The First Hour of Creative Writing

Exactly what it says: Below is what I spent the last hour writing, with only a few minutes of editing. It’s how I’m relieving some stress/wasting some time today. Hopefully it doesn’t suck too much. *insert thumbs up/wink here* Enjoy! Oh, and it’s the first installment, so hopefully you don’t hate it!


He sits down in front of me, and, my gosh, he’s beautiful. I didn’t think there would be anything to get me through this next hour of waiting in excited agony; of waiting in the holding area for the train to arrive; of waiting on a hard, mahogany bench for my future to come chugging on through. Oh, my future, my dreadful, dreadful future! Yes, I had no inclination that there would be anything over this next hour that could take my mind off the uncertainty of my soon-to-be life and thus help the time pass quicker. But there he is, sitting on the bench directly facing me, bent over and fiddling with a buckle on his left penny loafer. They’re awfully wonderful shoes he has on, a gorgeous shade of brown and seemingly made of a rather expensive leather, Italian probably. As he fixes the decorative piece, moving his hands around the gold metal in a rather jerking motion, a book slides off his lap and onto the floor about a foot in front of him. He takes a quick glance in its direction and then continues the job at hand. I guess the thing really isn’t that important to him, at least in comparison to whatever is wrong with his shoe.

I like to think he’s rich. Yes, being all alone in this city train station means you’re either poor, rich, or desperate, and since I know what both poor and desperate persons in here look like, I have to say he’s one of the rich. Either that or he’s simply good at pretending to be, but I doubt it’s the latter. Everything about him screams wealth. From those brown leather loafers to the perfectly fitted–and therefore carefully tailored–navy pants that hit at just the right spot–two inches above the ankle when sitting so as to show off the most stylish amount of thin joint covered by sock–to his maroon, woolen, v-neck sweater to the white button down underneath to the thick, navy tweed suit jacket he wears on top, it all looks deliciously lavish. Yes, he’s dressed completely to the nines, yet it’s midday and he’s taking a train from here to York, a twelve-hour trip. And gathering from the one brown suitcase he has sitting at his feet that perfectly matches his shoes, he’s only staying there for a day or two. So there’s no denying he’s wealthy. No one travels twelve hours in complete discomfort to stay only for a day or two unless they’re absolutely rich. The only other scenario would be that he really is staying in York for quite some time and has simply already sent his bags ahead. But, again, only the rich can afford to do that.

So he’s a beautiful, young, wealthy man. He must have inherited it, though, or at least have ridiculously kind parents who enjoy paying their son’s way, for he’s far too young to have struck it rich on his own. He’s my age at least and two years older than me at most. Between 20 and 22 years of life is definitely nowhere near enough time to make it big in this world, unless you become an actor, of course. But that’s hard to do; you either lack the talent or simply never get discovered, and being that he’s traveling to York of all places, he’s certainly one or the other–or very possibly both. Yes, young, well-dressed, beautiful face, soft hands, travelling alone, few bags; it means he’s bred from wealth.

I let out a soft sigh. He was born rich, and I not. While class really wouldn’t be detrimental if we ever fell in love, it still would make me feel a bit odd, as well as a bit of a nuisance. It’s simply something I’d never be able to get past, having to rely solely on a man for my wealth and well-being. It may seem silly, but I just don’t want to be tied down. I want independence and self-sufficiency and freedom and my own things. That’s why I’m leaving this city in the first place; I simply can stand leaning on others no longer, and so a rich man just does not fit into my equation. Not right now, at least. I either want a love that is naturally on my level, or I want to be in love with the rich only after I work my way up to equal them. But I don’t want to fall for one now, to be rescued, provided for, and pitied, for that’s all a wealthy husband can provide a poorer wife: money and sympathy, neither of which love can last on. And I want a love that lasts. So this man, as intriguingly handsome as he is, is a no-go. What a shame.

Although, it probably would never work out between us, anyway. Knowing my luck, he’s most likely already engaged to the princess of some far away land, or at least some tycoon’s heiress daughter, and is happily in love with her. Yes, he already has a lover, and she’s someone quite special, someone who has much more to offer than a relatively kind smile and generally irksome intellect, unlike myself. I bet he’s off to meet her right now, to spend these next two days further courting her with sweet whispers and gentle kisses. That would at least explain why he’s leaving for York, for rich heiresses never live in big cities. Oh, I bet he’s just so thrilled to be heading off to meet her! Good for him. I’m glad he’s happy. You can see his happiness even amidst his frustration just by the way he moves , just by the way he carries his shoulders even while bending. Yes, he must already be in love. I’m glad he has love.

