just said, “Oh.” And stopped talking to me. And the following week, I never saw her again. Maybe she moved houses, maybe there was a freak accident, I dunno. But I can’t help but think, she probably left cause of me.

From then until the tenth grade, girls became a separate dimension. Yea, I had thoughts, and would occasionally say, oh she’s attractive, or whatnot. But it’s as if I had no feelings then; all I focused on was my schoolwork. All my friends were guys, and all my guy friends only had guy friends. Probably because of this lack of girls I probably didn’t know how to deal with them later on.

Then I met her. Won’t say her name, but I’m grateful for what she did. I was struggling through depression during this time period, and just talking to her picked me back up. But I really didn’t know how to deal with all the feelings, especially since I was mentally unstable during this time. It was just a jumble of emotions going back and forth, kinda like putting shit and crap and piss all into one goddamn blender and mixing the hell out of it, and then chugging down all that disgusting liquid down your throat until you become insane. But let me tell you, she was beautiful. White as the moon. And tall. But the aura she gave was one of brightness as well. Every time she stepped in the room, it was a party. In the end, though, I buckled down and confessed, and she said no, but she still cared for me and wanted to be my friend. But I cut her off, because, well, all of this was just too much for me.

This set the pace for how I dealt with girls from here on out. I was too afraid to fall for a girl, for fear of being rejected, so every time I felt something for a girl, I would try to avoid her. Oftentimes, I would block the girl on Facebook, because just seeing the girl’s picture would drive me insane. At times, I would succeed, and erase the girl from my memory. Oftentimes, I failed, and I would end back up talking to the girl. One girl later on cut me off– first time it ever happened to me– and from then, I began to get more paranoid. I remember I didn’t cry when she cut me off– I just stared at my computer screen for the longest time in my life, thinking, nothing.

What I hated the most, though, was how all my guy friends would pressure me to just go up and get her. And when they see me in a hesitant state, they call me pussy, coward, or some other freaking shit. Why? Just why does one’s manliness depend on a girl? It’s retarded, but I lived by it. I remember how I fucking hated myself after finding out none of the girl liked me. None of the girls even considered maybe. They just said no because I was a freaking ugly worthless piece of shit. Made me feel I was crud and I could just rot in a freaking hole. And I remember that day those thoughts just came up in my mind second after second, relentless self-cussing and self-hatred thrown at myself. Like I committed seppuku, died, revived, did it again, all in a cycle. All cause of a couple of rejections.

That’s why I loved Pitbull. His music was my self-defense mechanism. A friend of mine calls me a pussy for this, but really, I don’t care. Sometimes, when I can’t get a girl, I lie to myself, saying, yea I never really had any emotions for that girl. I never stupidly pushed myself for her, thinking I could get her. All I wanted was the body. And then the music of Pitbull plays in my head, and soon I’m aiming to live the high life, party with the hot girls all day, only for my own entertainment. All lies, but it made me feel better.

But recently, just a week ago, I found out this girl didn’t like me. But, I don’t know what happened, I just didn’t feel anything. Maybe, I just got so tired of how girls pressure my mind, that it sometimes feel as if my head is carrying a bunch of large rocks. Or maybe,  I think I realized that I was approaching girls the wrong way, trying to avoid them when I fell for them. But I think it’s because I realized that something’s gotta change. That I gotta stop taking these issues so seriously, and just, go with the flow. But something made me feel refreshed. That’s why I plan on telling it all out to this one girl this coming week, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel scared. I don’t feel hesitant. I’m ready to let it all go. And even if she says no, I’m not gonna cut her off.

I’ve said this before, and I’ve always broken it. But this time, I feel something that I know it’s for sure. It’s in my gut feeling that after this year, girls will just be girls to me. Just people, not love interests who reject me. And I feel confident that if I like a girl, I won’t be going down that messed up emotional path again. I feel that I can actually start to see a girl  I like as simply a friend.

But that feeling I’ll never forget. When that girl smiles at you, laughs, looks at you. And all you can do is smile sheepishly. I love it when her hair flows down her face, and when she starts bubbling excitedly, and when she gives a huge grin that just punctures your heart. I love it when she cries, because she’s so cute when she cries, and when she gets her baby fingers to wipe away her tears. I love the way she walks, the way her body moves, the way she speaks, the way she acts. I love it especially when she turns her attention to me, and makes me feel that I’m something.

So what is a girl? I don’t know still. Maybe I’ll find out when I’m older.

