He Had a VIP Ticket

Disclaimer: My dreams tend to be embedded with graphic imagery (mostly sexual). Read at your own risk. Or pleasure. Whatever.

There was a Kanye West concert happening in town. D and I spent a couple hundred on the tickets to see the show, but the best we could afford were the nosebleed seats. I arrived at the concert venue first. The doors opened and a stampede of crazed fans pushed through the entrance. I glued myself to the wall so I wouldn’t be trampled over. Where was D?

A mysterious hand gently grabbed around my waist. I smiled. I looked over slowly with anticipation. It wasn’t him.

“Hey,” he softly called as he tightened his grip around me. I felt a million sensations rise from where he touched me to the ends of my fingertips. I haven’t felt him since last winter.

What are you doing here? Why are you so close to me? 

“You don’t want to see me?” He wore his trademark jacket, fabric over the body and leather around the arms.

I shouldn’t want to see you. 

From my waist, he slid his hand down my arm to meet my hand. His fingers found the gaps between mine and soon, our hands were interlocked.

“I have tickets at the VIP section. I’ll take you there.”

I should have said, no thank you, I’m waiting on my boyfriend. I should have pulled away and walked in the other direction. I should have shouted, I love someone else. 

But I walked with him.

We found seats very near the stage, so close I could almost touch Kanye’s hands. He sat on the outside, locking me in. The concert must have started, for the lights were dimmed and the spotlight was on the stage. But for some reason, we were still sitting. He was still holding my hand. His scent still lingered, calling memories of a winter thought to have been long forgotten.

He leaned closer and I leaned in, listening to what he had to say. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he nibbled on my ear and breathed gently down my neck. I couldn’t help but let out a sigh. No, no, no.

I shot up and shook off his hand. My boyfriend is here. I’m going to find him.

“Please stay,” he whispered from the dark.


D and I decided to ditch the concert to find something new to do, something we haven’t done. We walked out mid-performance. As we were leaving, I peeped over at the VIP section. He was no longer there. I cringed in confusion, hoping D wouldn’t notice. I looked again, just to make sure. Was he ever here? 


Rant: Paranoia

Inhale. My heart is sinking. Exhale. My stomach is sinking. Inhale. I keep imploding over and over, and he doesn’t seem to notice. Probably because he’s 20 miles away in front of his phone screen, messaging me back every now and then as he goes in and out of consciousness. We couldn’t meet today because I chose not to. One, to give him breathing room. Two, so I can be at home (I haven’t been home for about a week now). Three, so he won’t get sick of me. Four, because it’s normal. It is normal, right?

That’s what people say. It’s normal to live separate lives. It’s normal to have a different group of friends. It’s normal to not know what the other is doing. It’s normal to be separated. It’s normal to lead different lives. It’s normal to be two separate people.

If that’s supposed to be normal, perhaps I’m abnormal. None of this feels right to me. I can’t breathe correctly. I can’t think clearly. I lost sight of all my short-term goals. My agenda book is right here. I see a list of letters and words that should make up my next few actions. But they’re meaningless. All I can think about is how he is away from me, in the hands of strangers who I don’t trust, and I sitting in front of a computer pathetically listening to the same song over and over in hopes that by the 25th time, he will come home and call me for a hello.

He won’t come home today. He won’t call me today. He won’t share a story with me today, nor will he tell me a joke or share words of encouragement. He won’t relay how silly he is being with the boys. He won’t illustrate the moment. He won’t do it for me.

If he won’t initiate, I won’t respond. If he won’t listen, I won’t share my stories. When I stop sharing my stories, I stop caring about sharing my life. I’m very quick to throw away those who do not meet my needs.

I’m crying, again. This is not what I want.

I Lied to my Mother

When you lie to a loved one, you’re only weighing yourself down.

I lied to my mother about my whereabouts, because if I told her the truth she would definitely and immediately bring me to church to be cleansed and prayed for. I lied because she would disapprove. I lied because I wanted a vacation without her citing Bible verses about romance and sin. I lied to keep her off my back. There, I said it. I lied so she wouldn’t nag me.

It’s causing me more pain than I thought it would. She texted me, “enjoy your vacation and be safe.” She thinks I’m at a beach in the South. I’m not. I’m still in the Northeast, feeling guiltier and guiltier by the minute. She genuinely wished me well, and I had lied to her.  She trusted me and I lied. She sent love my way, and instead of embracing it I claimed to be suffocated by it.

