"Aaarrgh!" - Howard Dean

2004 was a shitty year, to put it mildly. Never have i strayed from a stable emotional core as much as this wretched time lapse of 365 days, divided neatly by binge eating, chain smoking, early morning chiropractor appointments and doctor's visits, and the ultimate painful shot to the groin; "Fuck you, you are a fucking loser. Please restrain yourself, miss, from pursuing our institution any further" in the form of a polite letter. i did a lot of thinking terrible thoughts about myself and others. i have become a very angry and unpleasant person. i am teenage angst bursting from the seams of a fattened sagging body of an old lady.

However, i do chronically get ridiculously hung up on inconsequential details and need a great deal of reassurance to get by. i am just an ugly and insecure person. So in my pathetic little emo mind, i was depressed by the state of my perfectly comfortable life with all the fixin's. i am an emo adult, passionate about myself and the self imposed state i'm in. i'm weeping gently as i type. Thick black glasses and tight cardigans, anyone? Does it count if all my clothes are tight on my large frame now? Sadly, it is not simply a mental state of mind. My body actually reacts violently to trite situations now; my temperature heats up, my face feels red, i want to cry as i simply cannot control the choking feeling originating at the back of my throat, and i feel maniacal. I am often hysterical with anger.

Can I fix this? New Years’ resolutions are shite and we all understand that this is so. After all, the mark of a new Western calendar year is meaningless, barring banking purposes and the mark of a new semester. The point i seem to be emphasizing is that i am truly exhausted from being inanely trivial. i am worn-out from screaming “Fuck you!” all the time. i want to sleep without grinding my teeth and without waking up screaming all the time. My body is trying to tell me that i cannot sustain this overindulgent warping of emotion. My mind has left serenity long ago. This is as good of a time as any to try to change.

To an enthusiastic new year then, of being less acrimonious, more at peace with myself despite all my old hat antics, and to not be all Conner Oberst-y about everything. Release even the preposterously laughable notions i have held of myself. As Howard Dean once screamed: “Aaarrgh!” . Yes Howard, a spirited “Aaarrgh!” to a new me.

Christmas in Red Deer

Clearly, i Do Not Understand Philosophy

i believe that the collective karma over my deplorable 23 years should land me on the primitive end of the wheel of rebirth. So then i hope i will be a dung beetle next life, in the warmth of the Serengeti of Tanzania, rolling excrement happily and minding my own business...only to be reborn as a human after collecting enough good karma over many lifetimes, and suffer the same torment of the karma wheel again. So this is what makes the world go round.

It's silly, i know, to go back to the noxious juvenile elitism of high school, but i can't help but wish i could adopt existential philosophy. Sure, to linger on the borders of society and not be affected sounds lovely, but realistically, i think most are too shallow to practice it. When you start to wear lots of black and then hint to others that you like (well, not like like) Camus, while trying to casually glance at reactions, i can't imagine you being a real existentialist. Oh, but to be an existentialist.

Fuck it. Let's just all be happy and get along equally, like the way Plato would have liked us to. Then good karma would just accumulate until we were all freed from the suffering of rebirth, and we could then all get along again, but this time, as bodhisattvas or nothingness; it's our prerogative.

an instance of intimacy by cynthia yip

grate kicks by cynthia yip

Vegan Strawberry Cream Pie Smoothie

10 strawberries with stems removed
1 banana
1 cup soy milk
1 tbsp maple syrup

In a blender, puree all the ingredents until smooth and creamy. Serve chilled. This makes one large serving for you and your sweet self. Relax with your new slurpable drink and maybe the telly or a book. Then go back to stressing about Christmas.

Rememories and Bear Cookies

"Cynthia Oceanside" by Alicja, taken in Vancouver 2003


Another immature day at work full of throwing bear cookies at each other and pointing out mis-shaped ones in the genital regions. Smoked a few cigarettes between serving many a table with pristine sushi delights and tempura tidbits. Curly-haired Adrian and his guest ended up as my first table in the evening shift; we both congratulated ourselves for putting our hard earned degrees to good use. Adrian works at Telus with a degree in psychology, and i at a sushi restaurant with a degree (spelling it out in full for you as a typing exercise for fumbling chubby fingers) in cellular molecular and microbial biology. Well, it surely doesn't make me want to smile, unless it's a very ironic smile. But i gotta say, i'm not smiling.

Sometimes though, the littlest things will make me happy (keeping in mind of course, that happiness is transient).

Like listening to Cat Power and remembering the spring turning into summer when the breeze would blow the smell of soil into my room. It makes me think of my friend Alicja and our trip to Vancouver; Pearl Jam concert with three encores and Eddie Vedder singing to a Bill Gates mask, the engaging merry hours spent at Zulu Records, and sitting with deadwood along the oceanside for two of more hours.