So clearly it would never work out between us, anyway, even if he did finally quit trying to fix his obviously beyond-repair buckle, look up, notice me here, and fall madly in love, even if only for a moment. Actually, that’s all it would ever last, only a moment. After spending just that much time looking at plain, old me, he’d very soon remember his beautiful, wealthy fiance and then quickly disregard any feelings for myself he may have briefly gained, for I could never offer him even half as much as whomever he is promised to. But so goes the story of my life.

As I sit here letting these thoughts carry me far away from this bustling, headache-inducing station, I become dimly aware of an ache in the center of my back. I grimace slightly at the nuisance and sink further down into the bench, trying to lessen the pressing of the wood against my spine, but it is useless. I am simply too bony for it to not. I sigh once again. If only I wasn’t so skinny! My dearest friend’s words from the other day come flying back into my head.

“Well, if you’d just pack on a few more pounds, Betts, then maybe guys would start noticing you!”

Maybe. Maybe if I just went up a few dress sizes, I’d be more desirable, seen as more feminine, finally be wanted as a wife. But how I am now, I’m too thin, and so I just fade into the background. With few curves in a world full of male lust for the buxom, I’m seldom noticed–and when I am noticed, it’s for being anything but attractive, pretty, beautiful, or the like. Guys see me and ask me to be their best friend. I don’t blame them, though. When there’s a nice girl who’s shaped like a guy, she’s certainly less intimidating to befriend than the average woman–and the average man.

So even if this guy does end up noticing me, it won’t be out of awe for my beauty or for the quickened pulses that come with instantaneous love. It will be for no other reason than the fact that there is another person seated across from him, most likely staring at him in a very odd, intense, and unsettling manner.

Which finally reminds me to quit subjecting this poor man to my naturally intense eyes, what my dearest friends and family so lovingly call my “thinking stare.” But he’s just so beautiful that I simply cannot help but stare in awe and ponder it. I decide to look away when he finally looks up. For now, though, I will happily memorize who he is, or, rather, guess at who I believe he is. What a strange thing we do when we see people we don’t know! We instantly make up their life stories in our heads and wholeheartedly convince ourselves that they must be correct. Why do we do this? We know it’s wrong to judge, yet we do it nonetheless. What odd creatures we humans are!

Suddenly, though, I am jerked forth from my thoughts as something hits hard against the toe of my right black heel. And also just as suddenly, there’s an apologetic, middle-aged woman wearing a very funny purple hat bending over me and grabbing my hands, saying sorry very sincerely for not having seen the book on the ground. I reassure her that I am fine and have been hit by much worse things in my life than a book on my toe, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling badly. What does is the book’s beautiful owner as he comes up behind her and speaks.

“No, no, madame, it was not your fault,” he says with genuine concern in a smooth tenor. “It was my book, and I neglected to pick it up out of preoccupation with a broken shoe buckle. Please don’t worry yourself. It is I who should fret. I really do hope you forgive me.” He clasps his hands and bows slightly forward, as if he isn’t worthy of her presence.

“Why, that’s quite alright, dear,” she says, touching his arm gently. “Just be a bit more cautious next time you drop something in public,” she adds with a warm, maternal smile. She turns again to me and apologizes once more before carrying on her way.

I look down at the book on the ground. Its title is in German. Out of an odd combination of politeness, fear, and physical attraction, I hold back a gasp. German? At a time like this? But I decide that I have judged this poor man enough today already, and so I keep my mind from wandering any further down the path it has already turned down. Maybe he is simply studying the language. Or maybe he is actually in the Allied Cause. Or maybe he isn’t rich but is rather actually one of the desperate in this station…

No, Betts! You said you wouldn’t judge! Correct, and so I won’t. Whatever his reason for reading German, it does not concern me. It is his life, and he can live it in whichever way he wants.

I bend over and casually pick up the book, then hold it out to him.

“So, you speak German?” I ask, with a slightly jesting tone to my voice. In all actuality, I’m dying to know the answer, but I don’t want him to know I’m curious just in case. And so I’ll play this conversation off as simple fun.

