Busy, but alive.

theeletterj:

Umm, here’s a stupid doodle of a silly idea i had. Dick Grayson has always been one of my favorite comic book characters. I don’t know.

(via orcses)

pages2type:

I have two hands anyway…

(via ilovereadingandwriting)

The city is beautiful at night. 
You can hear every sound emitting through the streets from up here.
Anyway, I clack away at this laptop while prepping for tomorrow’s tutorial. The Korean writing system; i.e., the Great Writing (as translated), makes so much sense to me — I find it very intuitive, especially as someone coming from a linguistics background.

Confession #1: The way my instructor says “tutorial” is the cutest thing I have ever heard.

Confession #2: The way my instructor says “difficult” is the second cutest thing I have ever heard.

Lab work is going well. I’ve been consigned to manage all things data related: scoring, double-scoring (and sometimes triple-scoring), SPSS entry, and recruit training for the above tasks. Yeah, sounds kind of boring, but this data is slowly becoming an extension of my being as a researcher; I am gradually encoding myself into every protocol. This in itself is a form of immortality: if death should take me, then at least my work remains.

The streets leading up to the river were dry and dusty, but that was because of the construction that was always happening on the outskirts of the boy’s small town. The town was always plagued by the noise of the construction machines performing their construction tasks, but that was because there was never a winter for the machines to take a break; it never got cold enough for snow, and so nothing stopped the machines from continuing on with their endless work of constructing the town. Despite there being no winter in the boy’s town, there were windy days — fantastically windy days that fascinated the boy. 

“I wish I were a cloud,” the boy confessed to the girl as a gust of wind blew past, deafening the noise of the construction machines behind them. The girl, who was walking along the street with the boy, looked at him with bright eyes, selfless eyes, the kind of eyes that inherently asked, “Why? Please explain so I can understand.” She was nothing perfect to the boy. She was short, skinny, had long dark hair with ambitions to cut it short, and lived strictly to the laws of her timepiece; however, she made time for him, which meant she was everything perfect to the boy.

The townspeople obeyed their timepieces, and seldom did they make time for anyone else. They followed along the current of this town, all of them, ever flowing in, never changing, a current they could not see or feel — the boy simply swam against it, and the girl followed him, and the boy loved her for this. 

“If I were a cloud, I would catch the next wind out of this town.” Another burst of wind spun around the boy and girl, condescendingly. They finally reached the river.

The town was close enough to an ocean for it to be called a seaside settlement but was far enough that the river cutting through the town flowed into the continent and not out to sea. The boy and girl stood by the river and watched their disfigured reflections in the slow moving water. 

“Y-you look nice today,” the boy said awkwardly as he peered into the eyes of the girl’s reflection. The girl didn’t reply.

They made their way to a bridge not too far from where they were standing. The walk was as awkward as the boy’s compliment. Another gale of air pushed past them as they stopped in the middle of the bridge. It was quiet right after: no construction noise, no wind blowing, no words said. The sound of the rushing water beneath them was the only thing the boy and girl could hear as they looked to the horizon where the river entered from. 

The boy broke the near-silence.

“Listen, you’ve followed me, even though I ran against time itself,” said the boy as he faced the girl. He continued, “I’ve grown… fond of you.” The last three words trailed with what could easily be taken for as courage, but it was regret — he knew it was regret. The girl didn’t break her stare towards the horizon; the boy looked down to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” said the girl, “but I can’t.”

“Oh.” He gulped, and something dropped into the pit of his stomach. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The boy hated apologies more than anything in the world — he hated hearing them and he hated saying them. He didn’t hate the girl; he just hated how vulnerable he felt. He hated every word he said, but what he hated the most was how awful the girl must have felt when he said those words: “I’ve grown… fond of you.” Yes, it was definitely regret.

A sharp, cold gale swept over the bridge. The girl continued to look out to the horizon, her hair blowing in the wind, while the boy looked up towards the sky and saw an unbelievable sight: a snowflake. 

The boy whispered to himself, “I wish I were a cloud,” and this was the last piece of his vulnerability he gave up before the two followed the river’s current back to town, back to the cacophony of construction machines, and back to their timepieces, respectively.

It’s been a while.
It’s been busy.
It’s been fairly enjoyable, though.

The summer is starting to pick up speed; I wonder where it will take me.

The lab has been good, despite all the table-flipping that’s been going on… I only blame myself for not writing that manifesto of troubleshoots and protocol procedures for the new generation of RAs.

Summer school is right around the corner. I wish I had another week to relax, but such is the way of things.

I’m losing my ability to stay up at night. I feel like Peter when he started losing his spidey-powers, or like Kiki when she started losing her ability to fly. I’m afraid this is what it means to grow up. Work starts early and ends late, and sleep is the arduous burden of life, unfortunately. Well, at least I’m getting money, and I’m drawing more, and writing more. I hope I don’t lose myself like I’ve done with everything else in my life.

superfist:

Truth.

(Source: monicarichards, via neil-gaiman)

rachelelm:

i love outer space. i love the space program. i love science and scientists and pilots and airplanes and astronauts and human ingenuity and drive and exploration and wonder and i dont give a good goddamn if thats cheesy

deviantart:

Who says superheroes from DC & Marvel can’t be friends?

*rawlsy pairs superheroes in an ongoing series called “Little Friends”. 

Which is pairing is your favorite?

via Design Taxi

I love… them all. 

Joven was the one who introduced it to me.
The key to it, though, is to not add any sweeteners or milk.
It’s best to keep it simple, cool, whatever.
Don’t worry. The ice somewhat makes up for the bitterness.

Oh, iced coffee. You veil yourself and parade around looking like a glass of cola. And with every condensed droplet of water adhered to the outside of your glass, you become more and more irresistible. I can hear the ice cubes gnash and clink as I drink you in. And as I sip from the dark well of your cup, I can taste ultimatums form on the tip of my tongue:

Give me the veins in which I shall work my magic, or die. 

Bitter, bitter cold, but I’ve never felt so alive.  

rufiozuko:

On the Amtrak, heading towards Boston, listening to #KendrickLamar, on the East Coast listening to some West Coast tunes. Being from the West, trains are so foreign to me. There’s something romantic about trains though… Seeing towns and trees pass by the window… The landscape’s so different, the…