So I have decided...

... that I am going home to my motherland.

In August I will visit Japan.



It has been six years since the last time I walked down the familiar streets that I once used to live and grew up. It has been six years since the last time I've enjoyed the real Japanese culture--from food to people-- that I have been longing to feel. It has been six years since I've been "home."

Quite frankly, it has been too fucken long.

So I'm packing my bags and hopping on a plane.
Well, it's not that easy, you see. Thanks to the soaring price of gas, the fuel charge for one ticket is almost as expensive as the ticket itself. So, it's like doubling the price. I'm currently scavenging all the travel agency ads in the Japanese newspapers. I hope I will find something. Hell, I don't even mind sitting in the cargo area if that is going to reduce the price-- I take painkillers and knock out as soon as I sit down anyway.

Mother told me that I'm being ridiculous by spending so much to go on a trip like this and argues that I should be saving the money for when I transfer next year, but honestly, I don't think I can visit Japan for a real long time--perhaps five years or so--if I don't go this summer. I am getting busier and busier each year, and I don't think transferring and moving out is going to help my schedule.

So I am leaving.

And I sense a great "Miyu's Issues in Japan" coming our way.

Stay tuned.

But first of all, I must find a cheap ticket, fast.

"Do you think about me now and then? 'Cause I'm coming home again."

A thought that I had never thought about.

Recently, as we were listening to the radio, Scott said,

"I know Saint Peters won't call my name."

I didn't know what he was talking about, but he informed me; Saint Peters is I guess a person that calls names of those entering heaven. I suppose he is waiting at the gate? Growing up agnostic, and still am, I lack the knowlege of these basic Catholic saints and holy people. It's actually quite interesting to talk to someone like Scott, who has been brought up Catholic and confirmed by the church (he no longer goes to church or is religious, however).

"Viva La Vida" by Coldplay was playing.
The song is very pretty and poetic. I must say, though this genre of music new to me, I am in love with this song. You should check it out.

But back to what he said.
Will Saint Peters call MY name?

I don't know.
But does that matter?

What if there is no dude calling names of thsoe who belong in heaven?

But what if there is?

Would he call my name?
Would he call his name?
Would he call our names?

I wonder.

I have not been a saint, but I have not been Hitler, either.

I wonder.

Will he?

I don't know if I should even bother wondering.

But the song got me thinking.

Will Saint Peters call my name?

Better yet,

Will Saint Peters call YOUR name?

A year later...

Saturday, June 7, was an interesting night.

Thanks to some friends, I was forunate enough to be a part of a gay pride weekend in West Hollywood.
First of all, I love West Hollywood and the Beverly Hills area because those are the places that I've been to a few times and I like the stores there. But not in a million years would I have imagined myself there at 11 p.m. in a crowd of gay people. Another thing to add is that this culture was new to me. Growing up in a community where anything out of the "norm" is rarely accepted or acknowledged, Saturday night was a different night from all the rest

I must also add that I loved it.
But what made me surprised was not the people or the scene-- it was myself.

That night was the same night that my high school had its senior prom. A year ago, I was there too, dressed up nice with my fellow high school peers and enjoying the "best night of my life." We giggled, danced "freaky," had an alcohol-free after party and giggled some more. We took pictures, corsages and all, and joked that the cokes and punches had booze in it.

A year later, I no longer talk to any of those who I had spend that night with (except for Scott, of course). Some of those friendships ended few months later, while some, that I thought were going to be life-long, ended just recently.

A year later, I am in West Hollywood, with new friends of diffrent age and backgrounds, on a gay pride weekend, in a crowd of (some) drunks, covered in the smell of cigarettes, listening to Madonna and with a $5 vodka-with-rasberry-lemonade in my hand at a place that didn't even ask for my ID.

A year ago, the night ended with us playing Cranium 'till dawn, watching Borat and eating chicken nuggets.

A year later, the night ended with watching someone puke its stomach out from her car, a friend dancing on the bed of our truck while it was moving and laughing till I thought I was gonna fall from the window.