Study Tunes

Because I don’t know when I will be able to get my next post out (thank you, midterms), I’m going to instead include below a link to a playlist of my most favorite songs to listen to while studying/writing. Some are upbeat, some are slow, some are rap, some are punk, some are weird, some are foreign, you get the gist. There’s a huge array, I love them all, and I simply want others to experience them, too.

So, if you’re stressing over papers and tests right now along with me, then don’t you worry. Take a break, have a listen, and keep on keeping on. You can do it!

Hopefully this link works. And if it does, enjoy!

Warning: I don’t assure that all of the songs in the playlist are clean/appropriate for kids. Sorry…

Seasonal Time Lapse

There’s only two things I find as beautiful as red and yellow leaves on trees: Disney World and the art of fall slowly fading into winter. Because the former is, for obvious reasons, very hard to capture without lots of advanced planning (and money), I decided to tackle the latter. Over the past few months, I’ve taken images that capture this beauty I speak of, the beauty of this earth as it transforms its climate from cold to even colder. I guess you can call this a sort of long-term time lapse that consists solely of sunrises, skylines, woods, and sunsets. I really hope you enjoy it.


Now to jump back to early November (which is the start of the transition from mid to late fall where I live):

*WARNING–Winter comes a lot quicker than you think!!*

Week 1:

Bright, pastel skies; leaves just beginning to abandon their trees; sparkling rivers–yes, it’s definitely the middle of fall!


morning 2

Remember that that’s water behind that railing; you’ll be seeing it again a bit later.

mid fall

mid fall 3

Week 2:

Sparse trees and darker morning skies are the sure sign that winter (as well as the horrid cold) is on its way. When mornings turn into this, I begin to pull out all of my thick, heavy sweaters in preparation for my soon-coming woolen hibernation.

fall sky

late fall2


Above is the very last bug I’ve seen since that last week of November. 😦

Week 3:

I swear it happened overnight, but that first week of December, all of a sudden the leaves were gone, snow had fallen, and winter hit us full on.


leaves in snow3


Dark and cold and dark and cold…that’s all winter really ever is, now isn’t it?

And for the past two-and-a-half months, every single day has (more or less) looked like this:


winter 5

winter 6

winter 4

winter 7

winter 10

Snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, and more snow! Yay!

*She exclaims, not at all enthused.*

Every single day has been frigid and white, which gets to be a bit much after a while, even if it is pretty to look at. That was the case until last week, however, when we suddenly got a bit of a warm spell–warm even to the point where I could walk outside without a coat on and be completely comfortable.

So it was between 35 and 40 degrees, I’d say, which may not sound too toasty to a lot of people, but around here at this time of year, that is heavenly. Absolutely heavenly! And I was oh so grateful for it!

today 2


Grass! You could finally see the grass!!

It was short-lived however; this past week, the snow has returned, and the temperature has barely been passing five degrees for the high (Fahrenheit, may I remind you). And with the wind chill, it’s been a solid -20 for about five days straight now.

I bet 40 is sounding like a dream now!

Here’s a look at things today:


See that white stretch beyond the rail? That was a rapidly flowing river not too long ago. Now it’s one giant ice cube, as am I. Hopefully Elsa will leave us soon.*sigh*

Why I’m Here

For many reasons, the photography post I promised on Saturday will not make its way here until this upcoming weekend. Oops.

That’s what I get for waking up in Vegas making promises.

Right now, though, I’d like to talk about why I’m even here. I mean, that seems like a pretty important thing to figure out, but nonetheless, I’ve yet to do so. Hmmm… My priorities are most definitely not always straight.

So, why I’m here. Well, I guess the first thing to establish would be exactly what “here” even is. Ledandev? WordPress? On a blog? On the internet? On this tablet? At this table? In this library? At this college? In college in general? In this city? In this county? In this country? On this earth?


To be completely honest, I don’t actually know.

So “here,” I guess, is simply shaping up to be all of the above yet none of the above at all. “Why am I here?” is also, “Why am I not there?” as well as a mix of, “Why am I who I am? Why am I doing what I’m doing? Why do I want what I do? What do I want it for? Why am I even trying? Who really am I??


Existential crisis much?

Maybe. But also maybe not. You see, I know who I am and where I am (as well as why I am and why I’m here), but what I don’t know is if that will change. And what I also don’t know is if change is a good thing.

