Lol

Say what you want about textspeak, but, the proverbial bastard child spawned from that fateful one-night-stand between the English Language and the Internet in the mid-2000s– played a major role in streamlining conversation.

Looking back at our texting habits in the late aughts - it's cringe-y thinking about it. But back then it was all the rage. And why wouldn't it be? Textspeak was basically a medium that conveyed thought, body language, and pitch through a screen using a minimalist combination of strategically placed characters, substitutive letters, and numerals. From capitalization to suggest emphasis, to asterisk enclosed stage directions indicating supposed physical action-- textspeak rendered actual physical conversation redundant. 

But while we hid behind the screen of anonymity, trolling various chat rooms on the internet, the expression of one emotion remained essential, and that was laughter. With the world of funnies just a click away, internet residents came up with a whole assortment of ways to convey laughter online. From the handy LOL- laugh out loud, to a whole variety of other acronyms for laughter, such as LMAO, ROFL, ROFLOL for laughing my ass off and rolling on the floor laughing (out loud), each of which could be capitalized and/or punctuated with an expletive for emphasis.

Fast-forward to ten years later: the rise of the smartphone and autocorrect rendered textspeak extinct. Today, we don't use irrelevant acronyms to save time on keystrokes or substitute numerals for letters anymore-- we don't need to. And when we laugh we prefer typing out each individual ha-ha syllable or using a string of emojis to convey the degree of our laughter. But in the midst of this communication evolution, one universal remnant of textspeak has endured, namely, “LOL”.

This nuanced expression has indeed slipped into our mainstream phraseology. But the once universal symbol for the funnies has long since abandoned the lexicon for laughter, sailing through the steady current of a semantic shift over time. 

The term LOL is what linguistics call a “pragmatic particle," like your typical colloquialisms such as “um” or “like” which basically have no semantic meaning, and are just taken to be indicative of informal speech or lack of eloquence. No longer is the meaning of LOL so clear-cut as standing for Laugh Out Loud, and not as we had to keep reminding our mothers, not Lots of Love. 

At the height of Yahoo Messenger and Orkut, the ever-popular LOL was our go-to response for anything and everything remotely entertaining. Of course, taking a LOL at face value would suggest someone bordering on hysteria. And even then, when we sent those three little characters out into the void, we weren't actually laughing out loud as suggested. As a universal symbol of laughter, however, the term LOL seemed apt.

The intricacies of this seemingly neutral word, today, has become so layered, that it's meaning is now completely ambiguous-- the once jolly marker of supposed laughter has evolved into the jack-of-all-trades equivalent of expressing sentiment, hosting a flexible range of uses. 

LOL is now used as a social buffer, a term whose varied meanings are mutually acknowledged and understood by frequent texters. You could preface a statement with LOL to flag it as one that is supposed to be funny, or casually drop a LOL at the end of a text to signal irony. A strategically placed LOL is sometimes used as a discourse marker to soften the tone of a particular statement and at other times as a dismissive and condescending expression. Today it’s not surprising when LOL is used in verbal conversation. 

Whether you're an unashamed LOL abuser or not, the kind of language that is being created online has been weaselling its way into everyday use for years and affecting day-to-day speech patterns, and, thusly, deserves much speculation—even to the point of overthinking. 

In defence of millennials everywhere accused of the bastardization of the English Language with our texting shorthand, I just want to say it's the opposite. By coming up with increasingly creative ways to express tone and emphasis when facial cues are not an option is enough proof that we are, in fact, revolutionizing the English Language.

Withdrawal

I'm hopelessly in love with a whole vortex of memories. From putting a bullet in his head in that first-shooter game, to simply waltzing at midnight to that overplayed Owl City song. And I'm tempted to go back.

He wasn't the kind of person who brought out the best in you. 

Or the worst, for that matter. No; he was one of those incredibly rare, incredibly addictive souls, who just brought out the most in you. Of everything. He had the ability to make you feel so alive, so euphoric, that you'd be willing to drop everything, and follow him across the nine hells and back, just to keep getting your fix.

So here I am twitching in frustration, because I can't get my fix. Withdrawal.

