I’m feeling quite better today, compared to my “waste of a person” attitude from yesterday. Not only did I just finish and email my final report, but I also managed to watch The Little Mermaid movie. It was suggested that perhaps the reason I was feeling bad was because I am dreading leaving Oxford. To deal with this, I am going to figure out exactly what I want to accomplish in my last two days here.

See more of Oxford

• Study in the famous Bodleian library. You cannot enter unless you are a student, meaning I will never again have an opportunity to do so.
• Visit other colleges. So far, I have only been into the three colleges that Stanford is associated with, meaning there are 35 others that I have never seen!
• Eat in the famous restaurants that I’ve been meaning to try.
• Visit the Ashmolean art gallery, Business School, and Botanic Gardens
• Eat lunch with traditional English tea at the Rose
• Try the famous Ben’s cookies
• Take more pictures of Oxford!

Spend time with the friends I’ve made here

• Go punting in the Thames River
• Play more squash
• Visit the college bar
• Go out on a night when college students actually go out (I’ve been going on weekends, which are apparently townspeople turf)
• Send out the postcards that have been lying around

This week is my final week in Oxford, and what am I doing? I am not studying for my final exam on Thursday, I am not writing my research paper due on Tuesday, I am not spending my last few days exploring the city in which I will never again have the chance to be a student, I am not taking my last chances to hang out with my Oxford friends, I am not bonding with my Stanford housemates….

I am spending all day holed up in my room feeling sorry for myself. Crystal, you never get enough sleep, take a break today, you can work tomorrow after you’ve gotten a nice rest. That’s what I told myself yesterday. Crystal, you should call your ex-boyfriend. I know you feel worse every time after talking to him, but this time it will be different. Maybe this time he will actually care about you. In fact, he probably misses you a lot more than you think.

If someone else were born instead of me, that person would be so much more productive, well-liked, and prettier. She would actually do something with herself. She wouldn’t be me.

(continued from previous post)

My cellphone displays your name on the screen. Why would you be calling me, I haven’t spoken to you in six months since we broke up.

“Do you want to watch Slumdog Millionaire?”

“You mean like, on a date?”

“Yea, sure…”

You pull up my driveway in the same car you drove to prom, the beige Honda with the mini teddy bear hanging from the rearview mirror. I just spent thirty minutes getting ready and choosing my outfit, trying to look good while pretending that I didn’t try too hard for you. I slide in the passenger seat, as casually as if we had actually been dating.

“Where are you taking me for dinner?” I cheerfully ask.

“I was thinking La Madeleine, I really want french food.”

—————-

“So where are we going for dinner?” I was so excited. I was 16, he was my first real boyfriend, and this was my first real date. He even picked me up in a car – no more ‘ask your parents to drive you on your date’ for me. I could tell that he had tried hard to look nice, because he was wearing a blue button-down shirt instead of the same two-sizes-too-large T shirt he always wore. I think I even smelled a hint of cologne. I had never had someone go through all that trouble for me.

We ate at La Madeleine because it was close to the theater. It was a cozy french restaurant with candlelight and charming decor. We picked a small table near the back of the restaurant, by the window. The food was not memorable, but we both went crazy with the free fruit jam and toast, wanting to try all the different varieties. By the end of the meal, we had probably eaten more in free jam than the restaurant had made in profit off of us.

————–

“I think it was this table, let’s sit here,” you say pointing to that cozy table in the back by the window.

“Sure,” I laugh, uncomfortably. Bringing me to the same restaurant and the same table where we started our relationship four years ago. It almost seems like we’re celebrating our four year anniversary. Except we’re not.

“So, how has school be like for you?” I’m trying to make idle talk. We catch up about school, family, life in general. It’s almost like we’re high schoolers again, going on our first date. Is this the message that you wanted to send me? That we can start over and return to when things were happier between us? If you’re willing to, then I am too.

