Who says seniors are all carefree?

For the month of April, I was in a state of pulling hair out of my head (figuratively), ever since I completed applications in December. I slept on the brink of nervousness. I met tens of students on my visits to colleges and sporadically texted these students who were wondering where I was going for college. They texted me back with nothing definitive. I would ask students questions hoping that one of them would create a moment when I would finally make up my mind and decide that college X was superior. But I couldn't. Every college had a mascot, a person who wanted me to go to college Y over college X. People's expectations clouded my judgment. Do I accept the invitation to dinner from a student from college X or start afresh at college Y's swarms of groups? It almost became a battle of who I wanted to let down the least.

Whenever I had thought of the merits of college X, the devil's advocate part of me would rear its horns and gash that argument apart. I wanted the people of college X, but I preferred the academics of college Y. I wanted apples and oranges, but no tree would produce both. I began wishing I hadn't messaged students on Facebook asking whether or not I should go to college Y over college X. Their responses were always thorough and correct, but never biased. I wished they would go on a ten page rant furiously typing "go to college X! College Y sucks!" But it would never happen. The polite, academic part of them surfaced. The students always vouched for their college, whether in tones of rigidity or praise which I could not discern if they were exaggerated.

So now, after a part of the month trying to get off my wait-lists, dozens of exchanges wondering whether or not I should go to college X, Y, or Z, I realize that I should not have been so frantically reaching out to people I had to disappoint and never see again. After years of wearing myself out in panic whether over relationships or grades or college, I realize the truth of the saying that "less is more." I should not have tried so hard, rather I should have been more chill in setting my goals.

Under the Sea

About a week ago, a fish bone (despite my spirited efforts, a precise word for the prickly needle-thin bones of a fish escape me) became lodged in my dad's throat. After roughly ten minutes of Googling "fish bone stuck in throat" and considering solutions ranging from going to the emergency room to household remedies, my dad just swallowed some bread. The uncomfortable sensation immediately subsided. I was glad that I had declined the offer of boiled fish. The point (<-play on words) of this story isn't that the inconvenience of Google or the oddity that I couldn't find an English word for "prickly needle-thin fish bone" (in fact, maybe I could name it the fishy bone). The point is that I have never really liked eating fish.

Something about fish just smells "fishy" to me. Whenever I eat a fish I catch, I have always wondered whether or not I am actually eating the worm I used to catch the fish. Looking at a fish flopping around staring at me with transfixed and unblinking eyes and oozing with slime invokes some pity. Consider the show Spongebob Squarepants — even though everything ostensibly takes place under the sea, the protagonists are a sponge (Spongebob) and a starfish (Patrick). The fish are stereotyped as generic and one-dimensional (literally, since they are flat) characters.

It's not surprising that only one fish sandwich exists on a McDonald's menu or that Kentucky Fried Fish is an unmarketable concept. Have you ever tried anchovies, a stereotypically unforgivable topping, on pizza? The delight in eating fish seems to revolve around the challenges in eating the fish in the first place. It's like a sport: after catching the fish and maneuvering around the infinite bones, they're finally exposed for their meat.

IMAX Maxes Out

Ever get spinned on one of those twirling playground rides and then stumble off? That resembles how I felt when I recently watched a 3-D film. At the Indiana State Musuem, a shark seemingly a foot away on the ten story IMAX screen was visually interesting, but wasn't worth the unnatural sensation. Whenever the camera panned over the dinosaurs or sharks swimming, the 3-D animation abruptly cut off at the edge of the screen. Although I probably wouldn't have enjoyed a normal film about sharks and dinosaurs anyways, my favorite part about going to the Indiana State Museum would probably be the gift shop rather than the 3-D film. I have a sweet tooth for cotton candy and an attraction towards geodes and souvenirs. My lack of good taste in enjoying art is similar to Count Pococurante's in Candide.