I mean, right now, I am Leah. I have brown hair and brown eyes and an insane amount of freckles. I’m kind of friggin tall for a girl, but that’s the only thing that stands out about me. I blend in seamlessly everywhere I go, and I am totally okay with that. I love it, actually. I hate getting attention I don’t need to have, and I thrive off of quiet time, off of writing. Speaking of which, writing is my life, my all, my everything. It feeds me, quenches my thirst, fills my veins.

*And you know I’m for real when the drop dead gorgeous man who was sitting in front of me as I began writing this (who I couldn’t help but stare at before) left the premises without me even noticing until now when I finally took a break from editing this.*

Side note over.

Every moment of my life thus far, both waking and not, I’ve been writing; it is me, and I am it. We are one, and because of that, we will spend every remaining moment of my life together. We will love together, laugh together, breathe together, sigh together, cry together, die together. Yes, till death do us part, I am married to writing. Born with a ring on my finger, I have always been and therefore must always be faithful to my one and only true love. Maybe that’s why I don’t date; I’ve yet to meet a man who could ever come close to equalling what writing is for me, to doing what writing does for me. Yes, there is no man I know on this earth right now who gives me as much excitement, as much of an emotional outlet, as much stability, as much love, and as much of a listening ear as does a sheet of paper. As of now, there is nothing no man can ever do for me that composing prose cannot.

Yes, right now, as I have always been, I am totally alone in my head and lost in my thoughts, and I am perfectly alright with that. That is simply who I am, and I love it. More than my life itself, I love the writing that I am able to do with it. And because of that love, I want to conquer all through words. No matter what comes of it, I want my many thoughts to finally be heard and maybe one day shape the world.

But what if that all changes? Sure, it’s been constant thus far, but what if?

I mean, I’m already starting to feel myself changing slowly (but surely) each and every day–and that’s what terrifies me. Yes, writing is still my one and only love in life, but I’m starting to think that I might not want it to always be that way. No, I might want more, to still be a writer but have other things, too.

Yes, now I might not want to spend the rest of forever alone in my head, doing nothing more than drifting through this world simply because I can’t pull myself out of the other, out of my other. For the first time in my life, I’m starting to crave a bit of reality. I want to start living on my own, becoming a fully independent human being. I want to move away from where I’ve grown up–to a whole other continent even. I want to dye my hair different colors of the rainbow just so I can somehow stand out from the crowd. I want to finally be the one who everyone on the street knows and says hi to each day. I’m even starting to once again, one day, want a man and a marriage and lots and lots and lots of children, but first I want to travel the world and go on adventures and live out all of my many dreams. Before I settle down, I want to roam and be known as the girl who travels all alone simply because she wants to see the beauty that is this world and its cultures and its people and its daily happenings. Suddenly, I want to be out there–I want to be different–and that’s what scares me.

But why am I changing, and why so suddenly? If I’ve been one way for the past 18 years, then how can I suddenly now want to wipe it all away, erasing who I was to try to start fresh? I loved me to death, so how can I now be abandoning that self by changing, by stepping out of my shell and seeking adventure instead of sitting by and observing it from afar in order to maybe write about it one day in the future? How can I be doing this? How is any of this even possible??

But I must remind myself: improbable, not impossible. My motto is that nothing in life is ever impossible. So change can, in fact, happen, Leah…

But am I even changing at all? What if I’ve always been this way and have just never noticed it? What if I’ve always had these emerging wants within me but have just never let them out–or have just never noticed that they were trying to come out? What if the me I lived before was actually the wrong one, the me to not be loved? What if this newness I feel is really who I am? What if the things that I’m discovering are what I’m actually supposed to be?

See, this is what scares me! Which part of the dichotomy do I choose: the old or the new? Or do I even pick? Maybe I simply embrace both and see what happens, see what grows from it. Is it possible to travel the world, write all the time, find a nice man, have a great job, stand out from the crowd, get married, have children, and live a genuinely good life all at the same time? It just seems so impossible! I want to live my dreams–all of my dreams–but can I? With who I am on the inside apparently changing, with new goals being tacked on to my bucket list seemingly every single day, can I really reach all of my goals? Or will I have to be like everyone else out there and pick and choose? Because I really don’t want to pick and choose! You see, I used to think that those people who aren’t living their dreams merely gave up on trying to get to where they wanted when the going got tough, but maybe they just became so overwhelmed and bogged down that they simply couldn’t handle it any longer, couldn’t keep up. Maybe they had to let go because they loved themselves too much to keep holding on. Maybe they didn’t give up but simply realized that not everything in life can be done.

