It is only a step from boredom to disillusionment, which leads naturally to self-pity, which in turn ends in chaos.

The Senior BBQ was today. Mlle. Smith and I were planning to ditch afterward, but Mme. Mills caught me when I was waiting in line to receive food and told me that she'd tell me more about something in first period. I was like, I have to go somewhere with my parents. God, she got so mad. She was like, we haven't seen each other in a week; you should not have planned something today.

Well, I'm sorry, but if I truly had to go somewhere with my parents, I wouldn't have had a choice anyways. She was so pissed.

So, Mlles. Smith and Macias and I went to the beach. It was fun. Very relaxing, as it should be.

Until Mlle. Jang called and told us how pissed Mme. Mills was. Mlle. Smith then decided to donate all of her photos for this scholarship that Mme. Mills  have just to appease her, but at that point, I just felt so disappointed in Mme. Mills. Like, she's not who I think she is. Like, I don't respect her anymore.

I got my prom dress and brought it home. It looks great on. It feels great on. I'm incredibly happy. I just need to either get new earrings or find that ones I was planning on wearing originally.

So, M. Dow and I talked for two hours today. He showed me his music, which was like, incredible. Like, crazy stuff. We talked about religion (which was interesting, since he's an atheist and is totally totally totally against it). It's just crazy talking with someone that intelligent. Yes, he's a cocky bastard, I'm not going to lie, but he admits it. But, seriously, it's kind of hard not to be a cocky bastard if you were that smart. But seriously, things just work for him because he's attractive. If not, everyone would hate him. But it's socially acceptable since he's attractive. It shouldn't be that way, but it is.

Like, I'm enjoy talking to him because I can see how the other side thinks, but if he was ugly, I wouldn't have given him the time of day unless I got to know him first. I am so goddamn shallow. I hate it. But one thing I do like is how straight-forward he is; I don't need to worry about him lying to me since he won't spare my feelings.

So, more problems with foreign, Chatroulette guys. This incredibly good-looking guy from Austria thinks he's in love with me. No, that's not scientifically possible. I tried telling him, but he kept telling me he liked me. No. NO. NO. NO! I said was I tired and that I needed to go to bed. I went "invisible" and he still typed things out to me and then called me. NO. I'm very very very creep out. I hate it when people I don't like like me and keep pursuing me when I've said no. It makes me sick. I think I'm going to block him. Yup. Sorry, you're nice and cute and you seem very kind since you want to work with mentally retarded children, but you're a total creeper. Sorry.

A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction.

Curiosity will seriously kill the cat.

I was talking to this British guy (haha--of course. Who else?) who currently resides in Ireland, and he said he was called Mr. Inappropriate when he got drunk. I said that I'd like to see him drunk. Well, the whole time we were chatting, it was pretty clean and fun until he did get drunk. Oh, boy, did the conversation get interesting.

He made all kind of sexual passes at me. Of course, I could have stopped, but I was bored and he was entertaining me, so I stayed on. He told me about his brother's fiancée, who he hated. He told me of all the time he made mean remarks about ugly and/or fat girls at the bar. He asked me if his chest was hairy and showed me. I said no, cause it wasn't that hairy. Stuff like that went on. Boy, was he inappropriate.

Anyways, he got drunker, and started talking about his exes. Faye, the latest one, broke up with him and went to Australia. He was waiting for her to come back to figure things out. He showed me their pictures. Faye was pretty, but Tara was one of the most beautiful-est girl I've ever seen. She looked like a doll with dark curls.

Anyways, I'm straying off topic. It was kind of sad, cause he obviously was still in love with Faye (I'd be in love with Tara, but that's just me). Anyways, it's not my business. It's just sad to see a person so heartbroken.

I'm glad he's a hilarious drunk though. God. Drunk people are like free entertainment.