"3-D," which could be used as an emoticon depiction of a sideways smile, is a term that confuses me. When I visualize 1-D, I think of a dot. When I viualize 2-D, I recall Super Mario Bros on the Gameboy Advance. When I visualize 3-D, I picture a typical film like Harry Potter. Therefore, I consider "3-D" movies to be just typical movies with more (and in my opinion, unnecessary) depth; I prefer watching regular movies unless the 3-D movie doesn't come with cumersome glasses, offers really special effects (in one showing, I got sprayed with water), or requires 3-D in the plot. Since Toshiba recently released its glassless (is that a word?) 3-D television, I hope that IMAX and other theatres follow suit. I would rather trade my 3-D experience for reclining seats and an intermission.

Yesterday marked an important day in 3-D technology: the release of the Nintendo 3DS. Although the console sounds very interesting, I'm concerned that the sales will turn into a flop, as they did with the PS3, because the high-end features came at an impractical cost-economy. I'm not much of a gamer, but I think that a 3DS is long overdue. When I was eight, I thought there'd be holographic visuals in a decade, but I was woefully disappointed; nevertheless, I'm settling for "3-D." I'd rather not be able to feel Mario landing a wrestling move on top of me.

Say cheese!

"Say cheese!" the photographer directs. I love all types of cheese — cottage cheese, provolone, especially pepper jack cheese, but I can't get myself to smile naturally. It's similar with "say money!" Money doesn't get me to smile because I mentally picture a stack of dull dollar bills that would soil my hygiene, but a brand new Jaguar just might; of course, such big gifts would counter-intuitively shock me into apathy. Thus, for maximum effect on my smile, a photographer would ideally buy me some Red Bull before the photo shoot. As of yet, my smiles either make my pictures depict me as Garfield about to do exercise or a politician before having to meet with a swarm of reporters, i.e. serious or forced. When I'm serious, I think I'm smiling. I force myself to think "happy" thoughts — the clear, blue sky around me, the people playing, the warm temperature. But that just makes me sad.

I begin to ask myself, "Why do I have to force myself to think about happy thoughts to make myself happy? What's wrong with me?" What usually happens regardless is that I ask myself more questions: "Why can't I get back to reality and deal with my sore legs from standing in this position? Why must I capture this fake moment to supplant my reality?" Finally, as I decide I might as well force a smile, I attempt to move my entire face into an a paragon of exuberance and youthful energy effervescing with inordinate happiness, only to realize that the only part I can move effectively is my mouth into a creased crescent; my eyes and my cheeks don't budge because I'm not actually happy. This gives me a resentful look, giving off the "Why are you making me do this?" air. This is ironic; I smile naturally when I'm not thinking about smiling, but when I'm about to get my photo taken, I lapse into nonchalance or worse — frowning.

Even after I get this far into the photo shoot, judging the depth to which I should smile requires some foresight. If my smile resembles a semi-circle, I wouldn't do too badly as an actor in a horror film. If my smile resembles a conservative grin, you may think I'm about to find a punching bag. Finding middle ground is tricky and may sometimes require a reflection of myself. Even then, my naturally forced (pun on words) smile only shows my rather conspicuous upper row of teeth. For an ideal smile, I move my lower lips down to balance the display of my upper row of teeth with my lower row of teeth. I guess the ability to display a perfect smile is all in the mood. Forcing the technique is too difficult. I just have to be more happy and less cynical for natural pictures. There are no shortcuts in life after all.

Discourse on Vending Machines

My joints feel weak - more like rubber than bone as I finish my latest P.E. session and walk to Uni. As I slowly make my way to the vending machine (the one with food), I take out a wrinkled dollar bill and insert it; the vending machine is unresponsive. There's not even a blinking red light to tell me I'm doing something wrong or a taped note; the vending machine is giving me the silent treatment. I repeat the process six times, and in frustration, I take out a different dollar bill. I'm late to class, but unfortunately, a rebellious vending machine is no excuse.

The irony is that the campus invested money to install credit card readers on vending machines when the dollar bill mechanism doesn't even work. Unless Uni students "borrow" their parents' credit cards, those credit card readers have seen less action than students at Uni dances (so I'm told). I appreciate the credit card readers for their conveniency, especially since I unwittingly take currency out of the economy whenever I lose the 15 cents the vending machine gives back to me. However, there are simpler problems to solve: the vending machines aren't evenly distributed at Uni.