Oh, but I don’t want that to be true! I don’t want to have to let go, to be forced to choose. I want everything that’s been living on in my head to one day come true, all of my dreams, both old and new. Is that really so bad? Is that really too much to ask?

Gosh, I think I might just be starting to grow up–something else I thought would never happen.

But, once again, I must remind myself: improbable, not impossible. Yes, Leah, nothing in life is impossible. Remember that.

Now…is it a good sign or a bad sign that, among all these changes, I’m still talking to myself?


Side Note Number Two: As I am finishing editing this on my iPad, a notification for a shopping app that I have has popped up on my screen. Instead of advertising a sale, it says, “Don’t quit your day dream.” I think this may just be some sort of divine sign.


blog sick

Do you ever have those days where you just wake up feeling…blah? Where you’re achy and sad and feel sick and can’t think and just want to sleep forever? Well, today is one of those days for me. I feel like one giant sigh, and I don’t know what to do about it.

I have things I need to get done, like homework and writing and blogging photography (for both myself and my sister) and getting ready for a trip that’s happening in the near future and walking my dog and putting letters in the mail, but I just can’t get off the couch to do any of it because I feel so…blah! I can’t even find a legitimate word that describes it! It’s just one of those days where being a living, breathing human being is going to suck, and that’s not okay right now!

So I’m here wondering what to do about it. How do I feel better? Tea? Music? A nap (even though I just woke up)? Tylenol? Chocolate? A visit from Taylor Swift?

Ooh, wouldn’t that be nice!

Well, I guess this low will pass, like everything else bad always does. I will drink some tea, cuddle with my dog, read some books, and push forward. I will feel better soon.

Optimism’s great, right? Right.

Expect a photography post within the next 48 hours; I would like to say tonight, but who knows if this blah-ness is actually an illness. So 48 hours is the new time span. Sigh…

Just lay me down

Just lay me down.

Yes, just let me down gently.

If you could, aim for the bed,

for that’s where I keep my pen

and journal.

Yes, I see it in your eyes:

You’re going to cut me apart.

So if you have any heart at all,

just do it over there

where the pillows will break my fall

and the ink can help repair–

or at least forget it all

and thus close the open wounds.

Yes, please, I beg of you

to say the words when I’m ready,

when I’m beside my only defense,

when I can let out feelings heavy

that I know will fill me when you’re gone.

Please, go on.

I don’t want you to hold back.

Please do as you wish.

I’ll be fine.

I promise.

For you’re not the first–

nor will you be the last–

to let me slip through your barely clutched grasp.

Yes, I’ve fallen before,

been let down hard,

been tossed and tattered,

bruised and scarred.

But if you just move back,

move me to the bed,

you won’t need fear hurting me again,

for the blankets and the sheets

and the pages, white and clean,

will serve a buffer,

keep me off the ground,

keep the bruising, well, quite down.

Yes, you’ll have no need to fear

and can promptly leave,

leave a wide-eyed, startled girl,

not a crime scene.

No, just to the bed with me,

and you won’t see me bleed

the red out on the pages–

how it ought to be.


I’ve been inspired by a friend to start putting some of my more creative pieces on here. So here’s the very first one, which just so happens to be a poem I composed in a flash of inspiration at 11 o’clock last night. Hopefully you don’t mind the little break from my rambling opinions.

Learning a New Language, Getting Insulted, and Thus Retaliating

I’m in the middle of writing a paper, but I got bored with it and therefore sidetracked myself for a second. And, as always happens in such cases, one distraction led to another until, well, I came across an indirect dis. And now I’m kind of insulted–like, to the point where I need to talk about it or else I won’t be able to finish my paper.

Yes, it’s actually bugging me that much (and probably not even rightfully so). But I ask you to just give me a moment to take up and disprove this dis nonetheless, for that’s the only way in which I can be cured.

I thank you in advance.