Speaking of people I've met on Chatroulette. This guy I met a few days ago. Let's call him Monsieur Dow since that's his last name. At first, he looked like a sweet and cute Christian boy. Like, a much more attractive version of Michael Cera. But once he opened his mouth to speak, it's like, "fucking this" and "fucking that". At first, I was kind of put off by that, but once I get over it, I find out that he is very deep and very, very intelligent. He has an interesting views on life and love. He's also a nymphomaniac. Lovely, isn't it? The complete opposite of me. Completely opposite of what I thought he'd be.

But we talked today, and I could tell that we were very comfortable with each other even though he was very straightforward and doesn't curb his words. Like, it just clicked. He just seems like someone who could understand and he seems to feel almost the same way. It's almost like, "Ah, there you are. I've been waiting for someone like you to complete me." Well, if he was that person, then I'm half complete. He and I would take up half, for we each would take up a quarter. Then my best female friend, who I have yet to meet, would take up another quarter. Then the love of my life would be a quarter and would complete me wholly.

Okay, so apparently, I don't pick up on flirting cues. The guy that got drunk was apparently flirting with me ever since we started talking, but I didn't find out until he got drunk and when I asked him to start flirting with me so I could get a feel of how to do it. What is up with this?

Sometimes, I wonder if I was attractive as all these guys make me out to be. I mean, are they just saying it to be nice? Or are they bored of seeing penises and other guys and just want to talk to a girl? Doesn't matter if she wasn't pretty. Especially if she wasn't pretty because she'd be more willing to take off her clothes for them. Sorry, maybe I'm unattractive, but I'm not taking my clothes off for anybody except my British husband. And my mother. She has no sense of privacy.

Got my car back!

I wonder why I like looking at pretty girls? It's weird. Like, not them for real, but I'd like to keep them close. Like a collector. Is that normal? I think it's quite weird.

School doesn't start till 11 tomorrow! Can I get another woot woot? Then me and Mlle. Smith and possibly Mlle. Velasco too are ditching 1st, 5th, and 6th. That's how to end the week.

My Prom dress is done! Picking it up tomorrow!

The worst things in life come free to us.

I can feel depression creeping on me. I don't know why. It's scary. I never want to go through it again.

Sometimes, I wish I could just sleep to past time. I hate waking up.

Anyways, let's move onto a brighter and happier topic...such as love. I am in love. I am absolutely, hopelessly, and head over heels in love with Ed Sheeran, a British singer/songwriter. He's hilarious, sweet, and real at the same time. If you look up his pictures, he looks kind of chubby and not that cute, but if you watch him singing, he's adorable and witty. That British accent helps of course. It always does.

I've decided. I'm marrying a sexy British man and have adorable British children.

I've blocked the masked guy on both Facebook and Skype. He has no way of contacting me. I feel bad, but he just makes me uncomfortable, assuming that we are closer than we really are. He always calls me "sweetie" and "cutie", and stuff like that makes the guy seems like a skeaze. Is "skeaze" really not a word? "Jason, why are you such a skeaze?" It was in Mean Girls. It's a word.

On Sunday, my mother got into a car accident. The van is totally totaled, so she and my dad have been driving my Lexus around, which means I no longer have legs for Star Testings Week. All of my plans for this week has been canceled. At least my mother is okay.

I've been with killer headaches all week. I wonder why. My dad says it's cause I don't eat enough me. WRONG. I've been eating nothing but meat and fish products even since I received my rejection letter from Barnard. Maybe that's why.

In your life, you meet people. Some you never think about again. Some, you wonder what happened to them. There are some that you wonder if they ever think about you. And then there are some you wish you never had to think about again. But you do.

Serendipity. Do I believe in it? YES.

I've put up a post on the Chatroulette's page of Missed Connections. So, let's just see how it'll all work out. If he sees it and replies before I forget and wants to stay in touch, then it's meant to be. If not, then no big deal, cause then it's not meant to be.

I've forgotten what he looked like. I can barely make out his face, but I've started to substitute this guy's face for his instead.

I don't know why my brain does it. It's quite annoying and very, very inconvenient. Cause he doesn't look like that. NOT AT ALL. Cause I have good taste, that's why.

