There’s Something Important I Need to Tell You

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Jump-wings, jump, jump-wings, jump…

In tap dancing lexicon, this move is called wings. I was successful in getting a murky tap sound maybe 70% of the time, and that was only when I spread out my jumps in between the wings.

But I’ll just put it shortly — it took me months to even get to a stage where I could do it 90% of the time and without spreading them out with jumps.

And then today, something clicked.

My warm-up jumps were smooth sailing, and my feet muscles could hold me up better than usual, thanks to the 3+ miles that I hiked the day before yesterday. With a spur of energy, I jumped and then pulled back — the sound was crystal clear. I jumped again — same sound. I still can’t explain how that happened. I didn’t know. But my feet did.

I did it again and again and again, and eventually I didn’t even to insert extra jumps between my wings for a proper liftoff.

Taking a breath for a moment, I wandered off the practice floor and out onto the deck, wondering, Yo. You promised yourself you’d be beyond elated once you got the moves down. Why aren’t you feeling more celebratory?

Yes. That’s the question I ask myself every time I accomplish something difficult.

Take finishing each end of the semester, for instance. Last semester was difficult. And by the time I finally, finally, finally finished, then what? Relief? Not even. Mostly panic attacks and last-minutes worries of having forgot to submit something online. In fact, I recall it was during junior year in high school that I had soul-crushing panic attacks for two weeks straight. I could barely even sleep, and that made everything worse.

Same with languages. At the beginning of each of my languages journeys, I imagined I’d find the exact day I’d master a language, and then when I come to the realization that I’ve learned something, I can celebrate and take a vacation from learning and drink Midori or whatever the hell is left over in our wine drawer at the moment.

Not true.

In reality, by the time I accomplish something, I crave even more perfection in my craft or project. I think it was Stephen King who once said that he never considered his books truly done. He can revise them forever and forever and ….

I feel ya, my dude.

So why don’t we feel satisfied whenever we accomplish something that way we imagine we would at the beginning?

Because accomplishment isn’t a finish line but a process. Accomplishment is an infinite extension of our processes. And accomplishment is also relative. If you’re like me (or Stephen King), you are inclined to hone and perfect your tasks indefinitely. Granted, there is supposed to be a stopping point, but my mindset was never “is it good yet?” but “how can I make it better?”

I will have ingrained so much information in my head that by the time I’m using it, the accomplishment isn’t a big deal any longer.

So if you’re experience this phenomena as well, don’t settle for “accomplishments.” Instead, gage for satisfaction as you learn on a continuum.

Oh, but that doesn’t mean you can’t reward yourself once you’ve mastered something big. Next time I need to let someone know how far I’ve made it in tap, one word will let them know.


Why do you love me so?

Photo by Engin Akyurt on




Do I really have to explain to you?


It’s like…


when I see that,

that human, so human and so much…deity

just deity,

it’s like a fuse that engrained my mind before conception had burst so that

I just feel all of my nerve threads down to my finger tippy tips.


I’m not awake or alert but


in a cacophony of color schemes more saturated

than my camera in a poorly orchestrated setting while it’s in aperture mode.

The emotions that orbit my mind

spin, debating

whether the newest schema they hold

is oxytocin or a reenactment of the saber-toothed tiger, out for my skin.


But not even they can hold up their expectations to the reality of being, which is


After you exposed yourself to me,

I simpered like a little girl

whose cuddle toy, shreds of imaginary hopes she vested in self-preservation, was

dumped when hands cursed of Fates threw them out.

And that’s when the world morphed into gradients of white and black,

though I don’t pity you.


Don’t come close.

Lest I burn you.

Author’s note: No, I’m not tripping on acid.

Love, they say

I was rummaging through my old notes from summer course when I found this little random epiphany written on a sheet of paper. Revised for clarity.

People and media romanticize falling in love a lot. I understand the hype, but for me, it’s so hard to deal with.

I don’t love — I become hyper-aware. I am obsessed. Worried. Tense. Paranoid. Depressed. And very, very anxious.

The last time “love” happened to me:

  • I endured some of the worst panic attacks in my life.
  • I had thoughts of self-harm.
  • I hallucinated in my sleep.
  • I disengaged from my friends.
  • I cried so hard I threw up.
  • In fact, I was throwing up everywhere I went, pretty much.
  • Lost my appetite and nearly passed out.
  • Had chronic stomachaches.
  • Had chronic anxiety attacks that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy
  • Had intrusive thoughts 24/7.
  • Had depression.

Looking back, now only does it sound funnier when I read this stuff aloud but I wonder why I went so gaga over that specific person. Maybe it was my firsthand assumptions about them or that they looked like a work of art in human form. If that’s so, it doesn’t explain why the symptoms were so…paradoxical.

Why do I react the way I do? My sister knows and she contends that it’s insane. Even I know it.

I don’t have answers to that. Such is the wild, unpredictable nature of love.

This person exists. Perhaps that should be reason enough.


I be sure to take every painful situation as a learning curve.

I remember watching a Twilight Zone episode where a woman kept running away from some creepy man that seemingly stalked her across the country, and she kept calling out for help to the local passerbys that she encountered. although no one believed her. Near the end of the show, our protagonist, about half dead with fright, tried to contact the phone operator to put her on the line with her mother. The response was, “(Name of mother) has been crying over her daughter’s recent death.”

It hit her: she was dead all along. She just didn’t know how to accept Death — the same Death who was the creeky stalker, by the way, that was following her across the country, beckoning her to follow him into the afterlife with minimal fuss.

