Funny how one cares about these things, how desperately one wishes to make a good impression, how frightened one is of failure. It's pure vanity of course. Or perhaps, to be kinder to oneself, professional pride. There are so many other more important things in my life to worry about, and yet what matters most to me at the moment is thinking of something clever to say at the last session tomorrow. Messenger's the same - totally wrapped up in the conference, paying attention to every speaker, making sure everything is going smoothly, schmoozing his star speakers, keeping the TV people happy. Nobody would guess that he's waiting for the result of a blood test that could mean the difference between life and death. I suppose it's a blessing really, that we both have something to distract us. - David Lodge's Thinks...

Life is defined by extreme moments, the up or down spikes that break the monotonous straight line. When I look back on my past, I always remember the spikes. Sometimes they are major events: my college acceptance, my first kiss, my sister's wedding, my grandfather's death. Sometimes they're minor occurrences: a fabulous day with a good friend, a whispered secret, a broken trust. I don't remember much about my daily life.

Yet while these major or minor events were going on, life still continues. In the last five years, I've had many personal struggles, but I put on a normal face and took the subway to work. I sat through meetings, fixed my code and talked to users. I might have even chuckled once or twice. Not only did I show up to work everyday, but I worried about my code, making sure it's tested properly. I spent hours trying to solve a user's production problem.

Tragedies happen. Even without considering the freak events like what happened over a month ago. People get old and die. People that you love let you down. People that you always thought you couldn't live without, leave you. Most of us are emotional beings, we cannot move on in a few minutes. It takes time to develop a coping mechanism. Some recover quicker and some never really do. Regardless of your personal timetable, life continues on. In most cases, one has to report right back to work and meet deadlines. Or take midterms.

Ironically, I think it's these small tasks that keep us alive, that keep us from falling into a deep depression. The fact that you have to go to work gives you a reason to get up and dress in the morning. Your midterms stop your mind from constantly replaying scenarios relating to your tragedy. The trivial, day-to-day activities ensure that you have at least split seconds where you're not fully concentrating on the tragedy. I think that's what starts the healing process. After the first week, you spend a single minute thinking of something else. But a month later, you spend a full day. A few months later, maybe you move up to a week. The misery slowly disintegrates. Sometimes it lingers for years but it's not the debilitating emotion, it's a whisper that's barely audible.

I don't mean that we should forget about our tragedies. I never do. Even if I really would like to. But life does go on and human beings have an amazing capacity for pain. And tragedies remind me how thankful I am for the mundane.

Previously? Greatness.

Jake and I have spent one day each in the last two weekends leaving the house and doing some good.

I've listened to many people talk about how they feel helpless and how they want to do something, which is why they buy flags, light candles, visit fire stations, donate money, etc. Many have visited ground zero to do all they can. Some, more than all they can.

Two weeks ago, I logged into my company's volunteering site, to lookup some information for my applications. The site listed ongoing volunteer projects as well as ones coming up in the next month. As I read one after the other, I decided that's all I wanted to do. I wanted to spend all my time volunteering. Not down in ground zero, but in the millions of other places that needed it and have been needing it for quite some time. I don't mean to put down anyone who's helping down by ground zero. They have all my respect and then more. I am not sure that I'm emotionally prepared to face the scene so I appreciate others who do.

I think what I like about volunteering is how little effort it takes to make a visible difference. Selfishly, I love the sense of accomplishment I get from helping others. I know it sounds cheesy, but it's the truth. Not to mention it's loads of fun.

Last Sunday, Jake and I took a trip to Brooklyn to volunteer at BARC Shelter's Dog Show and Festivities. We helped raise thousands of dollars for the shelter and had tons of fun watching the dogs with their tricks and costumes.



On Friday, we drove to Boston to spend our Saturday volunteering at City Year's annual Serve-A-Thon. Since Jake's an alumni of City Year, he's gone back to Serve-A-Thon for the last ten years. I've joined him on the seven that he's attended since we start dating. The Serve-A-Thon always inspires me. Seeing thousands of people up at the crack of dawn in the Boston cold, energized to make a difference would win over even the more cynical citizens, I hope. Over the years, we've painted, scraped, washed, weeded and always had tons of fun.



