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the default expression that your face automatically reverts to when idle—amused, melancholic, pissed off—which occurs when a strong emotion gets buried and forgotten in the psychological laundry of everyday life, leaving you wearing an unintentional vibe of pink or blue or gray, or in rare cases, a tie-dye of sheer madness.

M/18/Los Angeles
This weekend

Formality in two senses.

1) I have to.
2) I choose too.

Formal events require extra care in everything. It’s one thing to just put a suit on with a matching tie for your date. It’s another thing to outshine as an individual, yet still match a little. For my friend’s winter formal I plan on wearing a charcoal 3 piece, tailored of course. I might try my red suede shoes but I’m not sure if that would work. If I do then I might just go plain white button up with red Bowtie. I’ll have to buy that. Then again, it will be my first Bowtie so I’m excited. Of course theres nothing like a champagne after party to top it all.

Cheers to that.

The next day will be continuing the formality.
Button up.
Same suede boots perhaps.

This could seem very casual to some but as a high school student I stand out among the rest. The tiebreaker in case some else copies me: my Nixon watch. Purple with neon green clock hands. I’ve been complimented by guys and gals time and time again. The next thing is character but I’m sure that requires another post.

February-Month of (Fuck) Love

Maybe, it’s just me, but I have recently seen way too many statuses about valentine’s day. Honestly Fuck Love

Fuck I’d rather get fucked up.

Fuck I’d rather fuck.

Fuck I’d rather meet someone new

Fuck I’d rather not think about her.

Fuck I hope this girl makes me forget about her. 

Fuck this girl does not help me forget about her.

Fuck my standards.

Fuck that I like one girl than another, the one that got away. 

Fuck everything.

Still, it is only when I’m alone that I think about these things. If I can keep someone for more than two weeks then I will not have to say (fuck) love.


Home of Kpan.

Home of the munchies.

Home of Boba. 

Home of hookah.

Home of the underage.

Home of breaks from life.

Home of 3 minute ramen.

Home of compulsive buying.

Home of compulsive smoking.

Home of the weird combos. (Like boba and hookah combined)


For me, living right next to Koreatown means a lot of things. Most of all it means I am a foreigner, but I am welcomed. It must be that smile I get that says “you belong.”

(usually that means I’m being sold something)