Speaking of Chatroulette. The guy that I talked to a while ago that I said was cute, the one with the mask. Well, he's making me a bit uncomfortable by calling me sweetie and honey...stuff like that. I know he doesn't really love me--I mean, it doesn't take a fool to figure that out. It's sweet and nice, but it's really making me uncomfortable.

I no longer feel like I play a minor role in my own life anymore. I think I finally have the role of the protagonist in my own book.

So, Chatroulette again...I met the cutest Mormon guy...Monsieur Manwaring. He's kind and polite and deep. He's still a virgin, but a completely a man, if you know what I mean. There are people who are the same age but still look and behave like boys. But he's different. He sang and played the ukulele for me; he even attempted to play Sway by Bic Runga (my favoritest song ever!). He's proud that he doesn't drink or smoke or do drugs. He travels all the time. And he volunteers. So, perfect guy to bring home, much?

He gave me his Facebook when we were talking. Thank God, because I detest asking for people's Facebooks. Or Skype. I only ask if I really really want to keep in touch. If not, then I wait for the other person to ask for mine, but I do hate going through my Skype and asking, "Who the eff is this?"

You know it's a bad day when you put your bra on backwards and it fits better.

Is it weird that I'm so affected by the guy from yesterday? I literally had to go to the bathroom to drain my tears every ten minutes. God, I think the medication I'm taking for my coughs and stuff is majorly messing up my hormones. My hormones are, no joke, so out of whack right now. I would just cry my eyes out for the stupidest reasons.

Anyways, I think I'm especially affected because of the way we talked yesterday. We weren't just typing things in. We did at first, but then we actually talked. He was shirtless and propped himself up in front of his laptop (I think), and I was sitting down, hugging in my knees, so it was awfully intimate. So, if you can imagine it, if we were in the same room, wouldn't we pass for lovers? I think so. That's probably why. There's a false sense of intimacy between us, so I'm having a hard time letting him go, especially since we never had the chance to say good bye properly after such a good and personal conversation.

I know we did agree that we should never meet again, but it's kind of sad to say stuff like that.

Today was a horrible day. I got home so late and now I have a headache. Not a good day for me.

It's really painful to say goodbye to someone that you don't want to let go, but it's even more painful to ask someone to stay if they never wanted to stay.

I've done something stupid. I've gotten emotionally attached to someone I wasn't supposed to.

So, I was on Chatroulette, and I talked to a bunch of people, but then there was one that I spent hours talking to. At first it was boring, and I only stayed on because he was kind of cute (and shirtless, but that's beside the point. I've seen cuter and hotter. But that's also beside the point). He was 23 and owned half of a music production company. We were talking about the many penises on the site, and he told me that he got flashed by the girl before me, but she was ugly, so he was turned off. I laughed, of course, and I asked him why he was there. He answered and asked me why I was there. I told him about how I wanted to meet new people and how I would feel horrible whenever I nexted an unattractive person. He accused me of looking for somebody to flirt with.

Well, I explained myself out of that one, but the topic turned to sex...because I was curious. I asked him how his first time was and all of the sudden, he turned it back to me. He found it extraordinary that I was waiting until after marriage. He said that I should masturbate (I was like, Oh, God, no). He kept asking if I was uncomfortable with the subject, I said I was, but I needed to know about this kind of stuff, and I've got no one to talk about it to, so he seemed to know very much about the subject.

I liked how he was very very comfortable with himself. And how he doesn't say anything like, "I fucked that girl" or anything like that. He either said, "had sex with" or "slept with", which in my opinion, are so much better since those terms don't degrade the girl in question.

