V-Day Stands for Vom Day

Oh, woe is Valentine’s Day. It stopped being fun after third grade when dropping a drugstore valentine into every person’s hand-decorated paper bag was no longer mandatory. From fourth grade on, it became a status symbol. The queen bees of the playground had more lollipops than they could finish in a month, while the less socially endowed had two: one from the teacher, and one from the goody-goody who still gave every person in class a “You’re Purrrrr-fect!” valentine. In middle school, Valentine’s Day upgraded to who had the most hearts taped to their locker, and by high school it didn’t matter what rung of the social ladder you were on - stud or dud, if you walked into class carrying a rose or chocolates, you were the envy of every girl. I thought the madness might end in college, a place dedicated to acculturating and fostering higher ideals of intellect………….I was wrong. 12:01 am and the facebook statuses/wall posts were rolling: “happy valentines day pumpkinpoo!” “you complete me, i love you so much.” vom, vom, vom. If I don’t grow up to be an old spinster cat lady and eventually get a boyfriend, I do solemnly swear that I will refuse to partake in any remotely mushy-gushy V-day activities… Mark my words. 

In honor of movie marathon night with the roomies, composed of the two greatest girlygirl classics: the Twilight saga and Mean Girls. 

In honor of movie marathon night with the roomies, composed of the two greatest girlygirl classics: the Twilight saga and Mean Girls. 


I was cleaning out my desktop and found an essay I wrote about my stepdad in high school. My senior year I framed it and gave it to him as a Christmas gift, partly because I am cheap, but also because my dad and I had never said ‘I love you’ to each other… Until the day after that Christmas…:

I wonder if he has freckles dotting the corners of his eyes, like I do… if his ring fingers are double-jointed, like mine are…if I interited my stubborn spirit and insatiable sweet tooth from him.

I’ve crafted him in my imagination as a cross between Superman and Old Saint Nick, the perfect combination of love and strength. He will sweep me up into his arms and hold me so close that I can smell his breath, a mixture of peppermint and tobacco, and the unfamiliar scent of the years he has missed. I will murmur words of comfort into his ear as he struggles to find words big enough to tell me how much he loves me.

I already know I will forgive him.

There’s only one flaw in my plan, though: my father left twelve years ago, and he hasn’t yet come looking for me.

I’m afraid I won’t recognize him, though, for I can only remember my father by the one photo I have of him. In it, he is squinting into the camera, shielding his eyes from the sun, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, his other arm wrapped tightly around me like a cocoon. I wonder if he knew, even then, that he wouldn’t see any of it: my preschool graduation, as I pranced across a makeshift podium; my first dance, Hawaiian-themed, as I returned home with stars in my eyes, a wilted lei draped around my neck; or my first varsity tennis match, where I marched off the court with my head held high, saving the tears until I fell into my mother’s warm embrace.

But despite his mistakes, and all the memories he missed, I always wanted him back. When I was younger, I would clasp my hands and squeeze my eyes tight, afraid that if I peeked, God wouldn’t bring him back. I asked for a daddy who would help me with my homework every night, a dad who would skip his football game to help me learn to rollerblade. Someone who would love me more than love itself, who couldn’t be dragged from me come heaven or hell. Someone who would give up his life if I couldn’t be a part of it.

Someone like the man my stepfather has been for nine years.

It’s funny how, oftentimes, you don’t realize what’s right in front of you because you’ve been looking back for so long. I sought love, acceptance, and comfort from the man who left me willingly, never realizing that I had it all in another father ready to step in — A father unrelated by blood, but bound by something a thousand times stronger.

WhenParentsText: Korean Version

The greatest texts I have ever received from my mom:

  • "always listen 2 elder. good 4 u."
  • "i found short pants and calculater. so what?"
  • "breakfast in toaster. make little worm" (translation: warm)
  • "u no stupid. u so lovely ^^"
  • me: i love you!/mom: me 22222222222222222 ^^
  • "is he good man? men are animal"

Real life. My mom is the cutest.

In the Beginning…

I finally tumbled onto the bandwagon (hehe) and started a blog. Blech, ‘blogging.’ There’s a certain stigma about that word. It makes me picture a twiggy, overemotional, cut-my-wrists-and-black-my-eyes tween hunched over a keyboard, whining to the worldwide web about trivial problems no one cares to know. Despite the millions of people blogging now, and all the great ones I’ve read, I still can’t help but think of it as such. Why am I here then?……1) This is yet another thing I can do instead of studying. <——- That reason alone suffices as an explanation. So here we goooooooo.