There are opportunities to serve every day, every minute and every second. If you don't like animals, you can work with the elderly, the blind, children, or the sick. You can paint, read, mentor, teach, build, or simply keep someone company. I don't do it because it sounds good, I do it cause I have fun, I meet new people, I learn and I receive just as much as I give. If not more.

Martin Luther King said, "Everyone can be great because everyone can serve."

Don't you want to be great?

Previously? Theory of Relativity.

The city morgue is a mere three blocks from my house.

I've been completely exhausted in the last two weeks. Maybe it's because my back has been aching on and off, enough to stop me from falling asleep easily. Maybe it's the essays I run over and over in my mind. Maybe it's the assignments I desperately try to keep on top of. Maybe it's the 7am meetings that go for four hours. Maybe it's the ongoing bomb threats in the subways I take.

I am taking a graphic design course. One of the six I signed up for. I've always thought I'd like to learn how to design better. I understand the basic principles so I thought the class might be fun and instructional. I thought I might learn about the process of design and maybe even get some insight on how designers get their ideas or inspirations.

Not so.

Since the class began, I've been stressing twenty-four/seven. I can't stop thinking about my assignments, I freak out about them a week before they're due, and I am miserable each and every second I spend on them. I doubt myself nonstop and cause endless arguments between Jake and me.

So for the last week, since my teacher said she doesn't like my background image, I've moved from just stressed out to a complete basket case. I've started housing others like heather, mena, rony and his wife over aim to ask for their opinions. Details. Whys? Exactly Whats? Trust me when I say these people are way too nice to still be acknowledging my presence. I spent six nights in a row obsessing about this assignment. I slept late, went to work like a zombie, came home in misery and restarted the whole routine. All this for a class where I get no credit and no grade.

Two days ago, I mailed part of my graduate school application. The part that contained my transcript, three recommendations, and some labels. The part that would be excruciatingly difficult to replace. That would be why I mailed it with overnight UPS. Because when you send it overnight, it doesn't get lost.

Not so.

Today, I spent the entire day talking to maybe thirteen different UPS customer support people. I started scared, passed through angry, made a stop in self-pity, and ended the day completely spent. I cried. I yelled. I cursed. I begged.

Let's just say it wasn't my favorite day.

At 5:30, I decided I couldn't sit at my desk any longer and left to stand at the bus stop on the corner. Since I stopped taking subways, finding a transportation alternative has been an experience. I waited in the bus station, realizing that my design assignment isn't all that important. Relative to this missing UPS envelope, the assignment doesn't even matter. As we cross 28th street, I see the posters of missing people covering the walls of Bellevue Hospital. Right before NYU hospital, I see the police cars and emergency people outside the morgue. I start thinking clearly for the first time in two weeks: the envelope doesn't matter either.

Tonight, I am going to get lots of sleep and try to keep things in perspective.

Previously? Two Weeks.

The last two weeks:

Envelopes with signatures across the seal.

Hitting the submit button in a web site that might actually change my life.

A celebration for two of my favorite people deciding that they are meant for each other.

Rereading essays for the seventeenth time.

Human behavior, imitation and culture.

A red scarf, knit by yours truly, with only a few small holes.

Crossing fingers and toes for good friends trying to change or maintain their lives.

Four-hour meetings, three days in a row.

A new team member.

Learning about the writing of the constitution, Aristotle and the stoics, the history of the United Nations, scientific tidbits, and the Medicis.

A movie poster designed by me, one that's based on wishful thinking.

Resumes, too many iterations.

Anthrax, mail, fedex, subway, bomb threats.

Reading, writing.

Black roots rejuvenated, too chicken not to stay blond.

Five less pounds. Lifetime membership.

Stress, lack of sleep, anticipation, fear, worry.

Stolen moments of desire and love.

Hope.

Previously? Heels.

I wore heels this morning.

In November of 2000, I hurt my back, in December, I found out that it was much worse than my doctor had anticipated; I had two herniated discs. In June, my neck freaked. So it had been almost a year since I wore heels. As a person who used to wear extremely high heels daily, this was quite a major change in my life. I bought four pairs of flats, two summer ones and two winter ones, and alternated between the four.