So, we kept talking for hours, and during that time, he occasionally touched his neck and shoulder with his hand to support himself, and I find it very sexy when guys do touch their neck or shoulders, so I told him. And then he stared at me for a bit and said that I has been turning him on too with my collarbones peeking out of my shirt (see! Told you! Exposed clavicles are sexy). I noticed he did it more after I told him. Then, we talked about food, but then somehow the topic came back to me, again. He said he wanted to see more of me, but not in a way that would make me feel uncomfortable. I asked him what he would like to see. He asked what would I be comfortable showing. We settled on my stomach, and so I showed him , which was like, the weirdest thing I could have shown, but I guess he liked it. He said he was glad that I came on because I was pretty and he was just intrigued that I asked that kind of stuff and that because the girl before me completely turned him off. We were having a really good conversation. He was being crude sometimes (like, when I mention the joy of dressing up for Prom, he said that the joy was reserved for girls and "we only want to take it off you"), but it's the truth, and I just need  to know some stuff. I felt like we had a really good connection going on, but all of the sudden, his end got frozen, and I got switched to another.

Because of the nature of the things we talked about, we agreed not to exchange names because then it would become uncomfortable. So, I know nothing of him except that he was 23 and owned half of a music production company. Once our connection got severed, I felt like I'd just lost a friend and there was no way to get him back. I wonder if he felt the same, or if he just rolled over and said, "Oh, what a shame", went to bed, and thought no more about it.

We are afraid to care too much, for fear that the other person does not care at all.

The UCI day went well. It was uneventful, but it went well. I didn't meet anyone else though. Everyone else just kind of stuck to their parents.

I feel so lonely. And boring. Like I've forgotten how to have fun. When I go out--on the rare occasions that I do go out--I feel so pressured to HAVE fun that I end up feeling so forced and even more bored and boring. Like, other people just have fun all the time. Why can't I do it too? I'm not spontaneous, maybe that's why. And not confident. I wonder if I am insecure because I'm so judgmental and critical of others.

People think I'm nice, and I appear to be nice, but I actually think really mean things. Like, this girl in my class, Mlle. Murphy, would be so sad if she knew all of the things I think about her. Why is she doing that? Why can't she just talk normally like everybody else? She's so weird. Why is she wearing that kind of make up to school? Does she know that that shirt and those jeans highlight her muffin top? Why is she talking to me now? God, I wish she would shut up and let me do my work. Maybe if I answer in monosyllabic answers, she'll go away. God, why is she still talking to me? Stop it. Stop waddling toward me. Leave me alone, God dang it. Why is she still trying to talk to me? Can she see I'm talking to [Mlle. Jang] and we're obviously try to ignore her. Good she's going away. Dang it, she's coming back again. That kind of mean things.

And then I got lonely and went to Chatroulette for the first time, on Monday. I only got next-ed whenever there were girls, which was kind of a flattering. Most the guys are like, "you're beautiful" or "you're lovely" or stuff like that. Well, on the first night, I was, like, really happy because those people thought I was attractive. Oh, and I only got flashed once.

Then the next day, I went on again (is it pathetic that I get ego boosts from strangers like this?). This time, I got flashed, like more than ten times. And the guys almost always asked me to strip for them. And the little kids? "Let's see your tits." Sure, show me yours, I'll show you mine. They next-ed me, but some of the other guys weren't too smart. They showed me (very nice, of course. God, I feel like such a pervert right now) and I clicked next after getting a nice show. Oops! I got several guys who serenaded to me. That was quite nice. And I would talk to British guys all day long because I will never get over their adorable accent. One told me I was sexy in his adorable accent. God, my smile is so big right now, you have no idea. Anyways, then I kind of reached the conclusion that people only tell me I'm beautiful or pretty or sexy or lovely just to see more of me, and people will continue to do that to try and get an easy lay. It's just really sad. And then this naked girl (I only stayed because I was curious about her gender. I couldn't tell if she was a dude or a girl. I swear) asked me if I wanted to see her "vjj". No, I don't want to see your Goddamn "vjj". Get of the internet, sicko. And, yeah, I finally know what a penis looks like. It's ugly. I was hoping that the ugly one was just an exception, but it's actually a rule. I don't know if I want to have that thing inside me. What will my husband think if I say I don't want to look when we have sex. That shit thing is nasty.

