Sweet little blog,

Why must I see a picture of that damn Polak, which I hitched off facebook like an unstable stalker, to adorn my blog and with which forever to remind me that I've got bad taste in men.

But my taste has changed, among other things. No boys for me, no ma'am. [I refuse to disclose that I have yellow fever, which expresses itself in me ogling at videos of dancing feminine Korean boys. Videos such as this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLWEvtlCm84&feature=related. -Aw, Junhyung, I don't care if you're a bully (I happen to like that Alpha-male behaviour), I still like you cause you're pretty (and have some sense of belated remorse)].

But on the whole, I'm still falling between the cracks of two extremes.

Sacharine ideals of the global media or the equally unattainable everyday subjects (mostly professors who turn out to be openly gay).

Not just with my attraction, but I guess, in that I tear myself apart between obsession with glossy societal ideals and the more important things, like becoming a well-rounded, intellectual human being.

What brings me here, to write to a vacant cyber space that still contains memories of a painful transition from one country to another?

The importance of documenting versions of yourself and seeing how they've evolved.

I found a tattered diary I kept when I was 16, a month before I moved here. It's the earliest record I seem to posses of myself, as if my life had started only then.

It's such an endearing account of my personality.

Some beliefs I still hold true, while others are polished off to produce what we now like to call an "adult".

But I still want to satisfy that persnickity 16 year old (and she's so hard to please).

What would she think of me at 24? The thought that I achieved nothing, moved a step forward and one step back. She's shallow and her ideals are superficial, but nevertheless I fail on all accounts.

Having a "hot, rich bf" not checked.

Having a "super cool job" not checked.

Having finished university not checked.

Knowing what I wanna do with my life/ who I am/ where I'm going I don't even wanna talk about it.

As usual, I'm the new kid on the block. Forever doomed to move to new and strange places, roam them without support that extends beyond the temporary, feeling misunderstood and lost.

New city, new language.

But this time I don't give a shit.

Parlez-vous francais? Je pense que non. (This language haunts me. I shouldn't have cheated that French test in Shevah Mofet, in grade 8.)

Why bother when you can idealize another place instead, be it Korea or Toronto's Korean Town? Though, realistically I drag my problems after me, sweeping a healthy helping of dirt along with it.

It's like I'm waiting to grow up but I'm not there yet. I'm not equipped yet to deal with life and responsibility. I can't face rejection and consequently the shattering of my infantile ideals. I underestimate myself and stay stagnant.

But when I read this tattered diary, this silly and amusing blog torn between two languages, I'm empathetic and caring. I only expect the same from the 16 year old me who is reading this now.