On September 17, when the employees returned back to work, my firm held a department-wide meeting and advised the women to wear flat shoes for the next few weeks. You'd be amazed at how many women were wearing heels the very next day. But not me, flats had become my new friend.

This morning, I got dressed and fetched around for a pair of shoes that would go well with my outfit. My eyes kept drifting at the heeled brown boots. I picked up the shoes and looked at the size of the heels. Pretty high. I put them on. In the last few months, I lost a lot of weight and the heels helped accentuate my body, so I decided what the hell. I knew one day wouldn't break my already broken back any further. If it helped me feel good about myself, I would wear heels for one day.

I had a few sciatica pains early on in the day, but overall the heels were fine. By the end of the day, I even ran from one building to another so my manager could have the letterhead he needed. I felt good about wearing the heels.

Around 7pm, I walked into the subway and took a seat. Since I take the station down by Wall Street, the train was packed at that time of the night. On Tuesday, I learned how to knit, so I took out my scarf and started knitting. We passed through the Wall Street and Fulton Street stops without a problem. Halfway between Fulton and Brooklyn Bridge, the train halted. The conductor said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have been told to stop immediately. I will pass along more information as soon as I have some."

The woman to my left held out her hand to show to her friend how it was shaking. The two of them were looking through wedding dress pictures. The guy to my right kept reading his newspaper and me, my knitting. After ten extremely long minutes, the conductor comes back on the speakerphone and says, "There is a serious situation in Astor place and we have been told to move back to Brooklyn Bridge. This train is called back to Brooklyn Bridge." The conductor repeated this four times, by the second one, people in my car were muttering him to move it already.

We sat there for another fifteen minutes and saw the train's operator walk from one end of the train to another. The conductor kept repeating the same announcement, but the train would not move. I don't even want to share with you the thoughts that raced through my mind at those moments. I only stared at my red scarf and mechanically knit. Another ten minutes later, the conductor came back on the speakerphone and announced that the police had cleared Astor place and we were going to move forward after all. We waited another ten minutes as the operator moved back to the front of the train. As he passed through our car, the New Yorkers cheered. Some girl said, "Hurry, some of us have to go to the bathroom." People laughed. That thank-God-nothing's-wrong sort of uncomfortable laugh. The operator walked back to the front and the conductor said, "All right, partner, let's get this thing moving." Everyone broke into applause.

The train pulled into the 14th street station and I got off to switch to the local line. As I walked down the street towards my house, I decided I'm not taking the subway again. Not for some time. Nothing can compare to feeling trapped several feet underground.

And tomorrow, I'm wearing flat shoes.

Previously? Imitation.

Data now emerging show the fascinating and unexpected ways that genes and culture actually interact in animal mating situations. Consider the case of a fish less than an inch long: the guppy. In this species, females have an innate preference for males with lots of orange body color. Combining the importance of female mate copying with the documented genetically based preferences that female guppies exhibit for colorful males creates an ideal system in which to examine the relative importance of genetic and cultural factors in shaping mate choice. In a 1996 experiment in my lab, I did just that. Essentially I created an evolutionary soap opera. A female's genetic disposition was "pulling" her toward a more orange male, but social cues and the potential to copy the choice of others was tugging her in the exact opposite direction - toward the drabber of the two males. When males differed by small amounts of orange, females consistently chose the less orange males. In other words, they copied the choice of a female placed near such a male. Here, culture - in this case, the tendency to copy mate choice - overrode a genetic predisposition for orange males. If, however, males differed by large amounts of orange, females ignored the choice of others and preferred the oranger males - in this case, genetic predisposition masked any cultural effects. With guppies, it is as if a threshold color difference exists between males in the eyes of female guppies. Below that threshold, cultural effects are predominant in determining female mate choice, and above that threshold genetic factors cannot be overridden - and this in fish with a brain the size of a pinhead! - Lee Alan Dugatkin in The Imitation Factor

Lee, in his book, talks about how females imitate other females when choosing partners. If a female sees a man surrounded by other women, she gets interested. So much so that she might choose that male over another, one that genetically appears more attractive to her.