And I know it's kind of conceited--and unjustly so--but I can't help but feel that I will never know if I'm ugly or plain or pretty or beautiful for real. Somebody told me that boys don't talk to pretty girls because they're intimidated, so that's why none of them talk to me. That's such BS. That's what I'm talking about. If somebody tells me I'm pretty, I just dismiss it because I just assume that they're trying to be nice and have nothing else to say. So, will I ever know? And then when someone does talk to me, I just assume they're talking to me because a pretty girl would be more likely to reject them, and that I am the next best thing and that's why they're talking to me. I don't know. I wish I could just know if I was pretty or not. No, actually, I don't want to know because if I was ugly, then I would have to deal with that. I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I don't want to know.

And then today, I was talking to this really cute college guy, and his friends flashed their abs at me. Then they asked me to strip. I said the same thing I told the other people. You do it first and I'll follow. They next-ed me. I got bored, and started nexting a bunch of people. I feel so bad when I next an ugly person, though, because it's like I'm rejecting them because of their appearance, which is exactly what I'm doing, but it just feels really bad. Anyways, I was talking to this really cute guy from Holland with the coolest painting of New York behind him. So I talked to him and we were having a really good conversation when he next-ed me! I was like, what? And then he Facebook-ed (he gave me his, and I added him) and apologized for the connection loss. And then I kept nexting random people.

And then this guy with a mask was on. I was kind of laughing from something before and I covered the bottom portion of my face and my forehead so it would look like his mask. And then we started talking. He told me I was beautiful (at this point, I just waiting for him to say, "I want to see more of you" or something like that.) I told him that he looked like he would be cute underneath the mask. We talked for a bit more and he took of his mask. I was right (like I usually am, of course--I wish). He was really cute. Like a model. Except masculine looking. We talked for about an hour without him asking me to take off anything once. I kind of liked that. And then we just talked and me just smiling stupidly the whole time (I wish I was more graceful and charming). He smiled really nice. Close-lipped, just a hint of happiness. I talked about my future plan, and he said that he wanted to marry me if I was without prospect when the deadline approached (I HAVE to get married before I turn 30 and have a baby before I turn 31). He was so cute and charming and sweet and he knew all the right things to say and it was approaching 5 o'clock (when I said I was going to stop because I have a math test tomorrow and an essay to finish), and I wanted to ask for his Facebook or Skype or anything just so we could stay in contact, but I didn't want to do the asking myself because I kind of felt like I was just another one he was (possibly, but hopefully not) stringing along. I was so happy when he asked for my Facebook instead. Me, and he, and the Holland guy, and the two Italian kids are friends now on Facebook. God, those kids were hilarious. They told me they were 18 (and they looked 18) and asked me to add them. I did, and they were not 18. They were 17. They apologized profusely. And the best thing about it all was that they used a translator to talk to me because their English wasn't good enough. It was just all really fun.

Mlle. Jang thinks I am in love with M. Ward. Are you kidding me? I've liked him when we were in 8th grade, but now we're older, you think I'm going to make the same mistake twice? Not that there's anything wrong with him, it's just, yeah, he's cute and attractive and has a nice personality, he's not my type. I bet it's because I asked him why he didn't have a girlfriend when he was so cute and had a nice personality. I bet that's why. So much for the female intuition.

I wonder if I'm beginning to like this guy. I wonder if that's possible. It shouldn't be possible because no chemicals, no hormones, no pheromones were exchanged when we talked. It was over the Internet. It's just not possible for me to fall in love with him. Ever. Because it's just impossible. There's no way. If I, in the future, ever to think that I am in love him, then let me read this blog and be reminded that if I were to fall in love with him, then I would be sadly mistaken and delusional. The person that I were to fall in love with would not be him, but with the boy that my mind had created and projected desirable qualities into and the guy with the mask had added on to the imaginary boy and made him a bit more real by merely existing. I would only be in love with my own imagined boy and not the real one. I'm still logical now. Please let my brain continue to be in control when my heart wants a turn.

