Word.

So...it's been while since I posted, I hope this finds my fan base well. And by fan base, I mean...well, no one.

Some updates, I'm looking to do things more...officially this semester. I'm in a lot of organizations, I have a lot of opportunities to get my name out there, and I want to take them seriously. I'm looking at a couple of internships, and one way to get a foot above the rest of the crowd is by presenting oneself better. So, I'm actually setting up my LinkedIn profile, because who knows whose looking on that site, I'm probably going to start putting this blog actually out there for people to see...who knows, it'll be fun.

That aside, here's a writing update. I have a journal that's filled with stuff I've written on the side, and I've done nothing with it so far. So, since this blog is mainly for me, I thought I'd put some stuff up.

This is a prose sestina that I attempted to write for my Nonfiction class. One of the essays that I'm currently working on was inspired by this, and I'm considering revising this for more serious usage. (This is the rough version that I wrote directly into my journal.)

Party Time

This house is so packed, fucking terrible. I'm glad I'm already drunk or I'd probably cry everytime I went downstairs. One shot, two shots, I laugh at the people who have to pay for them; I know people. Some girl bumps into me, gives me a look that looks like she wants to cut me. She comes to me, bitching and shit, I tell her to go die. I'm so fucking tired.

You'd be tired too if the first thing you did was rage after you got back in town. Everyone treats me terribly whenever I ask them how they're doing. Normally I tell them I'm with the house, but if they're too rude I tell them I'm security and to go die. This one girl was crying when I came up to her. "I don't know you" she said, her drunken stupor cutting down the wariness of her statements. Her eyes, shot and wet, pleaded to leave, to be in a situation she understood.

I go downstairs, one shot, two shots later, I'm having fun again. My friends, not my brothers, say they're tired, they're going to get a cab. Splitting it will cut down on the price. They ask me to come; I tell them that it's a terrible idea. I'm having a great time, the weeping hasn't begun yet, and to not worry so much. They leave and they could be dead for all I care.

Death has come, all the beer is gone and I want people to start leving. The guys in the house start to hand out free shots so people stay a little longer. Someone broke Ari's bubbler and we're all about to cry. More people decide to leave saying they're tired when they really don't want to take responsibility. I'm still working door and people start coming up to me saying this party is terrible. I tell them that if they don't step off, "imma cut a bitch"

Like a knife through butter, my words slice through their drunken ignorance. They contribute to the dying party while some more people want to be in just to be in. The situation becomes more and more terrible as more people tell me they know someone in the house. It's been so long since I've stopped caring, if it wasn't for the shot of peace and pure friendship that I had during the afterparty, I'd be gone. And that's the one thing I never tire of. This brilliant relationship I have with the guys who live in this house, no crying or drama needed

My other friendships involved so many tears, so much sobbing. I've long cut myself off from most of those friends, I tired of their bullshit, they got sick of my insolence. I've willed death upon death so many times that I've made positive I have no magic power whatsoever. I'm on the phone, calling a friend for a shot to recover our friendship. Response is what I expected; I drop him like a bad habit and I feel terrible.

But I'm tired of crying over other people. Regardless of how terrible it seems, cutting them off is the only option. I start to feel like death again, when Evan hands me a shot.


So yeah, that's the start of something more. It's pretty awful right now, but it's mine.

Thanks and peace out.
Sam Tang