Doesn't that sound like high school? Not even a little bit?

I remember being in college and feeling amused, mostly cause I don't want to use a worse word, about how a male would date one sorority sister and then another, until half the house dated the same man. A guy who's dating looks appealing. Maybe cause the female thinks that since another female found him attractive of date-worthy, there must be something special about this guy. Especially, if the girl is popular or pretty.

Why is that?

Obviously, if all the women chased after the same man, there'd be one very lucky man and tons of not-so-lucky ones. So, obviously, some women choose different partners. Maybe cause they are oranger. But many women do go after the same man. Many women like to pick a man who's desirable. The joke about how much more attractive men become when they're wearing a wedding ring is not entirely without substance. Maybe women like the competition, the idea of having been chosen from a crowd. The idea of being the one that this desirable man picked. Or maybe it's the safety in numbers.

Lee also talks about how young women seem to imitate more than older women. As if young guppies know that their elder equivalents must have good taste in men. I think that also has validity in its correlation to human lives. I, personally, see this competition much more in teenagers than in adults. When an adult goes after a married man or an adult pursues some other woman's boyfriend, it's considered somewhat immature. Like she should know better. But women of all ages seem to do it all the same.

I don't really know the reasons for the imitation factor, but I can certainly agree with Lee that it's a part of our society. Even if it isn't the most desirable one.

Previously? To Have or Not to Have.

Another Monday, another happiness day.

We started the class talking about Aristotle, objectivism, stoics, and Bertrand Russell. As it's now become foreseeable, the class started on one topic but another one took it over completely. Here's today's topic:

"Is it better to have had it and lost it than to have never had it at all?"

Yes, you are reading it correctly and no, I didn't leave out the word 'love.' This question is meant to apply to all topics. For example: Let's say you had an amazing job, your dream job, and then you get fired. Is it better to have had the job or do you wish you never had it? The argument against having had it says that since you now know what you could be having, you become very depressed after losing it. Whereas if you never had it, you will never know what you are missing and therefore you'll never be that miserable. Especially since happiness and misery are relative, which is conversation for another day.

The argument for it basically says that happiness, no matter when you had it, is valuable and it's always better to have been lucky enough to have had any happiness. A common saying does involve love. 'It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved.' Or something like that. Again, the idea, I believe, is that if you've ever loved, you've been lucky enough to feel the amazing elation that comes along with love and no matter how things ended, you should feel blessed to have ever gotten to feel it.

I side with the 'better to have had it' people.

To me, life is all about the experience, the journey. Another gentleman in class today said he never makes specific plans because this way he doesn't have to feel upset when he doesn't fulfill them. He has this very general plan and takes each day as it comes. There is nothing wrong with his approach, but it's one I strongly oppose to. I firmly believe that big risks bring big rewards. If you never put yourself out there because you're too scared to be hurt, you will never get to live your life fully.

Yes, losing someone you love or a fantastic job might depress you thoroughly, but it also means that you had the extreme happiness of having had those. People who never try, don't miss anything but they don't gain anything either. They don't get to feel the surreal happiness that comes from being loved. Or the fulfillment of a perfect job. It's like a delicious fruit you refuse to taste just because you might not get to taste it again tomorrow.

If you never plan anything, you never get the satisfaction of having achieved it either. I guess, to me, the pursuit is just as much, if not more, fun. I like to plan. I know that I can, or even will, change my mind down the road and factor that into my plan, but I also like to have a goal. A destination. A reason for walking down the path I chose. I like the idea of committing to a path. Being madly passionate about something. Even if it crumbles to pieces, you have had an interesting, life-changing experience. Not to mention the lessons.

If you've never had it, it's true that you will never lose it, but you will also never know what you missed. Sometimes a single moment is enough to fill a lifetime of memories. Memories that help you endure hard times. Memories that make you smile even after the details have blurred. Memories that you hold on to like rare treasures.

To me, it's always better to have had. It's always better to try to have.

Previously? Idea vs. Reality.