And then, I'm back there. In that golden field, the sun in our eyes, the taste of cheap beer on our lips. It feels like a moment stolen right out of the pages of Byron and Wordsworth. In the maddening stillness. Away. Alone. With you. Comparing scars and quoting the romantics.

"Let's never leave." I say. 

A few minutes later we are dusting bits of grass and traces of each other off our clothes and hurrying back to make it in time for our next class.

I.iii.78

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the kind of underwear they wear. Me? I was always about as adventurous as my cotton reasonably-priced three packs.

Somewhere along the way that changed.

You see, not to be that person, but well, shit happens. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. And it only seems fitting to act out in retaliation, do something crazy, maybe even a little Elvis-y like putting a bullet in your television set. Or you know, the pedestrian equivalent– 

Like impulsively getting a dramatic haircut or highlights in a bright shade of pink. Maybe getting a few piercings, or even a back tattoo. Or you could choose to find comfort in making out with crappy boys, sneaking cigarettes into your bedroom, partying way too hard and guzzling way too much alcohol just because it makes you feel invincible for those five seconds. Then you attempt to balance your giant shame spiral by binge-watching every adaptation of Wuthering Heights ever made while nursing a bad hangover and eating stale french-fries from the day before in bed. 

I'd know. Because in the last couple years, I sprinted through all of these phases. And why? Not because I'd been feeling particularly rebellious but merely because I'd just been trying to keep up with all the constant change happening around me. And the only way I could see how, was to take Gandhi's be the change dictum waaay too literally and change myself. Rejecting everything I was and trying on different selves like they were hats— to the point of self destruction. Because when everything feels like it's slipping away, all you desperately want to do is prove that there are some things in your life that you can control, right? Right.

And for a while it felt good. To be able to burn the candle at both ends, carpe-ing the fuck out of diem, making all the mistakes, for all of the crazy stories I could tell the next day.

But here I am now. It takes no life-altering epiphany, maybe just a particularly bad hangover, to become drastically aware of the state of mediocrity that you currently reside in, to finally realize that maybe it's time to take some proactive steps to better your life. No, I'm not talking about going on a juice cleanse or burning all your junk food or anything as ridiculous. I'm talking about being true "to thine own self", the way Polonius intended for his son Laertes in Hamlet; because maybe I'm not built for downing five shots of rum neat. Deep down I know I haven't changed at all. I'm still that girl who makes bad puns and is too scared to watch horror movies alone. 

Lost

I am no stranger to losing things. That feeling of crippling frustration, of not being able to locate that damn pencil you just put down for a second. It's like not being able to remember the lyrics of your favorite song or the name of the person you meet everyday. It's at the tip of your tongue, gnawing at you, keeping you up at night... Because that is what losing something, even as trivial as a hair tie feels. Until, if you're lucky, that moment of rediscovery; when you realize the thing you've been searching for has been right there in front of you this whole time. Hiding in plain sight. 

But, do you ever wonder, even for that brief second– where do all the lost things go? Whether it's the loose change in the couch or your favourite sweatshirt in the wash. Is there a place where all the orphaned socks and stray Tupperware lids go? Do they teleport to some Interstellar-esque fifth dimension and relocate there? An inventory of lost things, that perhaps Tom Hanks alone is privy to.

I think that's where I am at, right now. Like I've somehow slipped through the cracks and landed in the place where all the lost things go. Trapped in this purgatory of sorts, neither here nor there. Just waiting to be found. Its like I'm finally winning at hide-and-seek. Except it doesn't feel like I'm really winning at all.

The Bright Side

Kidding.

It does not exist.

The Fault in our Dibs

It's not uncommon to hear people call dibs on the last slice of pizza or on the window seat on the bus. Logically speaking one cannot simply claim ownership over an object by merely uttering an inconsequential syllable and actually come to possess it; however against all rationality, the institution of "calling dibs", seems to be a widely understood and universal symbol to do just this.  

Interestingly, the origin of the dib dates back to an early 18th century children's game called Dibstones; where in the only ownership the players claimed was on a couple of stones used for the purpose of the game. 

Now, centuries later, perpetuated by pop culture and generations of drunk frat boys, this institution hits a whole new level. Instead of objects, dibs are being placed on actual people, and justified through ridiculous notions like the Bro Code or the Girl Code or other equally ridiculous generic rules that serve no purpose other than to encourage immaturity and sexism. 