The Girl With The Voice

She was there, Sitting, Looking down,
Her hair flowing across her face,
She sees me sit down in front of her,
She looks up, Smiles
Holds out her beautiful baby hands,
Offers me a black tie between the tips of her fairy fingers,
I handed her a shiny quarter,
My sense sacrificed,
And I bite into the apple, its juices streaming down my chin.

And she spoke words that
Slithered their reflective skin
Around my ears
Like a cool breeze in the middle of a summer day
But soft, warm, and mellow,
Breathing the air into my lungs,
Clear crystalline water fills my chest.

And that voice
Is dripping with honey,
Melding with sweet warm milk,
Into a river of milk and honey
That leads me into the land of Canaan.
And my boat capsizes,
And I drown in this beautiful liquid of sugar and warmth.

And I wash ashore
Onto her smile, Into a garden of daisies
Under the warm shining sun,
So I pluck the most beautiful of them all
And I hold it close up to my nose
And I breathe….

Her aroma lures me in,
Her body telling how she loves me,
Her sound, seductive, beckoning me to come
The hole in the earth opened up once again
And the gold revealed I fell.

But…. you know what she did to me? You know what happened? What, she, she did to me?
She took me, got a knife,
Carved my breast out, and my heart,
My aching heart, exposed, vulnerable, threatened,
And she gouged it
Like a man gouging his eyeballs out because he’s too afraid
Too afraid to see the truth
That maybe, all he did , the kingdom he inherited,
The wife he married, the children he bore,
Was a lie.
A freaking lie, so I
Too scared, crushed my own heart.
So she couldn’t.

Suicide is the only form of relief when it comes to love.

But everytime I look back at her
She seems to get farther and farther.
As if a dream is slowly floating away
And I can only admire….

My 2nd Love Poem Part 1

So, I have this sneaking suspicion this girl from a class of mine likes me or is interested in me, and as the summer passes, it’s getting more and more obvious. Even my female friends based on the hints have told me she does. But today, the signs were too obvious, and it made me feel something uneasy. And just like that, I started writing while ignoring my teacher teaching. Below is the poem, and in my next post, I will talk about what I did different in this poem from any other poem I wrote and go more in-depth.

A Girl Who Likes Me

She’s looking at me

Giving me glances, like

Light feet tapping the water,

Prancing along

Footprints embedded on my heart.

The way she looks at me

Her head turned

From the corner of her eyes

I am the prey

She the lioness

I feel violated, breached, trespassed

Me overturned, lying on my shell

Underbelly exposed

Her eyes scan over me.

When our eyes meet, she quickly looks away.


But at the same time,

My heart dances, jitters,

Leaps, yelps,

Smiles, giggles,

With a little skip

Why, she likes me!

But then a roadblock—I stop.

I look up at the cloudy sky,

And I solemnly realize

Even if she does like me and even if I like her back,

We will never be together.

A Love Poem I Wrote

So recently I have been caught up in some love…….thus explaining why I haven’t blogged for some time. So I have decided to put an end to my love craze for this particular girl. Instead of saying simply “I like you” however, I decided to write a love poem. A really depressing one, because I know that it won’t end well. Nevertheless, I’m amazed at the pathetic piece of literature I created. The meaning of the poem I will leave it up to the reader to decide.

The Gold I Found                      by Titus Wu

Once upon a morning,
A man with a shovel wandered.
Upon a black hill he stood,
A hill barren and lifeless.

Hopeless and disappointed,
He stuck his shovel into the soil,
Expecting nothing
But dirt.

But a clunk he heard,
And there yonder he saw gold.

Gold, beautiful beyond measure,
Angelic beyond angels,
Gold that showered rays of light everywhere,
Turning the hill from pitch black to warm green.

Happy and delighted,
He dug for more.
And he found more.
And the more he found, the more he dug.

But pity the man when his mind
Is consumed with gold.
Obsessed, that he dug too deep
And found himself trapped
In the very hole he created.

Like a bug trapped in a jar,
Like a prisoner in a dark cell,
He tried to climb back out.
But with every attempt he failed,
With every attempt he fell back in,
Falling deeper into distress.

Every new idea, every new attempt
Into getting him back out
Only failed and made him fall deeper.

He became a madman,
Isolated, lonely, depressed,
A child suffocating in poison gas.
For the love that he felt for gold,
Gold never gave back.

He died later one day,
In a cold night.
But the gold was still there.
And his love for it remained.