————–

You walk me to the door as you send me home. I turn around before entering, purposefully dawdling around hoping that you would kiss me. You know what I’m thinking, but then you see my grandfather at the top of the stairs staring you down. I guess our first kiss will have to wait until next time. I close the door behind me, and can’t believe that things were actually going right for once.

————

You start driving me home but purposefully slow down as we near the turn to my house. Seeing no resistance from me, you speed up again, but drive straight, taking the road to the ballpark instead. You park the car in the darkest part of the lot, lean over to the passenger side, and start to rub your body against mine. As I feel you inside me, I realize that you didn’t really want anything else from me. You didn’t really want to start over. You didn’t really care about my feelings. You just wanted this. Well you got what you wanted, and left me worse off.

continued from this post.

You loved the song, “Do you remember?” by Jack Johnson, and you would always play it for me, telling me that you wish you could still play it for me in ten years. I always thought the line, “You were lazy about it you made me wait around” was pretty apt for how our relationship got started. We danced around for a long time, both of us too shy to initiate anything. That’s how it goes with high schoolers, right? We went out many times, to a football game, an arts and crafts festival, a book fair, (how did you let me drag you to these things?) the movies, but it was never very clear whether these were dates – and I was too nervous to pursue the matter further. One time while watching a movie at my house, I even wanted to lean against you, but was too embarrassed and came up with the solution of putting a pillow between us and leaning on that. Finally, after Christmas, I gave you a call. I was sitting in the kitchen of my best friend’s house, and I asked you plainly, “Do you like me as more than a friend?”. You said yes. I was ecstatic.

High school dating is so cute. I hate dating in college – you go from just dating to basically being married just like that [snap]. In high school is when we first start to learn what dating is about. It’s a journey that we go on together to learn our preferences and boundaries, what ticks us off and what makes us tick. You would wait for me outside of my class and walk me to my next class. Since you were a senior, you skipped class a lot to find me. In the mornings, you waited beside my locker, and in the afternoons, you walked me to my bus. Sometimes you even drove me home, even though you lived 40 minutes in the opposite direction. We would do really cute things together, like both dress up nicely for no reason; I remember on that day I found you sleeping in your blue shirt and trousers next to my locker, and as I walked up in my high heels and pink-flowered skirt, you hugged my legs with your eyes still closed.

We were skipping class, lounging at the end of the hallway against the blue radiator, when you suddenly asked me, “Would it be ok if I told you that I loved you?” I asked, “Are you saying that you love me?”. “No, I’m just asking if it would be ok for me to say so”. A few days later we were lying on my bed, talking. You suddenly told me “Crystal, I love you”. I didn’t know what to say. To be honest, I didn’t love you at the time. At least, I had never been in a serious relationship and so didn’t really know what it all meant. I asked you if it was alright if I didn’t say anything. I think you knew that I would eventually figure out my feelings, and so you weren’t too upset that I didn’t say “I love you too” immediately.

A month later you left for a week for Florida, and I could not bear it. I missed you so much that I could feel it in my body. That is when I knew that I loved you. While on the phone, I wanted to tell you – but I was so shy that I kept stopping myself. When you finally told me you had to go, I shouted out, “Wait! I have something to tell you!” Then I delayed for about an hour while you walked around trying to balance yourself on the curb. “I love you”. There. I had said it. “I know. I love you too,” you replied. Later I asked you whether you knew what I was going to say, and you responded, “Of course, it was obvious”. I didn’t think it was that obvious…

Today I watched the play, An Inspector Calls at the Oxford Playhouse. A dark expose of the evils of capitalism and social stratification, it tells the story of an upper-class family in 1910 who is enjoying their evening of wine and merry-making until a mysterious inspector calls. As the plot unfolds, the inspector reveals each family member’s role in the suicide of Eva Smith, a nothing girl from the working class. At the end, some characters return to their lives of ignorance and callousness, as if nothing had happened. The play emphasizes our social interdependence and communal responsibility, prompting us to think twice about what effect our actions, no matter how negligible they may seem to us, may have on others.  When I returned from the playhouse, I was so jarred that I could not start working until I had mellowed out for a while. Even now, as the  music from the official website plays in the background, thinking about it gives me chills. I highly recommend watching this if you are looking for something to see on West End.