The tendency of calling dibs on a person, the basic equivalent of urinating over said person to establish your territory, is objectifying, and at worst, dehumanizing. You see, when you call dibs on a human being you are reducing them to an object, you are claiming them as your possession. While you think you're expressing romantic interest, in reality all you are doing is exerting control over this person and their actions, reducing any possible relationship that ensues, to nothing more than a glorified form of slavery. By calling dibs on a person you are taking into account nobody's views but your own, you are disregarding the fact that the person in question has his or her own thoughts, feelings, and preferences. Thoughts, feelings and preferences that you need to respect. Think about it; disguised as a pillar of solidarity and loyalty, calling dibs is really just incredibly idealistic and selfish.

Except, of course, we've all done it. We are all guilty of unconsciously invoking this unwritten rule, and getting mad when someone else kisses the person that we've unintentionally placed our claim on or when the one you saw first ups and decides (how dare s/he!) to choose someone who isn't you. Yeah, we may deny it, but we've all been there. As much as it irks me to admit this, I know I have. 

You see, Cassius was right. The fault is not in our stars, or in our dibs, for that matter. But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

And right now what we underlings need to do, is abandon this system of calling dibs. Just abandon it.

Just one of those days

Penny: But you know, everything happens–
Billy: Don't say "for a reason".
Penny: No. I'm... just saying. Everything happens.
Billy: Not to me.

—Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

Drizzled in Art

Wikipedia defines art as "a diverse range of human activities in creating visual, auditory or performing artifacts – artworks, expressing the author's imaginative or technical skill, intended to be appreciated for their beauty or emotional power". 

The truth, however, is less verbose. It's simple. Art is art. There are no definitions. I think literally anything that basically nails that particular essence of, "man, this is beautiful, I like it" is art.

Art is for everyone, because art is in everyone. To engage in art is to, simply, enjoy it. And the only way to enjoy art is to devour it, even in the most pedestrian of ways— in listening to a song and losing track of your surroundings, in turning puffs of hookah into swirling ghosts, and even in taking a photograph with your grainy phone camera to immortalize a fleeting moment. This, and much more, is art. 

The question remains. Why art? What is the reason behind my love affair with art, that compelled me to dedicate not one but two posts about it?

I spoke at length –albeit pretentiously– about the why here. See, as a kid I remember drawing squiggles with crayon over every blank space I could find. Art was my way of escaping reality, opening a glimpse into a world created by me, wherein all the things I wanted to stay away from could be removed as easily as with an eraser. I have come a long way from that first crayoned squiggle; my command over art is constantly evolving as I change as a person. I now scam my friends into paying me to draw caricatures of them with celebrities. Art is now no longer just an escape, but the very essence of my life (she said, pretentiously).

This is where DeviantArt comes into the picture. For the past year, I have been trying my hand at a little amateur illustration. Although drizzled in art (my posts are very sporadic), do check out my DA profile, its USP being a medley of fun, passion, and procrastination. 

See you on the flip side.

Let's talk about art..

When we think of art, we typically think of oil canvas paintings hanging in a museum or unclad cherubs on the high ceiling of a cathedral. 

But, reader, art isn't confined only to such highbrow places. Because art is, in fact, everywhere.

Art has no boundaries, emerging in every shape and form, in every nook and corner of the world, just waiting to be interpreted. Our notion of art needs to be expanded, we need to be able to identify it in everyday places– in the way gravel is strewn over the sidewalk, in the methodical peeling of paint of an old worn out wooden chair, or in the purest form of joy expressed on a child's face.

Art can be found in the most ordinary places. What follows is a medley of what I would categorize as art– random photographs captured and chronicled in my phone gallery.

Bottom line, Reader, art can be found anywhere and everywhere, as long as we are willing to find it, and devour it in all of its glory.

Disclaimer: Sure what I call art, might not be "art" to you. And that's okay. Because that is where its beauty lies: appreciation of art is subjective. The world is our art museum, and we are just chin-stroking critics in scarves.