So, I’ve been trying to learn Korean for quite a few months now–mostly because I am selfish, bored, and just really want to travel there in the near future (even though that will probably never happen). The language is beautiful, and I love it–although I do find it to be a bit overwhelming at times. So in order to help me grasp it a bit easier (as well as pick up on some more lingo than what the free online lessons provide), I’m applying the advice of one of my Spanish teachers from years past, advice that she both lives by and would most definitely die for: Music is the easiest way to learn a new language.

She’s right, you know, but, as you also already know, that isn’t why I’m here.

You see, I distracted myself from my paper in order to continue my journey to fully comprehend Hangul (a.k.a. listen to some cool music and translate fun, deep, funny lyrics…and critically analyze the dynamic character change of John Milton’s Satan in Paradise Lost no longer).

And, as I’m sure you can imagine, I was truly enjoying my relishing in the break from the aforementioned monotony.

The band I was looking into at the time was one of my favorites: a rap/pop group called BTS. I tend to always use them for translation purposes because, not only are their songs amazingly catchy, but the lyrics are also actually pretty darn meaningful, too–especially for a bunch of 17 to 22 year old boys.

Well, I decided to translate their song “Killer” (or “Cypher Pt. 3: Killer” if you prefer the official name) this time around–which is one of my absolute favorites ever of theirs, by the way, despite the swearing (those naughty, naughty boys!).

And not too horribly long into the process, I realized that, in the song, they say this:

“Yeah, I’m from Korea, so all you ba****ds who try to rap in English,

Look and see who’s on top of you right now, what!”


Now, I don’t know if I’m just being overly sensitive, but I’m very offended by this–and you better believe I’m about to tell you why!

First, though, there’s one thing you need to know that I’ve discovered in my studying about this band. I’ve noticed that, naturally, these guys are all about telling their haters to stop hating because said haters are just jealous and therefore have no logical argument in which to ground their hate. They’re also all about telling haters how much they suck (talent-wise in comparison to the band’s skills) and therefore (again) have no right to judge (which is a horrid fallacy but whatever).

So hopefully you can see why a comment like the one that has offended me might end up in a BTS song in the first place. That’s what they focus on: being better than the rest (as well as wooing women, but that’s for a whole other post).

I’m totally alright with said calling out of haters who are in the wrong, though (notice the foreshadowing of what I’m about to do to them, muahaha). In general, it is simply necessary to do such a thing. That’s the only way people learn right from wrong, after all.

In BTS’ specific case, it doesn’t annoy me that they talk about how much they’ve given up in order to get to where they are in life–as compared to some of the other musicians out there who have basically been granted the same exact position by the wave of some rich, magical genie’s fairy princess wand (no name dropping here)–because they’ve truly earned such bragging rights. If they want to show off a bit, then so be it.

And, regarding the whole “sucking” thing, I’ve never felt insulted when a song I didn’t really like by them suddenly started telling me I have no right to dislike it because I don’t even know them/anything about music and therefore have no reason to be hating/have my hate taken seriously. I mean, they’re totally right, so how could I get mad?

But the above lyrics are different than what I’ve just described, and that’s what’s getting to me. I think it’s because the dis is no longer only about facing rude or undeserving people; this one’s regarding a whole culture–and one of which I am a member! It’s personal, and it’s flawed (on many levels). I mean, calling out English? Of all the languages, English? And of all the people to do so, South Korean pop rappers?


Yeah, as a native speaker and writer of English who knows enough about both her own culture and Korean culture at this point in her life to very safely conclude that English is vital to both in many, many ways, shapes, and forms (especially the whole rapping part), I think I’m free to be offended by the above. And I think I’m also free to call BTS out on their horribly grounded statement.

First, though, to address the whole interpretation aspect (that I’m sure you’re thinking of) that I’ve been purposely neglecting.

Yes, I know the lyrics I’m considering can be taken in many different ways depending on the individual–and who knows which of those meanings they were even actually supposed to have–but–and I’m just saying this as a fellow writer–whenever things are going to be left open for interpretation, you should probably try to make sure you cover all possible interpretations before sending it out for the enjoyment of the world. If you don’t, then it’s your fault if your words are mistaken and therefore cause a ruckus (as BTS’ are sort of doing now).

I mean, that’s kind of the whole point of considering the different could-be interpretations in the first place: to catch any possibly bad ones and somehow negate them within the work before it’s published and thus too late to change. You know, averting the crisis and such.