I firmly believe that many of my not-so-close friends like the 'idea of me' as opposed to the 'reality of me'.

We all have a side that we show to the outside world. An amalgamation of our resume and the properness of being in the company of others. It's how we act in an interview. When we meet a significant other's parents. When we make a new friend. It's the information our parents tell others when they want to brag. Putting on our perfect behavior.

I call that the 'idea of me.' To an outsider, I am an overachiever. I work at a top-notch investment bank, I volunteer six to eight hours a week, I take six classes, I have a Masters degree, I read voraciously, and I speak seven languages. To an outsider, I am intelligent, caring and inspirational. I am good at heart. A loving person. I am a collection of positive traits. To an outsider.

And then we have the side that only the really intimate see. The one that awakes with a hangover. The one who's too lazy to replace the toilet paper roll. The one who's clipping his toenails. The one who picks her nose in private, or when she thinks no one else is around. The one who reads an embarrassing book or is hooked on a TV program he'd never admit to in public. Those really not-so-pretty and human sides of us.

That's what I mean when I say, the 'reality of me.' What the insider gets to see is that I worry too much. Sometimes the smallest decisions are the hardest to make and I need reassurance about the stupidest things. I still freak out before every exam. I am never satisfied with my results. Every achievement is replaced quickly by another goal, a harder, more complicated one. I am perfectly capable of being petty, holding a grudge, and being selfish. I don't take care of my skin. I steal the covers. I have been known to talk and even walk in my sleep. I grind my teeth like mad. I am far from perfect. Behind the scenes.

The idea of me is wonderful. The reality, not so much so.

When I meet someone who tells me how great I am and how they like this and that about me, I automatically think that all they have is the idea of me. The surface. It's easy to polish a wooden table so you can see your reflection on it, but it's hard to get rid of the rotten wood inside the legs. Which is why I don't often pay heed to compliments from people who don't know me that well. Even my friends, not really really close friends but the acquaintance ones maybe, at times, never move past the idea of me.

The real reward comes when someone takes the time to see the reality of me. The rotten wood and all, and still chooses to have me in her or his life. I don't have many of those in my life, but the few that I do have, I hold very dear to my heart.

The idea of me puts me on a pedestal, one I am bound to fall from. The reality of me makes it okay for me to screw up. It lets me know that I don't have to worry about my mask falling off when I am with this person.

Because I don't have to wear one.

Previously? Agenda.

We all have opinions. I don't know when it begins, but we form opinions really early on in our lives. A while back, I talked about how, by the time we go to elementary school, most of us have a theory on how the world works and how teachers should not assume that students enter school with a blank slate. The same rule, I think, applies to opinions. Somewhere along the line, we hear someone else's opinion, we read a newspaper article, we watch a TV program, or possibly an amalgamation of all three.

Depending on the issue, and how much we care about it, our opinion can be well thought out or superficial. If we're passionate about the issue, we dig deeper. We read voraciously, we follow the progress of the subject matter and make sure our opinions are up to date and we use every opportunity to bring our opinions up in conversation. Sometimes, we argue an issue when we're not even well educated on it, but my beef today is not with those people.

Today, I have a word or two for the people who care about an issue and have done their homework on it. People who're thick in the mud of it. People who claim they are well acquainted and passionate about a topic. These people are intelligent. They often are passionate and care about the issue, but just as often they are so deep into their own beliefs that they have stopped listening to others long ago.

These are people who glance at a few lines of the opponents' article just so they can lift one or two sentences and attack them. They don't care if the sentence is taken out of context. They don't even care if it's an outright lie. They are only concerned with their own agenda and they use everyone and everything to further their cause.

I have absolutely no respect for such individuals.

I've also previously talked about people's listening skills, or lack thereof. Most of us are busy preparing our replies before the other person even finishes his statement. This is even truer in the case of people with strong opinions or agendas, the ones I mention above. People who claim that they are speaking for women's rights or for minority rights or any other equally 'touchy' subjects. Each time I hear or read about a case when a woman, claiming she's a feminist, start berating men for being men, I cringe. I am embarrassed that such a person represents my gender and feels like she can speak on behalf of women everywhere.