Counting Mississippis

I used to wish that life was a movie– or one of those bad sit-coms complete with its de rigueur laughter track and wilhelm screams; exhausting hours spent in the making, forced chemistry between actors, cheesy lines to memorize, multiple takes to get one scene right, and ultimately leading to the grand finale. 

I was always a big fan of this so called grand finale, the happily ever after, the italicized fin., credits rolling up, the whole shebang. I desperately wanted my happily ever after. Right now, I wish I could go back and ask past Anna what the phrase even meant to her, because I don't get it. The very institution of the so called "happily ever after" just doesn't make sense to me right now. I'm not being cynical, I'm not saying people do not end up happy; to me "happily ever after" just raises a phenomenal: now what? Because unless, of course, you expect the rest of your life to go on in the crazy credit scenes, a happily-ever-after just doesn't seem ideal.

It's like the word "content". The word "content" never really sat well with me. To me, it suggests a kind of decay. A settling. A tendency to overlook the journey.

We all have our fair share of theories on life– Forrest Gump compared life to a box of chocolates, Albert Camus said life is meaningless, and the pretentious side of me likes to think that life is a conveyor belt of moments sequenced illogically. 

Irrational and temperamental— I change my major in college, like I change the highlights in my hair, on a whim. I'm constantly evolving who I am and what I love, and it's all because of these moments– the happy, the sad, the excruciatingly humiliating, the excruciatingly mundane, each seemingly insignificant moment. They might not all tie up together at the end in a neat little bow, loose ends and red herrings are inevitable in life. But if I had a choice I would never fast-forward through all these moments just to get to the end. I'd rather look forward to my during than my happily ever after. No, this is not some elaborate take on YOLO; all I'm saying is, each second, each eternal four-syllabled mississippi counts. 

And I'm so grateful for my tally of mississippis; and if I could hit rewind, I wouldn't change a thing.

Self-help

Yes.

Delight in disorder

Photos of these deformed daisies spotted near Fukushima nuclear plant in Japan, have gone viral, and in turn left the social media in a frenzy. While some condemn the "ugly life-forms" created by yet another miscarriage of Japan's inane nuclear energy projects, I can't help but be caught in wonder at the sight. There is a whole plethora of motivational quotes hidden in that picture. Fukushima has been given the rawest deal possible, and my heart goes out to everyone affected by nuclear power plant meltdown that took place back in 2011. 

But from amidst the chaos, three daisies arise, standing tall, waving boldly in the corrupt sands of commerce, and while they're at it totally owning their little quirks. These daisies are a metaphor for hope, for finding perfection in imperfections and seeing delight in disorder.

Overthinking it

Recounting tales, especially of boys with The Bestfriend (clearly, I fail the Bechdel test), usually begins and ends with her saying, "Anna, don't read too much into this."

But being an over-zealous Psychology Major, I think I get a hall pass when it comes to overthinking it. And when I say overthink, I mean, being borderline obsessed. Overthinking 99% of the time isn't a bad thing. Trying to read the signs and analyzing every outcome is in our nature. As social beings, we are predisposed, to try to make sense of our surroundings. Out of the information we gather, we're inclined to make positive assessments; assessments that are usually in our favour.

But when your assessment is wrong. When you realize a boy can bring you coffee everyday for two months or beseech you to accompany him to a party, or flirt incessantly, without the ulterior motive that he likes you. When the question you keep asking yourself —so was it all in my head— becomes rhetorical. That is the 1% of the time when overthinking can suck some serious ass.

Segue, I think there's a reason why we like to consider men as elusive xy-chromosome carrying enigmas of the mystical. It's because if we don't, they'd just be simple one-dimensional cardboard characters. There'd be no mystery behind their every action, nothing to rant mindlessly about with The Bestfriend— nothing to overthink.

Anyone need cheering up?

Watch this.

Much love, A

Friends forever?

You know how at the end of high school most of your yearbook signatures include the phrase “friends forever”? When you’re nearly twenty and going through a bit of an identity crisis like me, you realize that all that means is three years later you’ll be skimming through their passive-aggressive statuses on Facebook. 

I think the scariest sign that you are growing up is becoming aware of the number of friends you lose. Not to death, but to wasted moments, and trivial blunders that could well have been avoided.

