Entries for August, 2005

Hey there.  My name's Jihwan.  You've probably forgotten about me. 

Yesterday at Target [where I work now], a big-ass mob of Asian tourist kids came streaming into the store, looking for random crap to take home.  I was working in Stationery, so naturally they all crowded around the aisles, throwing crap around and messing up the shelves and crap that I'd spent the past crapload of time organizing and restocking.  I got pissed, so I decided to take my break right then and there, and went to the food vendor area to read a book and grab some food.  Within minutes, about a dozen 14-year-old girls started hovering around me, giggling and asking me stupid, unintelligible questions in Japanese.  It wasn't flattering in the least bit - just really, really annoying.  At that moment, I wished Anna were sitting across the table from me, so that we could hold a nice conversation and share some fries or something and smile at each other ever so conspicuously so that the little shaggy-haired, poofy-socked punkettes would take a hint and get the hell away.  I miss Anna.

This entry isn't going to dazzle you with pretty imagery or deep, philosophical thought pieces to chew on while you're on the toilet doing your private business.  I'm going to try my hand at writing a short story, and so all my writing focus will be devoted to it.  I have the basic setting, characters, and plot all thought out.  My goal is to see how well and realistically I can develop the character by writing about a little slice of his life.  If I like the results, I might try submitting it to several local editorials and such.  Hey, you never know if you don't try, right?  If I need some critics to read it after I complete it, then I'll ask.  Your feedback would be much appreciated.

Peace. 

Written by jihwan at 11:02 PM.

12 x 0 = 0

I swear, God is so good to me.  I am the luckiest little bastard ever.

So apparently, UCSD just happened to decide that they wanted to change the rules for a revocation of an admission this year.  Instead of an immediate cancellation if an admitted student receives a 'D' or an 'F' during his Senior year, they let loose a little.  Evidently, a single 'D' or 'F' is acceptable if it was not in an "A-G" requirement class, such as English, AND the student's overall Senior year Grade Point Average is at least a 3.0.

 

Guess what my Senior year GPA was.

 

No, really, guess. 

 

 

 

 

That's right.  Mm hmm.  Yep.

 

Three Point Zero.

 

That means I can finally start getting ready for college.  I can buy a mini-fridge, stock up on hole-less socks, and look down upon lowly high-school losers with completely unwarranted contempt.  I can live on campus [I hope my housing deposit went through], eat crappy dorm food, and become an overtanned beach bum.  I can go to bed at 5 a.m. and get to class at 10 a.m.  I can finally make up for all the studying I'd never done and really work my ass off for some real, sure, unnegotiable academic results.

I don't deserve a second chance.

 

But I sure am glad I got one. 

Written by jihwan at 01:10 AM.

10 x 0 = 0

A number of days ago, I was running late for work.  I was running late because I was trying to squeeze in another few hundred songs onto my [new kickass 30 GB color photo] iPod before stumbling retardedly out of the house.  On the wild drive there, I had the pedal to the metal and my faithful Saturn Crapmobile was pushing 60 mph [it took like 17 hours to get the car up to that speed, I swear], and pretty ladies' skirts were flying up and roadside trees were bursting into flame as I passed by.  No lie.

I got stuck at a red light right in front of the store, so I paced around impatiently in my seat while my trusty Saturn Dickmobile attempted to dial up 9-1-1 for a resuscitation Evac.  There weren't any other cars caught at the crosslight, so I was the only one waiting for the light to change.  The little white pedestrian walking sign changed to the blinking red hand, signalling that the opposite light would turn yellow, then red, causing my light to turn green and okay-ing my left turn into the parking lot, resulting in a punctual Jihwan ready to help Target guests with his Fast, Fun, and Friendly® service.

Then, unexpectedly, unforgettably, unbelievably, underwear, the blinking red hand promptly switched BACK TO THE LITTLE WHITE PEDESTRIAN WALKING SIGN, like there was no reason for it to turn red because nothing was waiting to cross the intersection.  Like the sensors underneath the crosswalk asphalt didn't acknowledge my presence.  Like I wasn't waiting in the left-turn lane to go and earn my hefty $7 an hour [minus tax].  Like I was a nobody, a nonentity, a nonexistent, invisible idiot who was under the deranged delusion that he was a somebody.  Like Jihwan Kim, the greatest short Korean guy to ever grace the skin of the earth, was nothing more than nothing.

I was so devastated that I downed a keg of Nyquil and drove my loyal Saturn Assmobile around town, looking for a nice bridge from which to drive off.  No lie.

It is truly a sad day when a man is dehumanized by a machine.

 

Written by jihwan at 01:48 AM.

4 x 0 = 0

After an assy day at work [Yes, assy. An adjective form of the descriptive word "Ass."], the last thing I want to do is sit down and write a pointless update about the unbelievably up-and-down happenings of my life. I've spent most of my summer coasting to and fro across the of board of extreme emotions, and I hope I ever have to experience it ever again.