I narrate my life with parallels such as these, so let me explain. Before, I was the terribly insecure, desperate, love-starved girl who kept phoning the operators of Fate to give me the love I so craved and thus rescue me from withering away into a lonely, lonely life.

Then the operator picked up.

“Tiffs is suffering from excessive anxiety and thus can’t qualify to our Matchmaking line right now.”

Just as our protagonist realized the truth about herself, I realized mine: I was in intense pain. Fate, disguised as a lurking doom-and-gloom singleness, was merely beckoning me to put aside my love worries and continue on with my life, single but pain-free, even though I initially fought against him.

Accepting Fate’s advice wasn’t going to be easy, but knowing the truth about myself might just be the thing to strengthen me until I’m truly mentally ready to accept the next lovebug that comes my day through the series of coping mechanisms I developed after my precious experiences.

The truth? It doesn’t matter whether you have someone or not. What matters most is how at peace you are with your state of mind. That is the only way to feel authentic happiness.

You can’t be that lonely if you’re at peace with yourself first. Right?

But…ya know. All the millennial girl bloggers ever have probably said the exact same thing as I have. We’re so similar it’s disgusting. xD


pink petaled flowers closeup photo
Photo by Brett Sayles on

I caught the glorying gaze of a cherry blossom tree;

Its fortune told me the future of my hearting flame.

I inhale its preening scent of beautiliciousness

And throw it to the sky,




I saw you. Then.

You didn’t even spare me a sympathetical glance.

Please don’t hate me now. Hate me later.

All I need is an understanding while I cry,




Pipe Dream

orange petaled flower
Photo by Evie Shaffer on


The air weans in partings of a summer breeze

But nay if it hasn’t swept in a lovelorn fear, or some,

At which I gaze in disconcerted ease.


It’s cold here. It’s cold here. I keel, then I’m numb;

That only you’d lie your love onto me — that I’d fain

In a frenzied season’s past, a past my pain is from.


One flitting thought, a thousand strolls purged in vain;

‘Tis the consequence of your haunting face,

So sweet my perfume smells like pain.


What now? No fear, no sense, no rush, no pace,

My game carried on in unlimited breadth;

I can’t wait forever, but I can’t win time’s race.


And so, my eyes faded in recurring death,

I pass you my final requiem on the fog of my breath…

Magnum Opus

silhouette photography of woman with shoulder length hair
Photo by Luis Quintero on

Cartoonish caricatures of fishies are

floundering in my periphery

while my clone lies sprawled under

scrutinizing starlights.

She’s writhing,


O my love,

what did I just do to you

in those milliseconds, grains of

an existential high

infecting the air?

I’d nurse you

Like a mother and her squalling child.

But I’ll send another

in my midst,

nary knowing that

the one who watches over you

like God and his Book of Life

is me.

Breathe Me Alive

affection american asian woman beautiful
Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on

One glimpse

and I want to

stroke your face

up and out,

round and about,

like the masseur at the spa.

Cup your face against my palm

and I’ll trace your veins as they

lead to your heart —

but maybe I’ll contend with

ticking you on the underarms



Is it wrong that I want to

entwine my body around yours

till you’re close



to my core,

to the soul hidden beneath my soul

and our pulses beat as one

and I can just maybe,


breathe you in?


Please cradle me

so I can snuggle my ear to your chest

and hear an lively ocean

surging inside,

and I’ll know you’re real

when I fall asleep

and all my realities become a dream

as your body beside me fills my lungs

with your scent.

Remember butterfly kisses? The ones where

we’re so close our eyelashes

are touching?

They’re now goldfish nips

because now I’ll cover your face

with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.


Maybe one night

under the covenant of

a balmy evening

I’ll introduce you to the star-struck sky

because it’s always watching.

I’ll kiss your nose

so that my blessing will extend

down to the tips of your toes.

And while your breath is still fresh on mine

I’ll trace your lips

so that with mine, I’ll imprint onto you

my fiercest declaration:

you belong to me,

and I

to you.


To Mr. Cheerio Diddly-Dee


Well, dude – you’re a sap!

You think you’re cute, cuddly and so nice –

Really? You, a lucki-o diddli-doo ol’ chap?

You said, “I love you” – ya should’ve known the price!

Oh yeah, I’ve had my share of guys, too,

Beats me why they’ve got to be so callous;

Now my priorities are confused – what to do?

I mean, it’s not like a girl has a phallus!


Look, I understand the friendzone,

I know how it must feel;

But even you yourself said you’re good-for-nothing prone

And you have the kisser of a moray eel!

Your diddli-dee life is plastered online, I see –

Am I – obsessing? Or is it a spiteful bluff?

Well, no, I hate you because your imperfections embody me!

And is one “me” really not enough?

The Numbing

silhouette photo of man and woman kissing
Photo by Hoang Loc on

The numb love

gushes through my veins,

grasps the arms

in a death grip and

extends into the elbow and

through the shoulders,

surpassing the naked blade

in a delicious furor and

entwines itself

around the sinews of my heart.

I am brimming with you.

One climatic squeeze of my centerpiece


Might revise later. 


person with body painting
Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on

A pantoum poetry style.

The carbon copy of a goddess’s design
She beckons me to my internal demise;
Her memories become one with mine
And I am lost, lost in the pools of her eyes.

She beckons me to my internal demise
Till the skin I touch is not my skin anymore;
And I am lost, lost in the pools of her eyes
As they bore into my hollowed core.