A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.

So I kind of told my mom that living with her restraints me. Oops. Big. Mistake.

She didn't get mad. She just started saying stuff and then crying. Of course, I started crying way before because I'm a huge-ass big baby. She takes it like I'm rejecting her, but I'm not! I just need room to grow.

But after a shower, she just kind of went on like normally. Then we drove to LA and she was just telling me a bunch of stuff, but it was weird cause it was just really normal. I hope she realizes that I need room to grow and just kind of supports me for it. I hope she's NOT keeping for future fights.

Other than that, the day went fine. She even suggested that we take yoga classes in the summer together.

I think the reason why she took it so hard is because I'm her favorite child and now I'm saying I don't want to live with her. I know I'm her favorite child because she told me when she thought I was sleeping. It's nice to be the favorite child, the subject of all of her stories, but sometimes it feels like she's molding me into an extension of herself.

The other day, I read this article in Vogue (like, the one that came out in 2008) about how having a beautiful mother affects the author's upbringing and choices. Well, the mother was extremely beautiful and sought after, like mine, and she was always going on about how beauty wasn't important, like mine does. The mother in the article always acted like she was unaware of her beauty, but the author witnessed how long it took for her to pick the perfect dress, to do her hair, to moisturize her skin...just the extend that the mother goes to to preserve her beauty while saying it didn't matter. Mine's not like that. She doesn't take good care of herself like she should. Anyways, the author resented her mother for saying that beauty didn't matter so often, because she felt like her mother was only saying that because the author herself wasn't beautiful. Story of my life. The author then kind of rejects her mother and all that she stands for; she embraces literature and politics, stuff that her father, a literary critic or whatever, was into. So they would be debating stuff at the dinner table and the mother would be completely shut out. Okay, that's not going to work with my mother because my mother wasn't always beautiful. In fact, she told me that she was really ugly up until after puberty...at about 18, 19ish. So, before that, she had to rely on her brain to get what she wanted, and she got a lot because she was clever and witty. And then she got beautiful.

And there's me, who's dull and unintelligent. Saying that I'm pretty is a bit of stretch. I'm just hoping I'll turn beautiful before I turn 30, because, as everybody knows, that's when you get old and decrepit. Yeah, I'm not wearing a wedding dress after 30 because then I'll be an old bride and an old mother and my daughter won't be as smart because eggs would be too old. Omigosh, what if my daughter is stupid?

Anyways, I'm definitely going to change my name. I've talked it over with my mother and she heartily approves. Khue Tu. I don't know if I like that sound of that. It has a great meaning though. Khue Tu, in Sino-Vietnamese, is a literary name for the brightest star in the sky. I looked it up, and it said that it's actually comprised of a bunch of stars (no wonder it's brightest). She gave that name to because she wanted me to outshine the people around me...someone others can look up to. Khue is also a lady's bedchamber. Back when noble ladies are kept inside, the bedchamber is only opened to those of great importance...so she wants me to be selective of those whom I give my happiness to (oh, God, if that sentence doesn't make any sense, I'm sorry), and be elegant and graceful and accomplished ("A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern language, to deserve the word" and "To all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."--Jane Austen) as those ladies who inhabit those chambers. Tu is generally a very masculine name, like Tuan Tu (I used to have crush on this kid with this name...first grade), which means handsome and intelligent with abilities to lead. So...in a very sexist society, my mother gave me the name Tu, hoping that I will take on good traits of the male species and lead those who need leading, like my future pets (JK.)

Tomorrow, my mother, Mlle. Smith, and I are going to Irvine for UCI Discovery Day. Yay! I'm excited. Then we're going to a massage place afterward. Hopefully it'll all go well.

I can think of more stuff that get me excited:

WINTER CLOTHES!

He who trims himself to suit everyone will soon whittle himself away.