Every time I talk to someone, whether it be on the phone, online, or in person, the conversation inevitably steers toward the "I'm going to miss you when I go to college!" crap, which in turn leads to the "I'm kind of scared, but SOOO excited!" crap, which points the suddenly one-sided conversation toward "Aren't you excited about college, too?!" crap. I can't stand it anymore.

But wait, Jihwan! You're going to UCSD, aren't you? Why would that make you angry?

Yeah. About that. Remember this? How it seemed too good to be true?

Well, it was. It turns out that UCSD didn't count some of my extra AP credits into my senior year GPA, so my incredibly lucky three-point-oh became an incredibly dismal two-point-idontwannatalkaboutit. So I'm right back where I dreaded all summer I would be. Kicked out of college before I even set foot on campus. The letter came in the mail the very day after I got all excited and pumped up to go to college.

 

 

After reviewing your official final high school transcript, we regret to inform you that you no longer meet the provisions of your admission. Therefore, your offer of admission for the University of California, San Diego for Fall 2005 has been withdrawn. Have a nice life, asshole.

Sincerely,

Mae W. Brown, Assistant Vice Chancellor

 

Absorb that information for a second.

 

 

The most frustrating part of this whole fiasco isn't the actual rejection, if you can believe that. The most frustrating part is the fact that all of a sudden, everyone I know decides to come to Target for all their dorm stuff. And most of them don't really have a solid grasp of my college situation. Some of them knew I got into UCSD and think I'm going to attend, which I'm not. Some of them knew I got into UCSD but had a chance of getting kicked out, but didn't know whether I did or not, which, as the dice show, I did. Some of them knew I got into UCSD, had a chance of getting kicked out, then thought that I caught a lucky break and didn't get kicked out, which isn't true. Some of them didn't even know which school I was going to attend, so they asked me; and I really don't feel like explaining the whole story to them, so I usually end up faking a call on my walkie and rushing off to some secluded part of the men's seasonal clothing department, which is the uncharted, unnavigated sector of Target. And that's my little problem with school.

Then there are the equally crushing but simpler crap that's happened to me in the past couple days. I am about two stutter steps from getting fired from my job, for a few unjust reasons I really don't want to get into at the moment. Then there's the other bit of lead weight on my back. Anna and I decided to call it quits, after years of dancing around a tenuous relationship. She's going up to Berkeley, and I'm going to be wiping windshields and pumping gas for a few months, so the situation wasn't all that accomodating for two kids trying to juggle a long-term, long-distance correspondence. We decided it'll probably be easier on both of us that way. Which sucks. A lot.

If you've read through this whole load of digital fire fodder, then maybe you'll understand why I probably can't deal with people for a while. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to tell individual people the whole story, which will probably circulate around the grapevine of distortion and get blown way out of decent proportion. That's why I'm writing this. I'm not doing it for attention or pity, because that's not who I am. I'm doing it because I really don't think I can deal with another smattering of "You must feel terrible!" and "Is there anything I can do?" Yes, I feel terrible. And no, there's nothing you can do.

I am still very happy with my life and I thank God for everything I have going for me.

I just need some breathing room.

Thanks for listening.

 

Edit: I'm just going to thank everyone in advance for any thoughtful pieces of love left in the comment section of this entry. I know some people already left some, and perhaps others will, too. I'm loved - what can I say? I'm just not up to responding individually at the moment, but rest assured, I love you all to death, and I will thank you properly when I regain my head.

Edit: I just realized that there was a "Disable comments" option, though a little too late. Yay for the observation power of two years of consistent weblogging.

Written by jihwan at 01:04 AM.

4 x 0 = 0

In those old action adventure movies, there's always that inevitable scene toward the climax in which the rugged hero finds himself hurtling down a rickety railroad system with these impossible twists and turns that any engineer would be so fired for building, and the rusty old cart he's sitting in is bucking and screeching and careening to either side, threatening to dash his handsome head upon the jagged rocks as he constantly dodges bullets shot by horribly trained henchmen.  He is finally able to dispatch those pesky gruntmen by either tossing a rock underneath their trailing cart and making them crash to their gruesome deaths or by quickly switching a lever on the railside as he thunders past, causing the following cart to comically veer off into a dead end and creating an explosion that triggers an enormous earthquake in the cave system that is on the verge of spelling out doom for Harrison Ford the hero, when, amazingly, his cart barely scrapes through the cave exit and smoothly coasts to a steady roll, allowing the hero to beathe a sigh of relief and wipe his glistening brow just before the "good guys" storm in to "take care of the rest."

That's the long way of saying I have my life back on track.  My figurative, metphorical mine cart is currently coasting.  I'm back, and I'm cuter than ever.  I've registered for all the classes I've wanted at Santa Monica College, and begin classes next week.  When I went there for counseling and told them the story of how I ended up at a community college, about five counselors began running around campus trying to get me into the classes of the best professors and jotting down the phone numbers and email addresses of well-connected people who could help me transfer into any college I want.  It was interesting, to say the least, though I kind of felt bad for some of the other people waiting in line to speak with a counselor, because they were all scrambling around trying to ask me about my extra-curriculars and SAT scores and such.  I felt special.