So, with that being said, BTS could have definitely clarified the true meaning of those lines in some way within the song. If they had done so, I wouldn’t be here right now getting ready to rip them a new one. But they didn’t…

So, with that being said, here’s what I took the lyrics for:

“So what if I’m Korean? I put all of my time and effort into what I do, and I’m actually talented. Why does it matter if I’m not English? All those other English rappers are simply given everything they could ever need to be successful in what they do. They’re just privileged and don’t even work hard or have true talent, and so they suck. But us? Well, we’re just some Korean kids, and look how famous we are! We own you, practically! What!”

The other two interpretations I can think of are:

1. Stupid k-pop stars who try to rap in English just so you can be perceived as cool, talented rappers! Just because no one understands what you say (and also just because you say it quickly), it doesn’t instantly make you a “rapper” like us. You think you’re number one, but just take a look at us! What!

2. English rap is dumb. The Korean language is so much better. What!

I don’t know, man!

Like I said before, I can’t get into their minds to know which one they truly meant, so all I can go off of is what I read it to be. And that reading is precisely why I’m sitting here writing this, desperately trying to convince myself that no harm was meant by the contriving of these lyrics.

But I still can’t help feel that my culture has been attacked, and I don’t like it. I mean, why do you even have to bring English into this, BTS? What did we ever do to you?

Gosh, I’m just really ticked by this, even though I know I probably shouldn’t be.

Well, sorry if I’m wrong, but I’m still going to rebut their claim anyway. Oops. Here’s all I have left to say:

1. There are better insults out there than curses. To me, you’re showing a lack of intellect with that word choice and therefore have already discredited your point. After all, why believe someone who is too stupid to not swear?

2. I write songs and poetry and raps (yeah, don’t laugh, thanks) in my spare time, and I must say that, from an English-speaking perspective, the language is quite beautiful in any form. Rap in English can be extremely meaningful and is actually more difficult to write than Korean, for we don’t have the blessing of every sentence needing to end in verbs/adjectives–that all sound exactly the same, might I add. So you should appreciate English rap, fools!

3. You don’t speak English yet rap in the language all the time

*cough* hypocrite *cough*

4. Okay, so you do speak English, but you speak it about as well as I speak Korean: horribly. Seriously, your English sucks.  So how can you judge anyone’s English rapping?

Is that taste of your own medicine hard to swallow? It should be, cause that’s one bitter pill.

Side Note- Hire me, Big Hit Entertainment: I will teach you the English way (and also improve the English correspondences that you so desperately try to make but always fail so hard at because your English simply makes no sense).

5. You are neither figuratively nor literally on top of me right now. Figuratively, you have only slightly more fame than I do among English speakers, and, literally, my computer is what is on top of me right now. So, again, argument invalid.

6. Blanket statements are seldom right.

And the lyricist of the group was apparently one of the smartest students in Korea! Yeah, I say as I scoff.

Jokingly, of course–but a scoff nonetheless.

With all my anger finally out, I’m legitimately hoping and praying that they were only referring to fellow Korean rappers who are skating through the industry solely due to their excessive use of English. But even if they weren’t, I love them too much to let a puny cultural insult destroy what I feel.

So, no hard feelings, BTS? Because I do love your music. Seriously, I’m not trying to hate. It’s just that, when I feel like something’s gone wrong, I need to point it out. And the above lyrics could possibly be very, very wrong. So I pointed them out…


Now, I doubt you’ll ever see this, BTS, but if you do, just please don’t be offended and write lyrics about how unworthy I am, about how I need to “back up and look in the mirror” (quoth I from “Killer). I’m only doing this because I care about you and don’t want this to happen again, for your sake.

…Which will be easy if you simply avoid making an argument composed solely of insults, for insults are no more than opinions, and opinions are impossible to defend. Go ahead and talk smack (or talk yourself up), just do it with facts.

Or else risk facing myself scathingly picking apart your arguments once again.

Sorry, she said with a sarcastic shrug.

Why I Won’t Be Watching the Super Bowl

The Super Bowl is now, somehow, a global event. Everyone I know–even those who despise football–are getting together tonight no matter where they are in the world in order to devour food and view a very slow game involving guys wearing extremely tight pants grabbing each other in various places that would be highly inappropriate otherwise as well as see a few dozen well-thought-out and mostly highly objectifying advertisements that probably cost more money to make (combined) than Beyonce is worth. Oh, and there’s Katy Perry.