Loss. We've all been there. It could be as trivial as when your closest friends start dating and you feel yourselves growing apart; or as stupid as when another friend thinks you've been macking on her boyfriend. Well, you end up losing them all– I would know, I’m going through both situations right now.

Hell, I've always known growing up wouldn't be easy, and that losing friends is inevitable, but Sweet Valley High did not prepare me for this– this throbbing that feels like it could just spiral on and on until all I have left is a carousel of lost faces spinning into a blur.

I know, I know when things get awry it's just life throwing you one of it's classic plot twists, and this is probably one insignificant climax in the dramatic structure of my life. This is where I should claim to find solace in motivational quotes- it gets better, you win some you dimsum, and other deep metaphors about rainbows after rainy days, that probably worked out really well for Honey Boo Boo...

I don't really want reassurance or pity, I just want to send this insignificant cosmic thought into the void: right now, it just sucks.

Not everyone you meet stays in your life. Sometimes they leave, sometimes you do. Not because you love them any less, but because you love them enough to back the f– away. Sometimes that last sentence is used to let people off easy. Whatever it may be, I take this as my cue to leave.

But if I could go back, I would do things differently. And to the one who has always stuck around, I love you forever and a day. 

A Brutal Love Note

There's probably a complicated German phrase that will adequately define the kind of person you would be, if you could elude all pretenses– untie all those silk ribbons that shroud our truths, and just throw caution to the wind and say:

Roses are roses

Violets are violets

And I love you

My Unparalleled Universe

Ever had one of those sudden mind blowing moments of realization? Epiphanies so deep and profound that if made known to mankind could perhaps be the solution to attaining world peace...

And then you step out of the shower and you're back to being the girl who knows way too many fun facts about the latest boyband and Tom Cruise.

New Invention Idea: Shower Epiphany Journal. (Overly enthusiatic voiceover) Introducing your very own personal water-resistant writing-material present in your very own bathroom that helps you jot down mindblowing ideas as they come to you. The Shower Epiphany Journal (tm). Tell your friends.

No, that wasn't my mind blowing moment of realization. I just had an epiphany, that made no sense at all and perhaps all the sense in the world at the same time. And no, it isn't the answer to world peace or preventing global warming. Perhaps, just a solution to a trivial handicap that has been plaguing me over the years. I still have the logistics to work out, but I am sure that what is broken can be mended. The first step is acceptance, right? All I can hope is that, like the end of the Harry Potter series, all will be well. 

Frank Navasky Appreciation Post

So I recently saw the movie You've Got Mail for the millionth time, one of my ultimate feel-good movies. And while every one in the audience is completely enraptured with Meg Ryan's playful charm and the radiant charisma of Tom Hanks, and their evident on-screen chemistry, I always end up drooling over that "nut from The Observer who's so in love with his typewriter".

"..the gentle soothing lullaby of a piece of machinery, so perfect.."

Yes, I am talking about the ruggedly handsome Frank Navasky, played by Greg Kinnear (who I might add seems to be getting more and more devastatingly bangable attractive with age.)

Frank Navasky is a columnist for the New York Observer, a supporting character who managed to steal every scene he was in, and my heart. He is a literary genius who spouts literal magic with his words, and he is highly opinionated when it comes to politics without seeming too condescending. And if all of this isn't attractive, I don't know what is. But what is even more attractive is the fact that he is, well, a dork. He has an extraordinary way with words but still bungles on national television. He is completely oblivious to women hitting on him. And who doesn't love how his face lights up when he hits a key on his Olympia Report deLuxe Electric, the newest edition to his typewriter collection.

Also, viewers don't give Frank enough credit for the fact that he takes the time to end his relationship with Kathleen like a gentleman: by sitting down, explaining what’s happened, listening to her side, and ending up being friends. Where can I find a Frank Navasky?

Frank Navasky: typewriter hoarder, writer extraordinaire, overall great guy

So, thank you(r), Frank Navasky, through your albeit supporting character, you've not only fostered in me a feeling of distrust in technology, but also raised my already high expectations in men.

Okay, you know what. I like cliche. In fact, I want cliche.