My mother has decided to move to Irvine my sophomore year at college. Lovely. There goes the plan that Mlle. Johnston and I have about moving into an apartment together sophomore year. I sure don't want to live with my mom. I'm super sure Mlle. Johnston doesn't as well. I mean, this is our time to live, but she keeps trying to interfere and not letting me live. She's had her chance at life. Let me have mine. Youth only happens once.

Speaking of youth, I've just finished a book. Rebbecca by Daphne du Maurier. It's an okay book with wonderful descriptions of a country estate called Manderley. It sounds so lovely to be so rich and living in such a decadent place, to have a drawing room and a morning room. I am especially in love with the scene where the unnamed heroine enters the morning room, the place where her husband's beautiful first wife Rebbecca always spends her morning writing letters and managing the estate. She describes the ornaments and decorations in the room, and then the descriptions of the writing desk comes up. Gosh, it seems like such a great desk, with labels such as "Unanswered Letters", "Invitations", "Parties", and "Misc.". And then the scene where the unnamed heroine stumbles upon the bedroom in the west wing (she stays in the east wing), and sees how the crazy housekeeper Mrs. Danvers has kept Rebbecca's room in a way that suggests that the owner is still alive. There is the ante-room which has a closet full of beautiful dresses in multitude of materials. I could have died and went to heaven right then.

And then there's Rebbecca.

My ideal beautiful woman is always one with black (blackest of black) tumbling past her shoulders. Always. Then, if her skin is dark, then she would have almond eyes (black or green, it doesn't matter). But if she has pale skin, then she has the kind that is almost white, but not quite. Her eyes, then, would be icy, icy blue. Rebbecca has the hair of the beautiful woman in my mind. She's tall and slim and beautiful, not to mention witty and clever and very, very charismatic and charming. She sails and rides and entertains while looking lovely beyond belief. And then we find out she's a nymphomaniac who has sex all the time and enjoys telling her husband, who hates her, about it to provoke him. She's manipulative and deceitful, mocking those around her for believing in her facade. When I was reading, I was very drawn toward her (not in a homosexual way, of course), but I always feel giddy when a beautiful girl or woman or house or room or dress or outfit or closet or scene that has some kind of a natural water source is described. It's weird. I just can't explain it. Oh, yeah, and floor plans! That stuff turns me on. Not in a weird way, of course. It just gets me really excited.

Mlle. Johnston wants to hangout during Spring Break, and, of course, I can't because my mother is incredibly anal. The topic of my prom dress came up and I told her that it would be $200 (it's actually $300. I always tell her that I spend less money that I really do), and she almost flipped out. She was like, "$200? Why are you so extravagant? Why don't you just borrow one of [my cousin's] dress?" Um...because, one, a long dress costs at least $200 and a good one costs at least $600. Mlle. Hatfield got one for $400 and it wasn't even that good looking. Mine's going to be so much better. I'd rather spend a wee bit more money on something I love than spending any at all on something I don't care about, but that's beside the point because I'm spending less than most people anyways. Two, because it's my own money? Three, because she and I don't wear the same size? Four, who borrows a dress for Prom? That's like borrowing a wedding dress. Who does that? Certainly not me. I would not get married if I couldn't wear my own wedding dress.

Actually, sophomore year, I decided that I wasn't going to marry, but then I thought about it and I really really really want to have my own wedding dress, so I decided to marry after all. Yeah, so...she's ridiculous! I'm paying for it with my own money! Why is she even complaining? Everyone else's parents are paying for theirs and they actually go shopping with their daughter.

Ugh. Talking about this makes me feel so suffocated and oppressed. I wish time flies faster.

Rejection helps you to discover who does not vibrate at the same frequency as you, and therefore it lets you know whom not to waste your energy and resources with.

No go on Barnard. I'm not incredibly bummed, but I speed-walked to the bathroom to cry my disappointment out. It was took less than five minutes. Thank God Barnard was incredibly cold and rude in their rejection letter or else I would be more bummed.