Personally, she can never speak for me.

I think what matters most in life is not that we have opinions or that they are right or wrong (not that there is such a thing when we're talking about an opinion). What matters is that we're open-minded and that we never lose sight of the issue. We should be careful when we listen to our allies and even more careful when we listen to our opponents. I believe that the more dignified person always wins. Not that this is a race. But in the end, we only have our integrity.

Next time you disagree with someone, I recommend you listen or read twice as carefully. Who knows? You might even learn something.

Ps: Apologies for the preaching tone today, I guess I am slightly peeved.

Previously? Uninspired.

I'm not a good fiction writer.

To be fully honest, I'm not the greatest writer to begin with, but I'm even worse at writing fiction. I'm not telling you this so you can tell me how good I am and stroke my ego. I'm saying it cause I know it to be true and I'm thinking that putting it down on paper might make me stop struggling with it so much.

I started writing fiction about two years ago. It was a whimsical decision, not based on any other event in my life at the time. I signed up to a fiction web page, and even from day one, I could tell didn't have it in me. I loved the idea of having written but not writing itself. When I read over my stuff afterwards, it sucked so bad that I couldn't even begin to fix it so I'd leave it as is. I forced half the people in my life to read it and I hid it from the other half.

Here we are over two years later, and in no better shape. I'm struggling through what appears to be tidbits of my second novel, when the first one is far from completed. Its pages are collecting dust in the back of one of my drawers, alongside the research I left undone for it. I wrote the outline for this novel, last fall. The characters are nagging me constantly, making me feel bad for not sitting at the keyboard and telling their story. But each time I sit to write it, words refuse to cooperate. Bleak and two-dimensional characters exchange unemotional words. My descriptions are the opposite of vivid. It becomes so unbearable that I need to stop.

Yet I can't let it go. I can't stop writing. Well, in reality, I can't stop thinking of writing. I can't let my story go, even if it's a stupid one, it's my story. I want to tell it. The characters want me to tell it. In the middle of one story, I start getting ideas for another novel. Yet when I want to write a short story, all the ideas have disappeared. It's a lose-lose game.

When people tell me that my writing shows promise, I know they are being kind and not entirely truthful. When they criticize it, I feel this awful resentment and sadness in my gut. It's like someone ripped my heart. Neither extreme is healthy for a writer-wannabe. And I know all this.

Yet I simply cannot let it go.

Previously? Ideal vs. Ought.

"Empirical research reveals that there is a significant correlation between low self-esteem and psychological disorders and a high correlation between high self-esteem and happiness." - Marvin Kohl in Wisdom and the Axiom of Futility

Self-esteem is an issue I've grappled with often in my life. When someone has it in high doses, others call him self-centered. When others lack it, they would often give up a body part to accumulate more of it.

I wonder if we're born with high self-esteem. Is it something that our parents instill in us or is it something that comes with the genetic makeup of every individual? If we're born with it, then that puts a lot more responsibility on the parents and environment of a child to sustain it. If it doesn't come inherent in our genetic structure, how exactly do parents, teachers, environment, or mentors establish it?

As I kept reading the above paper, I ran into this most interesting distinction of different causes of lack of self-esteem:

"Of the many sources of low self-esteem, two are central to the present discussion. That is to say, human beings compare their behavior to at least two different kinds of expectancies which typically have become internalized standards (or selves) whose point is to guide self-regulation. These selves are the ideal self and the ought self. The ideal self is the kind of the person an individual would really like to be...The ought self is the kind of person an individual believes he or she had the duty or obligation to be?"

The distinction between the two different forces at play fascinated me. Once I saw it on paper, it was obvious but somehow I'd never made the connections before. Since I'm a list-maker, I took out my pen and paper and tried to list the influences of my two selves. Here are a few from my lists:

A week ago, I called my mom and asked her why she chose to marry my dad.

"I was sixteen," she replied, matter-of-factly.

She went on to explain that she loved my father and in those days, people were too young to analyze it much further than that. My sister got married when she was twenty-three. Her boyfriend, who became her husband, has consistently been her best friend. So she was using more long-term criteria than my mom, but nothing too detailed.