One year, and that was the difference.

When I got home, my mom asked what I did there (this is 2008, btw). I told her I had a $5 drink at West Hollywood. I even told her about the things I saw, the people I saw and the non-ID thing.

And she told me that wasn't too bad.

And I thought it wasn't too bad, either.

Maybe it was the drink (since I've realized that my heart reacts funny to drinks), but that morning, as I tossed and turned in bed, I swear my heart was pounding because I was so excited about my life ahead.

If one year can change this much, imagine what 5-year can do.


Some who knew me from a year ago may say that I've changed for the worse.
But I personally like the me that I am today.

Oh LOVE!

Let's talk about love.

Well, first of all, I'm having a hard time relating to people who "like" someone. i love hearing about it and all the happy/juicy stories that come with having a crush on someone, but I just can't relate. I'm sure last time being in that state of having a crush was four years ago has something to do with it. But regardless, I'm not the type to scream out, "OH I'm IN LOVE!" either. Sure, I care for him. Sure, I adore him. But if someone were to ask me if it's like those myspace love icons, i would flatly say no. You know, those small, square icons that say "Oh I loved you before I met you" or "I wish I could stay like this forever," with pictures of holding hands or hands making a shape of a heart? No, that's just not me or him.


My feelings for him is something more than one word. But it's not like I am dependant on him, either. Love is just a beginning word to define what I feel. It's not the definition. It's part of it, but there's so much more. I can't really explain it well, but it's not just the matter of whehter I love him or not. And sometimes it's scary how much emotion I have for one person. I feel so vulnerable and it's awekward. But to me, he is someone that's more than just one word.

Besides, the first icon is more like us than anything.

photo from Google

BOOBIES

A few days ago, I was driving myself somewhere. Since my regular radio stations were both on commercials, I changed my car radio to KIIIS FM. DJ announced that the next song was a new one from the Pussy Cat Dolls. Now, I do not like those girls. To me, they cannot sing nor have much talent besides being sex kittens and helping the young Americans’ fantasies, but that really isn’t my point here.

As I listened to the song, the chorus struck me so badly that I almost stepped on the break pads to a screeching halt.

I heard the word BOOBIES in the chorus.

They sing about WHAT? I asked myself. Out of all the words in the English language to rhyme the word movies, they picked BOOBIES?

What kind of a world are we coming to?

“When I grow up, I wanna have BOOBIES”???????

First of all, the radio station is geared towards pre-teenagers to young adults, though many soccer moms do listen to the station. The stations beeps out whores, weed and any gun reference, yet they are OK with BOOBIES? Not breasts, BOOBIES.

So, as I drove with this lingering question, I thought how much the music scene has gone down the toilet recently. I mean, if they have to put BOOBIES in their chorus to attract audience, what’s next? Let the N-word and F-bombs to make their premier? Ridiculous, I said to myself. Just fucking ridiculous.

To make sure I was going crazy or having subconcious wanting for breasts, I call Scott. I make him listen to the song (poor thing, he's a metal/hard-core/classical kindda guys).

"You heard it, right?" I said.
"Yeah, I think they did say it," Scott replied.
"They are saying BOOBIES!!!"
"I think so."

Then we listened to the song some more.
"This song makes me want to grow BOOBIES instead of becoming a music teacher, Miyu."

Damn you, Puusy Cat Dolls! I thought.

Just as I was going to bang my head on the wall until the music scene improved, I went on a lyric-search website to check the lyrics.

Then I found out that they were not saying BOOBIES, but they were saying GROUPIES.

But I swear I heard BOOBIES, I argued to myself.

But according to several websites, it was GROUPIES.
Oh.

Oh.

Uhh.
So I sighed in relief but then I was angry again because in the song, it does sound like BOOBIES. They should have made it clearer. Those bitches, I thought. Making this poor college student sweat like that.

So I guess it’s either we need a hearing aid or those cats need to take speech class.

Or Scott and I are both craving some breasts.