"I don't have to see it to know that it's filth."

Right. Who's following orders now?

... Sorry, just needed to snap at someone. It's not like you'd be reading this anyway.

A question: how do you portray a positive image of an Asian American? Will they be successful yet symbolize our assimilation and loss of cultural identity on their rise to the top? Will they be themselves, pushing ethnic identity into a convenient time slot... weekends, perhaps? Will they preach and rant about the injustices of the world towards their own kind; will they be able to exist in our society while they cling to everything from their motherland (culture, customs, items, mentalities, etc.)? How can we expect anyone to want the responsibility of representing a whole group of people that, save skin pigmentation and genetic structure, have none of the same values as yourself?

How dare we presume that we can create a representation, an identity that will be approved by our charges and found attractive to those from other cultures?

A solution, and a very modest one at that: total cultural assimilation. But, in order to have true cultural assimilation, or in this case infusion, you have to look past the immediate decades and century. I'm talking genetic infusion; America is open to interracial couples, so take advantage of that. Spread the gene pool into every corner of this country's genetic map. The population of this country has already begun browning, so why not contribute to the growing population of people marking "other" on their census forms?

Given time and isolation, this would create a finely blended mixture of all our ethnicities. This way, there will be no need to represent culture, just the self.

A solution guaranteed to work for half a generation... until people realize that they need some identity that distinguishes them from the rest of the flock.

What fools are we.

A girl from my school died last night.

I would cry, but since I didn't know her all that well, they'd only be tears of pity. Still, she really is an amazingly bright and sociable person. The vacuum left by her absence can be felt in a lot of my acquaintances from school.

You don't imagine people like her dying. You imagine people like me dying. People who are constantly tortured, often unnecessarily so, people who are confessed misanthropists. People you could only call brilliant if you ignore all the tarnish.

Not someone like her. No, not at all.

Sister spent the last half hour in pure silence with the occasional sob. I don't want to turn around and see how she's holding up.

. . . . .

Compared to the events that occured last night, it seems like everyone was thrust into a kismetic sink hole. Danielle dies, Tyler says nothing but agh, and the ceramic Last Supper from grandma's trip to Vatican City crumbles.

I wonder what kind of void would be left behind if I met my own end.

Except, I know people will stand infront of my grave/urn and whisper: "I saw this coming a long time ago."

Do. Not. Want. It.

. . . . .

Is it so wrong that I don't cry... or rather, can't cry... because of my own ordeals last night? Even in those late hours my eyes remained dry. My eyes have not met excessive moisture in four months.

If this is a sign from the Kindly Ones to urge me on, it came at too high a price.

All these selfish feelings and desires... I make myself sick.

Tonight has been breakdown night number three in so many months.

I have the urge to just explain to everyone why I haven't been out of the house in so long. That I'm hideous and I don't want to offend the general public by my own noxious presence. That if I encounter leering and scrutinizing eyes one more time I would either fly into a rage or collapse into myself.

I wish my mind would make a decision and give me my gigantic, psychological destruction already. I can't stand all of these little deaths I've been suffering.

Not even painting gives me solace.

When I made a resolution to become more sociable, I did so by being an empath. Learned from good friend Karen how to listen better to what people say and do, and finding common ground with them (or at least know when to stay out of their way if they'rein a bad mood) by reading their emotions.

It's like method acting, in a way.

There's only one problem: my own emotions become extremely influenced by everything around me. If I watch something idiotic and enjoyable, I act extremely carefree and rather goofish. If IFC or Sundance has been playing, I feel compelled to be avante garde. If I see an art show, I'm inspired to persue greatness with my own abilities.

The worst case is my use of music to heighten my emotions. When I feel down, I put on some appropriately mellow and sad music to ride out the need to be lonely. When angered, I pull out some rock and maybe nu-metal to get my blood pumping red. And why do I do this? For me, it's better that I run each extreme emotion through its course until the fire has burnt itself out.

But then, can you answer me this: which emotions are those of my environment, and which are my own? I can't decipher which emotions are real, which are synthesized, and which are delusional.

If you can't tell, I've been reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower again. While listening to Death Cab for Cutie. Talk about a double whammy...