Many of the unmarried women around me have a much more complicated set of requirements from a plausible marriage partner. To them, it's not enough to love. It's not enough to be best friends, either. They wonder if this man will make a good living. Is he successful? Is he patient? Does he like children? Will he make a good father? Will he be caring to her parents? Is he going to let her have her independence? Can he cook? Will he share some of the chores?

These are just some of the issues my friends raise. Not to mention the fundamentals, like physical attraction. They are twenty-seven and they have their own career, their own priorities, their own lives and the man is supposed to fit into all of that smoothly or it's not going to work.

Which is why it doesn't.

They either can't find a man or won't put up with the imperfections of the ones they do find. It seems that the longer you put it off, the more complicated marriage becomes. The older we are, the more established our lives are, the harder it is to fit the man into it. The more demanding we become, the less likely such a man exists.

What's the right way? Do we marry in faith and with love or do we compile a list of demands and find the man who meets them all?

My opinion is that, as in most things, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. While it's not a bad idea to make sure the man in your life is kind and caring to babies as well as you, it's also okay to not dwell on every tiny detail. It's really not that big a deal if he doesn't bring you flowers every weekend. He can forget to unfold a piece of clothing. What matters still are the core things. Love, friendship, caring and having similar values.

Sometimes it's best not to be so demanding.

Previously? Limbo.

Is there an age when the world suddenly starts falling apart?

An age when life-long friends suddenly seem to disappear?

I don't have that many close friends. I don't feel like I want to. For me, being a close friend in an intense experience. This is not just a friend. This is someone who is there through the thick and thin. Someone who knows you so well that, you don't need to say anything for them to understand everything. You know what I mean. It's all the stereotypical movie stuff.

I guess that friend for me is Jake. The one who loves me not in spite of my quirks but because of them.

Other than him, I had a few close friends. Some I met in college, some before, and some after. All are special. All have significant places in my heart.

All are starting to disappear.

As far as I am concerned, short of death or illness, there are few more awful feelings than losing a friend. One of those few, is limbo.

I hate limbo.

Limbo is when you're still friends but you know something is wrong. Limbo is when you start thinking whether it's a good time before you make each call. Limbo is when you are reading into each word so much that conversations start losing meaning. Limbo is when some of the calls get returned and others don't. Limbo is when you alternate among acting nonchalant, sad and angry. Limbo is when you stop being yourself. Limbo is when you want to grab her and shake her until whatever it is, is gone, but you can't.

Limbo is when you know it's dying.

Limbo is what I'm going through with two of my close friends. The uneasy calls. The paranoia. The unusual politeness. Not knowing what's going on. Feeling scared, lost and angry all in one. Desperate to do the right thing. To stop the inevitable.

I don't know why it's happening now. Is there something about growing up?

Is it really possible to have the friendship that the books and movies display? Can you really have a friend who's normal and has her own family and life and yet is there for you each time you need her? Is it possible to have a great family, husband, children, career and a best friend? Or is it more realistic to assume that you have a friend to hang out and chitchat with but nothing all that deep?

Maybe it's time to accept that life is not the movies and not a fairy tale. In life, we have friends that come and go. In life we have limbo. Maybe it's time to let go.

I can't imagine it will hurt as much as limbo.

Previously? Hedonism.

Today was another Monday, and such, another happiness day.

I'm still struggling with this class. I must say that I don't like the lack of tangible reality in philosophy. But I do enjoy the mental tug-of-war. Here's an interesting issue that came up in today's class.

The passage below outlines a problem Professor Robert Nozick presented.

Nozick is concerned that if we accept hedonism, we will loose sight of those aspects of life which are most important to us; namely, what kind of person we want to be and what kind of life we want to live. In order to illustrate this problem, Nozick imagines a science-fiction type story in which it is possible to plug our brains into machines which would provide us with any kind of experiences we could possibly desire. It is very important to note, here, that Nozick's experience machine produces experiences of such perfect clarity that we cannot tell the difference between these experiences and reality. Therefore, says Nozick, there is no reason why we would not "plug in" to an experience machine. [ source ]