But all of the above is exactly why I’m not going to be watching the big game.

I know that there’s this stereotype of every American tuning in to see their country’s “most famous sport” on its “most famous day.” There’s also the stereotype of “just having to see all the ads.” Apparently, if you’re American and don’t watch the Super Bowl, whether for the sport or the commercials, you really aren’t an American at all–or so they say.

And for my entire life, I’ve bought that.

This year, however, I’m done. Now, I could sit here trying to explain in beautiful prose all the reasons why, but that would, plain and simple, take too long. So, instead, I’m providing an extremely concise list that will hopefully make my viewpoint a bit clearer. Don’t take my terseness for bitterness or anger or hatred, though. The list is merely for convenience. I don’t hate the global enterprise and money-making machine the Super Bowl has turned into, and I definitely don’t condone those who will be watching tonight; I’m a journalism and economics major, after all. Our freedoms of speech, choice, and entrepreneurship are literally my most favorite things in this country (other than Disney), so I could never (and would never) say that the event needs to stop. I simply am, personally, very tired of buying into the fad that involves choices I don’t necessarily agree with. Therefore, I will not partake in it this year, and I simply feel the need to explain why.

Because that’s just what sensitive, romantic writers do: We share our feelings.


So now that the disclaimer’s done, I will begin:

  • To address the stereotype I mentioned earlier: Football is not America’s most famous sport, and the Super Bowl is not the most famous sporting event. To find those, one only needs to say “baseball.”
  • And to address the actual sport: Football consists of “11 minutes of action.”

  • I’m a hockey person.

Too much? Too bad.

  • Why watch something that I don’t like/that puts me to sleep?
  • I’m kind of tired of super awkward moments with my parents, like:

Yeah, I get it, Don Drapers of the country: There’s a huge male demographic during this event, and men like women. But guess what? Lots of women watch this game, too–and they watch it with their men. And there are also these things called “children” who watch, as well.

Which makes all of the above awkward, not hilarious.

  • College life requires me to write lots of papers in little amounts of time.
  • I don’t really want to have another conversation with guys at school regarding my “lack of knowledge” with sports, my most favorite commercial (because, obviously, that’s the only thing I payed attention to), and how much I must have loved the halftime show (since, why else would I watch?), and not watching at all is the perfect way to avoid it.
  • I wake up at 6:30 a.m. every single week day (except Tuesdays when I get up at half-past five) and therefore cannot physically stay up to watch the whole thing, so why even watch at all?
  • As much as I love capitalism, I hate lots of the horribly-run-with-terrible-morals big businesses out there right now, and so I refuse to give them any of my time and attention.
  • I also really want the aforementioned businesses’ $4.5 million for 30 seconds to backfire, for, apparently, an ad not paying off is what it takes to prove that money could be better spent (you know, on things like world hunger and American homelessness and environmental sustainability).
  • And I also refuse to watch because food companies apparently don’t have enough dough to change their manufacturing ways and stop giving people cancers yet can still blow 4.5 million on 30 seconds of air time.

Because so many viewers are going to buy your product just because they saw it during the Super Bowl!

Just saying, if people get cancer and die from your product, your advertising money’s gone to waste, anyway. CAUSE NO ONE’S LEFT TO BUY YOUR PRODUCT.

  • Because, from my experience with hockey, NBC just ticks me off

Turco gets it.

  • My room hasn’t been cleaned in two weeks, it’s really showing, and I should probably take care of that.
  • I can’t handle anything sad involving animals.

Especially labs, for that’s the kind of dog I have.


Yes, that’s my baby girl, Daisy. ❤

  • I’ve been putting off my next Korean lesson for a few days now, which is never good.
  • Frankly, I’d just rather be writing. Or reading. Or drawing. Or sleeping. Or studying. Or dancing around my bedroom to Ed Sheeran. Or sticking the bobby pins next to me on my dresser in my eyes.
  • From my childhood (a.k.a. before I developed my distaste for football), I cannot stand Tom Brady.
  • I’m a hockey person.

Just thought I’d reiterate.

So, tonight, while you are most likely relaxing on your couch with a beer and some chips and Katy Perry, I will be blogging and writing a paper for this semester’s English class and cleaning my room–and not partaking in the Super Bowl.

But kudos to the rest of you for actually being able to tolerate it!