I want my life to be like a bad rom-com, with it's predictable twists and unoriginal plot lines. Sure I could go without the extremely public sweeping declaration of undying devotion because, well, ick, but I would like to live one of those dumb cliches we are always seeing on big screen: mundane activities like painting the garage with your SO which inevitably lead to playfully flicking paint at each other; or an alcohol-induced duet of a tone-deaf rendition of Don't Go Breaking My Heart on karaoke; or even a dash of partial-nudity under the pretext of the act of chivalry in the pouring rain...

You know what, that last one did actually happen. Oh yes, it happened. That story transpires to late July '12. An impromptu heavy shower of rain, followed by a boy taking off his shirt and handing it to me so I wouldn't get cold from the rain. 

To answer your question, no there wasn't any accidental make-out sesh like it was The Notebook or anything; it was purely platonic. A noble gesture indeed, my good sir. But never before had my life felt like such an uninspired and overly-cliche scene from a cheesy chick-flick. 

And the worst part is, I liked it. I like cheesy.

In Defence Of Pick Up Lines

"Kids, have I ever told you the story of how I met your father? Well, I was at this wild nightclub, when he brushed up against me and asked me if my dad happened to own a dairy company. 

'Um, no. Why do you ask?' 

'Because, well, you have, like, a nice set of jugs.' 

'Father my children', I breathed, because kids, in that moment I just knew he was The One."

So, the above can be described as an incredibly unrealistic circumstance for the sole reason that it was, well, EWW SO GROSSSSS. And it clearly establishes that pick-up lines just do not work. Your average rom-com drives this point home pretty hard. The horribly-crafted cringe-worthy pick up line of that guy with that creepy smirk never fails to yield a drink thrown dramatically in his face. So, I understand if the title of this post pretty much justifies that I am the female equivalent of that guy. 

I'm not. I just think, that despite their flaws, pick-up lines do have redeeming qualities. 

Contrary to popular belief, pick-up lines do not exist for the purposes of getting someone to drop their panties displaying romantic interest. Wikipedia defines a pick-up lines as “a conversation opener with the intent of engaging an unfamiliar person”. Because sometimes all a pick-up line intends to do is, well, break the ice. 

You know, how in every colloquy, there comes a point, where all conversation comes to a standstill, and you’re just standing there shuffling your feet, and spouting breathtaking intellect like, “Sooo? The weather, huh? Crazy.” At this point, any rational person would try get out of the awkward, using a range of excuses from a panicked “I gotta pee” to a well thought out “My godmother is in the hospital. She just had a panda shoved up her uterus. I need to see her, bye.” 

In lieu of any of this, I prefer to choose a different route. Yes, Reader, I am, in fact, one of those; the kind who spits out a bad (albeit hilarious) pick up line, turning awkward moments even more awkward.

I am not deranged, I have my reasons okay. See, pick up lines are constructed in such a way that it requires no explanation. You get it, or you don't. That is why more often than not, a pick up line can be used as a subtle method to test if someone is cool or not. If the recipient responds with a stretched out, “Riiiiight. Oh-kaaaay?” it indicates failure. On the contrary, if the line "Hey, were you forged by Sauron? Because you look precious." is met with a favourable response, well then, DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNER!

Executing pick-up lines are risky, it involves ignoring that tiny voice in your head signalling you to “Abort mission. I repeat, abort." The stakes are high, and the outcome unpredictable. Like I said earlier, pick up lines aren't a marriage proposal or some kind of sex-coupon, sometimes it's just someone acting on a "hey, s/he's cute" impulse, in a witty albeit exaggerated manner. So well hey, props for boldness. Because, reader the way to my heart is not through a giant bouquet of flowers or a double-decker box of chocolates; but through words.

Or maybe someday I'll be a desperate forty-something in a bar shamelessly abusing bad pick up lines, and this is good practice...

So tell me, Reader, did it hurt? You know, when you fell from heaven?

Sidebar: I know, I know, it's been a year since I last posted. I've been treating my poor blog like a neglected middle-child (Yes, potential Psych major here). I have a final tomorrow, and well, my mind is most creative when I have to study. Ugh, finals are the worst beasts in the land, they come from stolen bodies of good elves and are turned into wild beings—

Wow, I need caffeine.