My mother – she’s my greatest role model. She raised us by herself in this foreign land when we first moved here. Although she was an English teacher back at home, it was barely conversational. This country welcomed us with racism and hardship, but she strived to rise above it. She pushed us to follow our talent and passions, putting us through dance classes, art and music lessons. She made our teenage years feel normal through our poverty. She was diligent in furthering her education. She is the bravest woman I know.

My mother is also traditionally Korean and very Christian. In terms of romance, there would be no holding hands, no kissing, no touching. She has specific requirements for my romantic interests – must be Christian, must be older than me, must not chase after money, must come from a harsh background, must be intelligent but not too much (because then he would be hard to understand), and preferably Korean. No traveling too much, because home is my base, home is where I should be when the sun sets. No sleepovers, no staying out after midnight, limit the number of days I venture into the city. Most of the time, I don’t abide by these rules. It breaks her.

I didn’t need to lie, but I did. It hurts. But I’m too free spirited and nomad-minded to stay inside, to stay in one place as she wishes me to. I wish I could be the daughter my mother envisioned, but also cross off goals and dreams off my bucket list.

I won’t do it again.

Purgatory is Hell

Disclaimer: My dreams tend to be embedded with graphic imagery (mostly sexual). Read at your own risk. Or pleasure. Whatever.

I had died and went to purgatory. I ate too much cheese and dairy, and couldn’t be brought back. Purgatory was nowhere in particular, on the outskirts of the galaxy yet inside our universe. I peered through the blinds and glimpsed the end of the world. I wanted to get a closer look. The old timers agreed to take me there. We got as close as possible, but there was an invisible wall preventing us from going all the way. It was natural and I just stared at the end of the world. The white. The nothingness.

A bunch of thugs appeared around the corner and pushed us to the floor. They claimed we had contaminated the wall by releasing cheese particles onto it. They then began preparing to collect our urine samples to collect evidence against us. Sunny was there. She was lactose intolerant. What a coincidence – so was I.

I scoffed and called them out for not using the scientific method, having no variables. I laughed so hard at them, the leader became angry and threw everything to the floor. He left us to hunt for the man who administered the tests.


The leader came back with more captives and locked us in a room. I snapped and screamed. Why are you being so mean? We’re already in hell, why are you giving us more hell? I threw a punch with my right hand, landing on his balls and his face. I pulled his hair and bit his ear until it bled. I wanted to mangle him, to see him crawling on the floor bleeding. But he didn’t budge. He got up and walked away, leaving us in the room and I falling asleep on a table. I was exhausted.


They came back to give me more tests, but I refused. I threw everything on the floor. The equipement, notebook, pens, whatever else was on the table. I screamed, don’t bother me when I’m sleeping. I wanted to see my mom. I wanted to go to heaven. This was hell.

I began crying hysterically.

I faded into reality. I woke up crying, frustrated at the injustice, angry for the existence of a purgatory.

I’ve Never Lost a Loved One

I don’t know how to deal with death.

I’ve never experienced death of a close one before. My grandfather passed away last year, but I only met him once, when I was 5 years old. I only knew him as my mother’s father.

Recently, a girl I once knew passed away. First of all, we disliked each other when I was a freshman back in 2009. Second, my interactions with her didn’t last long. We probably spoke for a couple months in 2010, and that was it. So when I found out she was gone, it surprised me that I felt emotions. I was sad and angry that she was taken so violently. I barely knew her, yet I was shocked that someone I once knew was gone. If this is what it feels like losing an acquaintance, I wonder how painful it must feel to lose a loved one.

A day after hearing the news, I pushed it into the back of my mind. She is gone, in a horrific and tragic way, don’t think about it. It worked until the Facebook posts began popping up. I pushed that aside too, choosing to ignore reading the status and not click on an article. I’ve never dealt with death before, and I didn’t know how to handle it.

I remember her as a strong girl with an attitude. I remember she wanted to fight me one night, because I was being carelessly intoxicated and crossed the line with a boy in a relationship. People had to hide me in a room because she was calling for me, screaming about punching me in the face. I was scared of her ever since then. I remember asking her about it months later, when we became oddly closer. She said she was ashamed of my actions while holding the title as a Korean. She said Koreans have to act with dignity and honor, and I tainted it. I had no idea if she was bullshitting, but it was better than “I hate you” so I took it. That was the last time I spoke to her. There is no, maybe I’ll run into her one day. That was definitely the last time.

Social media is still loud with stories of her. I’m reminded of how she is gone, how she will never return to this world, how she left us defensively when she was so fiery and fierce in life. What happened to her was more than unjust, and I pray for her justice. You can read her story and help her out here. 

If I feel this confused and shocked about an individual who briefly passed by my life, how will I react when I lose a loved one?