Or when Hayato makes me a "picnic lunch" at work in the dead of winter. Recollected thoughts of how Hayato and i would have a picnic out of Japanese lunch boxes at Heritage Park on our breaks in the summer, then buy fresh cinnamon buns at the bakery and candy sticks at the general store, and then wander our favorite houses on the grounds. If there weren't terrible children at the main street schoolhouse, we'd swing on the swings until i felt sick. We'd lament going back to work while we laid on the grass and stared at the sun and clouds; sometimes, we'd nap a bit on the lush cold grass.

Or walking down Stephen Ave and thinking of the time me and dear Iris went to see Pop Revolution at the Glenbow. Tips for the innovative housewives on newspaper squares and Warhols in glass cases, not to mention dressing up as Suzie Poodleskirt and Iris as Greaser Hep Cat, then terrorizing the kids' creative area with our brand of "art".

Or a day with Son. Or even our nightly phone calls where we laugh and laugh. Yoo hoos.

Or maybe it's just a soy latte and a cigarette with my headphones on.

Drifters Unite! And Wounds Heal! And Goodbye Lennon!

A little envelope from Finland arrived in my mail today, with a pretty Christmas card inside. Inside the card was a cryptically brief message as follows:

Cynthia:

Remember me still!
X'mas.

Johnson
DEC Finland

i remember you. i do not forget things like this; i was in China recently. But i have no way of reaching you. Maybe one day, all the drifters will unite, and we will see each other again.

And my arm is poofy and slightly numb from the ordeal it went through yesterday afternoon, under the orders of my inner sadist. Stacie-Rae was not kind when she stopped abruptly, only to say "oops"; the all-consuming feeling of piercing pain suddenly yielded to the stronger feeling of alarming distressful fright. However, over the speakers, Julian Casablancas and his posh band serenaded me with Last Night during the last pricks, to my surprise. Also a source of surprising delight and comfort was Son, as he fumbled to try to hold my hand.

And from the wasteland of CDs that is my room, i resurrected the burnt Strokes album and popped it into my stereo, while i rubbed polysporin into my fresh wound. I need to forgive myself.

analog cityscape by cynthia yip

Porridge in the Morning, Subterranean at Night

Downtown early Sunday morning, at 8:30 am with the fresh falling snow and a wicked cold chill, Calgary looked so alone and abandoned. Like in the movies. The buildings were ominously tall and frosted, billowing smoke into the grey sky. The streets were empty, the snow barely cleared so we left tracks as we drove. Everything was closed. Everything was grey.

Except my dear sister's karate lesson in the dark of Chinatown. Since nothing was open, in a sleepy haze recovering from the cold, i watched the class of dress whites moving in unison, grunting "ooo-sh" as they released stances and kicks, while listening to the Stars over my large headphones. This was a surreal experience. Especially as i fell in and out of consciousness.

Turn Off the Sad Bastard Music

Let's get some rockin' shit to chase the mean reds away. Blast some Black Keys or some Phoenix, so i can get on up and dance away this resounding "no" that has shaken me up. If only i could dance.

i wish i could share the optimism of Spongebob Squarepants. Despite being kicked down, rejected, humiliated, ridiculed, reduced to tears, despised, and taken advantage of, the little yellow porous sponge is at cheerful peace with himself. Alas, i am not Spongebob, so i become dreadfully moronic in response to my failures, my inadequacies, my bad habits all coming back despite working so hard with other vices, and my sick father with an IV hooked up to him. What the fuck am i doing?

A Bottle of Soda

If i looked under the cap and dug my keys around the edges to pop the flimsy grey plastic message out, it would read "CONGRATULATIONS, YOU ARE A FUCKING LOSER".

We Regret to Inform You

i know.

Good luck in the future. Just not with us.

Substitution is Lethal

When a base pair is substituted in DNA, there could be very lethal results. The substitution could code for a different amino acid, causing the resulting protien to fold or not fold to the proper configuration. This could render the product useless and may be fatal depending on the function of the protien.

So as i was driving home tonight, i thought about substitutions made in my frustrated growth. Some are turning out to be quite destructive. And in my own pathetic way, they are fatal.

In biology, there is no practical way to reverse the mutation, except by a backmutation. Chances are low.

Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating In Space

Marc Chagall was as oblivious to the world around him as i am of the world around me. Unfortuantely, he was a talented avant-garde painter and i am quietly trying to compare myself to him. Perhaps it is time i rouged my cheeks.

This is not a good start.