There are three vending machines with beverages and only one vending machine that sells food, and the food vendine machine stopped accepting dollar bills. I visit the food vending machine about twice as much as the beverage vending machines, especially because water (from water fountains at least) is free and (in my opinion) preferable to soda and vitamin water. And who doesn't like getting two sausage sticks for the price of one (the second sausage stick sometimes slips past its holder)? It's not luck; it's skill.

Technological Review

Before going to the Mac Labs at Uni, I never understood the point of buying a Mac. It took me a few weeks to get used to the apple button on the keyboards, let alone the program icons that need to be clicked down for a few seconds and don't close completely. Before you write me off as an ignorant Windows user, I do commend Apple's hyphen shortcut (option-apple key-dash), since I prefer hyphens to semi-colons, colons, and commas in my essay writing. But even in the old days when I would watch second graders (yes, I was one of them) obsessively play Bugdom, I couldn't understand an apple shaped machine anywhere other than in grade schools. I honestly don't see the Mac as being that much more different than a PC to warrent a higher price tag.

I have nothing against Apple, especially since Apple needs to exist in order to prevent the government from filing an anti-trust suit against Microsoft. The iPod Touch was a winner though and surprisingly the best e-reader in my opinion.

On a side note, I was pretty excited to get a Kindle for Christmas, but you know how people pine for something - especially something shiny and blinking - really, really badly and then end up with failed expectations? Well, this was one of them. When I turned it on, the buttons felt more primitive than mashing buttons on a remote or withdrawing cash from an ATM machine. Its screen was monochromic; I can't forgive monochrome screens in the year 2011.

Amazon can't fool me. Although I'm all for environmental sustainability, its screen doesn't need to have the texture of the recyclable cardboard box it came in. But wait, there's more. The books I browsed cost nearly as much as the actual book; nobody I know actually buys e-books *cough* torrent *cough.* I've given up converting and downloading books in the Kindle format (Amazon should at least make the Kindle PDF compatible), especially when I can read them with about twice the area and half the time on my laptop. Its most interesting feature was probably the black and white sketches that appear when I turn the Kindle off. I'll wait and see what Google comes up with.

An appetizer worthy of the name

Red Lobster may have the perfect biscuit, but El Toro has the perfect cheese sauce -- the philosopher's stone among dips. I'm nauseated by the clumpy texture of guacomole, and shun the cold, messy taste of tomato sauce. Cheese sauce should be a staple of Mexican food. El Toro has finally introduced a warm appetizer that actually appetizes, instead of forcing me to casually (or pretend to) down cold salsa over a stimulating conversation. It should be a sin to have nachos and only can-grade salsa, especially if the nachos happen to be tortilla chips gone sour. Don't get me wrong. I would do the same thing if I owned a restaurant.

Not only did the cheese sauce taste like real cheese, but the consistency was nearly perfect. Nothing like the clumps of microwaved Kraft singles I make my cheese sandwiches with. El Toro's low viscosity cheese sauce did drip on my napkins, but clumpy cheese sauce is truly gross. I can handle tap water instead of Fiji springs, but moldy cheese sauce from glass jars is just downright nasty. At least El Toro doesn't skimp on making actual cheese sauce. I gave my compliments to the waitress, who noted the care given to the cheese sauce, the balance between monterrey and a blend of minced jalepenos. Her delineation deserved an extra dollar in tips.

My satisfaction with El Toro's newly introduced cheese sauce could only be dulled by founding out later into the night that the Jets won against the Patriots. I went through denial first, then brooding: maybe the Jets roofied Bellichick or Brady caught deadly dandruff from his golden locks. I mean their record was 14-2...come on. Sure, some people are pissed at Tom Brady's "arrogance" for pointing at the Jets lineup after a touchdown, but I would have shoved the football in Sanchez's face. No team should toss around a second-tier team like the Jets and establish a record that shames the Lakers, only to suffer elimination from the playoffs. Twice in a row.