It's just that before this whirling dervish of crap came tearing into my life, I'd had a different vision of myself at college.  I'd imagined myself with a sophisticated bookbag slung over my shoulder, casually strolling along cobblestone walkways under ivy-covered arches and chatting gaily with my multicultured classmates so that someone could stamp a picture of us onto a college brochure to send to other brilliant prospective applicants for the next fall semester.  Now, I see myself with a $9, Target-employee-discounted messenger bag slung over my shoulder, hurriedly power-walking to my next class with a set of headphones devouring my head while weaving through various skinheads and FOBs and wannabe Pimps and Hustlers so that someone could stamp a picture of us onto a college brochure with the words, "It's not too late!  You can still rececive a college education!"

My, how things have changed.

Moving on, I can never work at another Target store again in my entire life until I stop breathing and die and pass my rigor mortis exam.  Due to my radically changed school situation, I couldn't give my managers my two-week's notice before I told them I had to quit.  They were nice about it, but they looked at me pityingly and informed me that because I had "walked out on the Target Team," I would never again! be employed by another Target store.  Ironic, since the reason I'm quitting is so that I can go to school so I don't have to work at another Target store.  Unless some part of plan "Let's Not Screw Over Your Life This Time Around" fails, in which case I have bigger things to worry about.  Like my mom.

In other exciting news, the 2005 National Champion El Camino Real Academic Decathlon team has been invited to meet with the President.  Yes, the President of the United States of America.  Sir George W. Bush.  G-money.  My homeboy.  Now, say what you want about him, but it's not every day that you get to shake hands with the second-most powerful man in the world.  [The most powerful being the CEO of Collegeboard, the single man with the keys to the iron gates of anything remotely resembling success, power, and prestige in the following generations to come.]  So our two coaches and the remaining four of us [the other five have left or are leaving for their respective out-of-state schools] will have the opportunity to chill with The Man.

Maybe he'll have a hot tub.

Written by jihwan at 10:56 AM.

5 x 0 = 0

I attended my Zoology 5 lecture today.  The professor was one of those hippie scientists who like to go out into the field and study rare, endangered species of insects and such.  He seemed well-read and well-spoken, and I liked the fact that despite his being against many "pro-meat" diets and lifestyles of similar barbaric nature, he was very objective about what he presented in the lecture hall.

The problem is, because it's a Zoology class, there were a whole lot of whiny, tree-hugging, animal-loving, left-winged extremists in the class.  They were all female.  Big surprise.  The topic of sport hunting came up, and as soon as I heard the words flash up onto the Powerpoint slide, I inwardly groaned.  I didn't even need to look behind me to see multiple hands shoot up with alarming reaction times.  I think one small, nasally sounding girl punched this big black guy in the face as she frantically demanded the professor's attention.  I heard a muffled oof! and a large, crumpled body came rolling down the stairs of the lecture hall and landed with a dull thud onto the cold tiles, bleeding profusely.  No lie.  I mean, this girl could've been a world-champion boxer, if before every fight someone held up flashcards with the word "Republican" on them.

I could tell the professor was getting annoyed with all the unreasonable animal sympathizers who WOULD NOT SHUT THE HELL UP.  The girls and their constant screeching incited some of the guys in the class to present their own views on hunting and the ethical and moral ramifications of the death of one slow-roasted pheasant, and the class turned into a very poorly armed verbal conflict, like one of those low-budget Civil War reenactions during the Fourth of July.  And there I was, wondering when in the world the professor would put an end to the madness and set the girls straight.

After quieting the class down and practically sedating a girl to keep her from ripping the throat out of her neighbor, the professor gave us an example of a case in which hunting is efficient and even necessary.

Cats have very great Biotic Potentials, meaning they can reproduce frequently and produce a large litter of kittens.   In fact, in 7 years, two cats can become 420,000 cats.  Take into consideration that in America, there are 60 million unneutered, unspayed feral cats crowding the natural habitats of the native wildlife.

420,000 x 60,000,000 = 25,200,000,000,000 cats every 7 years.

Let's be generous with the mortality rate and say 70% of the cats die while young.  That still leaves us with 7,560,000,000,000 extra cats that we simply cannot control, having a grand old time smoking coke and banging each other left and right and jacking up the population exponentially, destroying whole ecosystems and even impacting human existence.  I had this mental image of a hostile cat takeover a 100 years from now, of fatass Garfield [or Heathcliff, if you're so inclined] eating his fatass lasagna and drinking his fatass wine from a human skull.  Of course, they'd already developed opposable thumbs and the ability to pee standing up, because they rule like that.

To attempt to curb the ridiculous overpopulation issue, Wisconsin recently passed a law legalizing the hunting of cats, and even initiated an open-hunting season to find and kill them.  California alone spends $50 million annually on cat control - money that could be used for so many other things [education, anyone?].  He then asked the girls if they now thought it more practical to outlaw hunting.  That shut the girls up temporarily.  It's just a question of how long they can stop PMS-ing all over the place with their self-righteous animal heroism.

That was my first day of college.  I learned something.

Written by jihwan at 01:33 AM.

8 x 0 = 0