My mother took me to visit UC Irvine on Sunday. It was a lovely campus. There was a lot of Asian people, but the ones I've seen were attractive, so I don't mind. Plus, when I went into the Visitor Center to grab a map, I saw the cutest guy--possibly Greek or Persian--manning the Info Desk. I think I'm going to like it here.

Then we went and got our whole body massaged. It was incredibly nice and it felt so good.

I turned in my SIR and paid my non-refundable deposit yesterday and just paid my housing application fees today. It feels so good, and I am incredibly excited.

I told my friends, and everyone was like, "it's not like I don't want you to go somewhere you really want to go, but I'm glad you're at most an hour away." Mlle. Jang is going to USC. Mlle. Smith is going to CSUCI. Mlle. Connelly is going to LMU. Mlle. Johnston is going to CSU Long Beach and was especially excited when I told her. Mlle. Hatfield hasn't decided yet, but it is most likely that she will go to CSU Long Beach too just to piss Mlle. Johnston off. I wish those two would stop hating each other.

Oh, yeah, I've almost forgotten about Heel Day. It was great. I wore my heels with ankle socks and received so many compliments. Only a few girls did it with me, but they looked great and the other ones looked like they wished that they did it too. Guess who stared at me when I walked to class that day looking great. If you guess M. Lythgoe, you are absolutely correct. Okay, seriously, you've asked somebody else to Prom--you forfeited your privilege to stare, so please stop.

Speaking of Prom...now that it's a little bit more than a month away, I'm kind of freaking out because I hate two pimples on my face because I was lazy last week and ate junk food that whole week, so, yeah, my face is kind of messed up at the moment. So, I've started a new diet and new skincare regiment.


Diet:

• No more junk food.
• Drink a glass of tea per day.
• Drink at least five cups of milk per week.
• Drink a glass of water per day.

Obviously, the point is to detox my body so this kind of disaster will not occur. Ever again. I like having nice skin, thank you very much.

Skincare:

1. Remove make-up and cleanse lightly.
2. Apply honey to face for ten minutes.
3. Rinse and cleanse for real.
4. Tone.
5. Moisturize.
6. Apply this disgusting-smelling night creme to my face.

Well, this is obviously for my night regiment. My morning regiment is steps 3 to 5. And then there's the make-up routine that I have and must specifically follow because I am anal like that.

Make-Up:

1. Moisturize.
2. Foundation.
3. Blush.
4. Chapstick.
5. Eyeliner.
6. Highlighter.
7. Lipstick.
8. Mascara.

And there's my hair styling regiment, but that one's more complicated to explain because it has many variations.

But starting this week till Prom, I will not wear foundation unless my skin looks horrible. I know I said my skin looks disgusting right now, but it really isn't. It just looks unsightly because I look at myself with a magnifying glass. Not wearing foundation is supposed to help your skin, so I'm up for it. Saves me time too.

It seems like Mlle. Jang is trying to be better friends with me, which is nice, except I have no time to hangout because my mother hates it when I go out. Grr. I want to do yoga with her and Mlle. Smith. I just want to hangout like a regular girl, but I can't.

Mlle. Smith and I, and possibly my mother and Mlle. Jang, are going to UC Irvine next Wednesday to tour that campus and dorms. I'm so excited, you have no idea.

Now that I think about it, my mother always gets what she wants. Everything works and fits her plans the way she wants them too. It's like the people upstairs love her more than they love me.

That's a lie. They love me in a different way. I'm an incredibly lucky child. I've never been seriously hurt in my entire life. Never broken a bone...nothing. Almost gotten hit by a car, stepped in shards of glass, lost a foot, gotten rabies, stabbed and sliced by a knife, gotten stuck for weeks in Italy, gotten stuck and lost in Vietnam at the airport, and bunch of other almosts. I'm just lucky like that. My well-being is looked after.

Sometimes I wonder if I truly want to go to UCI or if my enthusiasm is just something my brain make up to ensure my survival through these rejections. Either way, I don't care. I just kind of want to know, that's all.

I talked to Mlle. Kodoma today. It was really nice. I miss her and I wish she was here.