I am so excited about the Starbucks Planner that I cannot make a good intro. Hang on, I’ll try.
It’s that time of the year again when coffee people increase their coffee intake to collect stickers in exchange for an awesome planner. (Awesome, wtf. )
I didn’t have the Starbucks planner last year because it was too small for my artsy organized self. Then I saw on my timeline the photo of the new Starbucks Planner for 2013. The good news is, I already saved money for the planner. The bad news is, I stopped drinking coffee.
So what I’m thinking is, I’ll buy my friends a cup of coffee or a frap of their choice in exchange for a sticker. I mean, who can resist Starbucks coffee right?
1. A pair of gray Mary Janes that I saw when we had a stop over on the way to the province.
2. Brown Ugg Boots which are my dream shoes. I have always wanted a pair but then when I go to the US it is always spring time and Uggs are out for that season. Hopefully, if my Mom and my sister can convince me for the trip to Korea, I can order online. K.
3. Starbucks planner! :D This is tough on my part because I don’t drink coffee haha.
4. The yellow UST hoodie because the hoodie I wish to buy from Forever 21 is now gone. :((
Haha. This isn’t a wish list. This is I-don’t-have-them-yet-but-I-definitely-will-buy-them-which-is-why-I-am-excited list.
So I guess I shall start making/managing my own blog. Again. I don’t know. I always wanted to see myself as a quiet girl who has her own world through blogs, or an ordinary girl with an extraordinary blog. Or maybe just a girl with a heartfelt blog. Unfortunately, I am not even one of the three. Instead, I am a loud girl who has her a journal world, an extraordinary girl with an extraordinary journal. (Not sure if I was supposed to make a striking line there or something). And I’m a girl who always reblogs.
Once I considered making typography-like blog entries, like one-sentence thoughts that I once pondered about. It’s a little weird though because a few people liked it and reblogged it, as if somehow they can relate to what I was saying. But those one-sentence thoughts were all subjective and based on my own experience. But yeah, it is amazing to know that some people has felt the way that I felt.
I always get conscious when I make a blog entry. Like, what if people I know would read it? What if they would think I’m weird or pathetic? What would they say if they read what I post? But who cares, even if they say something about it, I will never get it right anyway.
But now, I will try to manage this blog, as far as I can. And to fulfill that goal, I have set a few reasons, to motivate me, as to why I should continue managing a blog.
I will manage this blog because:
1. I love writing on my journal but there are some topics that are too shallow to write about. I shall blog about stuff that are too shallow and did not make it to my journal.
2. I have some writings that my editor won’t publish. :((
3. I have a Tumblr app on my phone. (Connection? hihi)
4. I want to get out of my writing comfort zone: which is my journal and my editor.
5. A few people have encouraged me to start a blog when they saw my old planner and when they discovered that I like to write.
6. I got into my “dream job” which is to be a writer for the Nursing Journal, and for that I started to believe in myself when it comes to writing beyond my journal.
7. I still want to be that girl with a heartfelt blog.
by Stephen R. Covey
Weird. That’s one word I can describe to what happened to me. I always liked the idea of being protected, but this time, it didn’t come the way I expect it to.
Me and my group mates were supposed to do a report and I was hopelessly attempting to fix the projector. The projector was inside a somewhat metal cage that was mounted from the ceiling. And with its great height, I had to use some kind of lever to reach it. First I used a chair, which did nothing but to elevate me in failure. Fortunately, there was a mobile table by the side of the room, so I grabbed it and pushed it under the projector. When I climbed on top of the table, my group mate, who was a guy, surprised, informed me with a scary tone—not ghost-like scary, more of serious tone, which scared me—that the table had wheels and that I could get an accident from it. So he ordered—yes, ordered—another group mate, who was a guy as well, who was just seated nearby, to guard me as I attempt to fix the projector. Guard. Whatever that meant. So he stood up, walked to the table and held my legs with both hands. I felt his fingers land one by one on my skin. Thank God I was wearing stockings. And his friendly grip stopped my brain to what I was supposed to do and ignited the awkwardness in me. I was pissed. I was like Oh. My. God. When my group mate said ”guard”, I was thinking of the table being guarded so it won’t wiggle or something while I’m on top of it. I stand corrected. I stand on the table corrected.
One, I hate people touching me. Two, I don’t like physical contact with guys. Three, I hate being helped when I know I don’t need one. And four, I hate being helped that involves touching and physical contacts with guys. Unfortunately, he did all four. I was caught off guard, like totally. I was nothing but surprised. When I said “Oh my God…” my group mates who were in the room saw me—us, I mean and they told me that it’s okay, he was just helping me and that this touching thingy has no effect on the dude who was actually touching me since he was gay. I know he was gay. But still. Gays are still guys. He still has a gender of a guy and a hand of a guy. And the hands that touched—gripped—my legs belonged to a guy. It might not have an effect on him, but it has a hell of an effect on me. Normally, I’d be nice and avoid at all costs telling people to back off so as not to offend them, but this scene was not normal for me. I began saying “Don’t…” but afraid to finish the sentence. But I wanted him so desperately to let go, so I said, “Don’t touch me.” I felt guilty when I said that. I felt horrible when I went down from the table, had done nothing but experienced something.
This is probably too weird if people read this. I mean, who gets surprised by that? But that was weird. Like creepy weird. Sad weird. Surprising weird. Horrible weird. Damned weird. I wasn’t raped, nor touched in weird places; I have a weird perception on boys in relation to interacting with them. For eleven years, I studied in an all-girls school. My father has worked in another country since I was in Grade three. I have no brothers. I have no guy buddies. My crush is a celebrity. I’m boy-deprived, in conclusion. I’m like an old dog, and you can’t teach me new tricks.