As I left the playhouse, a homeless man asked me for some change. Out of habit, I responded that I was sorry and didn’t have any change. He then said, with a tone of desperation, “please”. I saw in his eyes a spark of genuineness, as if he wouldn’t really be begging for money if he actually had any other choice. Yet, I just continued walking. Am I like the characters in this play? Have I been illuminated about the evils of our society, only to return to that  lifestyle?

5/4/3 Almost done with classes, but its 2 am and I have to wake up at 8!

I’ve been in a bad mood all day because during my routine morning email check, I received an email from my last ex-boyfriend, from whom I haven’t heard in six months. After some disingenuously polite questions asking about my time in Oxford, he asked me to return the keys to his house that he had given me. Ignoring his jabs at pretending like he cared, I straightforwardly replied that I did not remember anything about a key; which was the truth.

I might sound like the stereotypical resentful ex-girlfriend, and I probably am. I will completely admit that my feelings my cloud my judgment. But I still have not completely wrung out my disgust for him. It’s not that I’m bitter that we broke up, it’s not that I’m jealous he has a new girlfriend (does he? I couldn’t care less). It’s that I honestly think he is one of the most unlikeable people I have ever met.

The first time you meet him, you can’t help but like him. That’s what trapped me to him as well. He knows how to smile at you, talk to you, make you feel like he would go out of his way for you, even though you’ve only just met. When we first started dating, I wanted to show him off to all of my friends, because I knew that he would impress them as well.

The more I got to know him, the more I realized that his congeniality was really just a cover for his vapid intrapersonality. He valued his friendships for how they could benefit him, and saw all his friends as potential connections. I knew something was wrong when I asked him what he wanted to do with his life, and he replied that he never really thought that was important, as long as he made money. However, I was too stupidly in love with him to let that bother me, and I pushed my discomfort aside. Towards the later part of our relationship, he had at that point already lost any feelings for me. Yet, he still asked me to call up my dad’s business connections to help him find a summer internship, meanwhile pretending that he still loved me. Even when I finally caught on to what was happening, he still proposed that we try to amend our relationship; perhaps he worried that if we broke up, my dad’s contacts would not pull through for him. I finally wised up and got out of there (quite literally).

The next time I saw him was at a group meeting of my superviser’s research team (also a job I had helped him get). He smiled at me with his characteristically congenial smile (whenever I imagine his smile, my insides burns with a green flame of disgust), and, much like the email I received today, asked me about how I had been. I didn’t even bother to pretend like I cared, I just responded and continued my work, leaving before he had another chance to speak. That was the last time I saw or heard from him.

Dear Crystal, It’s almost the end of the quarter. How are you and how has life been at Oxford? When are you coming back to Stanford?

When I got his email, I can almost imagine him flashing his unctuous smile, calculating whether the effort for social interaction will be worth the reward.  Whenever I think about the way I let myself be used by him, the way I deprecated myself for him, my entire body (particularly my stomach and my muscles) systemically does flips out of self-disgust, while I can feel my blood pulse in my hands out of anger. I sincerely hope that most girls will never have to experience this feeling of self-deprecation due to a guy.

Best song that describes how I’m feeling now: Picture to burn, by Taylor Swift

I am still in love with my ex-boyfriend.

We were high school sweethearts and stayed together through my first two years in college, for a total of four years. Two boyfriends and a year later, I still cannot forget him. This blog entry is a part of my mental memory dump to shift him from brain to paper, so that I might finally erase him from my consciousness. Read here for a fuller explanation and for the first part of the story.

As I left Chinese school, I couldn’t help but laugh at how obvious you were; challenging my friend to a race in the middle of the hallway so you could show off to me?

As luck would have it, we both walked into the same math classroom on the second floor. Linear algebra with Ms. Baker was so boring, thank god you sat next to me to keep things interesting. Throughout the course, if I wasn’t either doing my math homework, or doing homework for another class, then I was probably stealing glances at you, wondering if you were doing the same with me. Our math classmates placed wagers on, in the vulgar terms of a high school senior, when you would “get in [my] pants”. Kids don’t grow up much from elementary to high school do they? When Ms. Baker asked for volunteers to demonstrate something by hands, you immediately volunteered after I did. Our classmates “ooohed” just like stereotypical fourth graders. One time in class, after we had started dating, you had your hand laid behind me on my seat. In the middle of her lecture, Ms. Baker walked down the aisle and forced you to keep your hands to yourself. For some reason I have that moment engraved into my memory, especially the look on her face as she used her arms to gesture, “apart”.

We had a pretty symbiotic relationship in math. You were brighter than I was, but I was harder working. I let you copy my homework during lunch, and you would help me with the harder problems. I let you do all the work on our collaborative tests. Well, sometimes I just pretended to need help so I could spend more time with you. I remember one time after school we were sitting in the front lawn, leaning against the ugly white blocks that covered our school front. The weather was so beautiful and the wildflowers were in blossom. You had your arm around me, even though it kept you from writing your homework. You were a senior, so it didn’t matter anyway.

I guess I did actually learn something from that math class.

4/4/3 Trying to fall asleep but can’t, and have lots of work due for the end of the year.

Ew. Ew. Ew.

That’s the only thought that is going through my head right now.

Last night our house hosted a candy-shop themed underwear birthday party. One item of clothing for guys and two for girls. I have no reservations about not wearing clothes, and as the night went on (and as I got drunker) I ended up losing my shirt, stripped by my pink-frock-baring bartender friend. The guy-to-girl ratio, while quite favorable, made the entire party somewhat of a sausage-fest. Often I would find myself in a circle surrounded by a handful of half-naked men, all asking me questions and probably mentally evaluating whether or not I would sleep with them. Finally, one guy who had been talking to me for a while asked me whether I wanted to dance. “Sure!” I replied, “I love dancing!”

That’s when I learned that dancing does not really mean dancing. I love dancing with men, I even like the “grinding” that the older generation likes to call “vertical sex”. I don’t even mind that you are touching me. Dance is an expression of feeling, I know I’m hot and you can’t help it. But I am not amused when you force my hands all over your body, limiting my expression to “I want you” (which I don’t; because you’re sketchy and the only reason I agreed to dance with you was because I felt bad). I guess I can let you kiss me too, but 30 seconds later you say, “let’s go upstairs” and I say “big fucking NO”.

College parties, clubs, bars, so far everywhere I’ve gone out in Britain I’ve experienced the same story.  I’ve never been clubbing in the US (not yet 21), but no guy ever asks me to dance at the parties at school. So I’m not sure if this is a rant against sketchy British men, or just against men in general, but PLEASE LET US GIRLS DANCE IN PEACE! The last time I checked my thesaurus, fuck was not listed as a synonym for dance.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I have to take a few showers to wash the taste of your hands away.

1. Color with felt tip markers
2. Play my favorite online game online
3. Catch up on favorite TV shows and Detective Conan manga
4. Take a shower and change into pj’s
5. Eat mint chocolate (esp Aero’s)
6. Listen to soundtracks from my favorite musicals (Les Mis, Wicked, Rent)
7.  Dance to my Ne-yo playlist on my bed when no one else is there.
8. Call my close friends and catch up over hour long conersations
9. Blog
10. Sleep!

Twenty years ago today, the Chinese Communist Party sent armed troops against peaceful student protesters demanding corruption.  ”Liu Si” is the Chinese way of referring to the Tiananmen Incident, meaning six-four (i.e. June 6). That date will forever be engraved in my head. Gravely, liu si in Chinese numerology means flowing death – a calendrical omen of the streets overflowing with corpses, in striking similarity to the feeling of 911. Two days later, we will be celebrating D-Day, memorializing the dead from another kind of battle. Sometimes I wonder why we remember so many sad events in history.

BTW – this blog is blocked in China.