Every day, I take the BART to the Powell station where street musicians are setting up shop. Usually it’s too early in the morning for them to play, because the Westfield mall isn’t open yet. However, when I finish work around 5:30, I walk in to be welcomed by musicians of all sorts. A guitarist. A man crooning, echoing in the halls of the BART. A Chinese pianist. Today, it was a Mexican samba. I never really do stop though. Yet every single time, I smile to myself. There are a few reasons why I have stopped listening to my ipod on my commute. I hate missing the sounds around me.

And yet.

The beauty of music is found in the station of the Metro in DC. Do people stop to listen the great beauty or move on? The follow-up.

It is intriguing to me. Being human, one of the worst feelings to endure is to be ignored. To be forgotten. I often choose to continue in my journey, somewhat drenched in guilt, because I have been taught never to pull out cash for a casual purpose. And yet, I would gladly pay for a prime seat in a concert hall to listen to music and yet not for the musician standing only 10 feet from me. I don’t stop because by stopping, I feel obligated to flatter them with money. But that isn’t the purpose right? And I walk away, almost as if to escape the obligation, wrenched with guilt knowing that on my ipod too, it’s really not…bought music anyway…

So what is it? Recently, there have been many movies on the feeling of being ignored, being forgotten. That if you stand in the middle of a crowd unmoving, you might not be noticed. I always found that idea to be odd, because I believe I do notice. I like to stand in the BART station as people walk by me, eavesdropping on their threads of conversation. And as they leave, my imagination creates the stories of who they are and where they are going. It’s the couple going to their kids, unhappy with their state of marriage. It’s the two Chinese friends, exhausted from work, sharing their stories of raising kids. It’s the guy who found a great deal at the mall, telling someone on the phone about it—sounding like it was someone who wasn’t listening but he didn’t notice.

But to be forgotten or to be remembered as insignificant perhaps is the worst feeling of all.

Despite not typically going to fast food restaurants, I must try out the secret menu items! Particularly, the secret menu at Jamba Juice involving such flavors as White Gummy Bear and Skittles!

It’s like an unhealthy dream come true!

So when it rains, I thought the temperature is supposed to become warmer. You know, because water absorbs the cold and releases some of the heat.

But it’s not. It’s cold. And even though I have complained to my landlord when I first moved in, there’s still a draft that comes in through my bedroom window.

There’s no more trying to meet people at a bar or parties. No more randomly finding a great restaurant. Less phone calls and random appearances at the door.

Are we so connected? We share photos and video so easily. At what point, is it information overload? And when is it appropriate to upload an hourlong cellphone video—citizen journalism? When are we supposed to leave it to professionals? Video and photos is like being there, but not. And that’s almost how we are with our friends’ lives…almost.

I asked him while I was writing my entry on Saturday, “Why don’t you read my blog? Is it because you want to respect my privacy? Or is it because you really aren’t interested in what I say…that I can keep talking and talking about something that really doesn’t matter?”

He laughed. Whenever he spends time on my computer, he goes through all his blogs, mainly blogs about celebrity gossip, tech stuff, sports, tv stuff, movies—techcrunch, the superficial…

We both know that like many of the male species, he doesn’t really hear everything single thing I say. “Really though, it’s the former,” he replied.

So when people seem to steer away from me, I think I finally figured out why. As I was walking down Valencia with a friend, I spoke about why I thought I never really was hit on despite being in a predominantly male field.

He stopped and said, “You’re someone who just gives TMI.”

And I tilted my head to agree, “Yes, I am super-TMI!!!”

I am a pansy. I really am. Like Robert Cialdini in his book Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion, I fall for those sales techniques all the time. Out of guilt, perhaps. Shame? A moralistic obligation? But I fall. And somehow I’ll walk out of somewhere with something I did not want to have.

One prime example was several years ago when I was a car dealership. Unlike my parents, I am not immune to pushiness. And after less than 30 minutes of bantering, somehow we got an alarm system on a brand new Toyota Corolla. An alarm system that later nobody knew how to use (except for me, because out of guilt, I learned all the intricate complexities but was in Pittsburgh by then).

And only recently did I walk into a gym thinking that I had a won a free membership in a drawing I had randomly entered. As I sat down with a membership consultant, I got a sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to get my free membership as I filled out a special safety release form. In the form, there was a checkbox for how I heard of the gym. I reluctantly checked the box “contest”.

At first, he was able to establish the common feelings quite quickly when we found out that both of us grew up in the East Bay and went to local rival high schools. At first, I felt guilty that I was saying no when he offered to give me a deal because we had this commonality. Then I remembered that hey, he wasn’t my friend. Then he went the routes of what my needs were—in my mind, yes I did want to be in a fun, energetic, nonjudgemental environment—it wasn’t true. I tried to find an escape route. But I couldn’t force myself to just walk out. I told him that he was being too pushy. And here’s my pansiness, I finally paid the trial fee just to get out, knowing that I could cancel.

A few days later, I did. I walked into the gym and asked for a cancellation. Didn’t even feel like trying out the gym, because I had felt so used. It was simple, no questions asked. They however told me to call the original gym where I signed up to inform them of my cancellation. I did and left a message on the membership’s consultant message. Immediately, the consultant called me back as I was pacing back and forth in the BART station and asked why I canceled. I simply said that I was dissatisfied with the sales and felt uncomfortable in the gym as a result.

Next time, I’ll tell myself just say no. Because really, I shouldn’t be a pansy.

Never thought that a music video could have so much good ui. Note though, I didn’t have my sound on when a friend sent me this so no comment on the music. But it reminded me of that time when I was taking human factors where overloaded documentation is so necessary.

I mean, you don’t want to be caught drinking pink watermelon ball shots when it was commercial detergent all along…

As I was walking with a friend to dinner, I asked him how he and his girlfriend were doing—their long distance relationship with him here in the Bay Area and she in NYC at school. It was more than a year since the whole long distance started.

“It’s hard you know,” he said casually. “But I just can never find anybody else I like more than her and I don’t think I really could.”

And suddenly, it all made sense.

It’s such a movie thing. The moment when a couple breaks up in the public environment of a restaurant. Food is often used to lower the stress and the anxiety. We all need to eat and eating together is one of those places where we lower our inhibitions. In some way, it’s an area where we feel free to talk. Almost frankly.

Yet, is it a place to break up? It is somewhat a romantic notion. The idea of throwing red wine up in the air and stomping out. Or the sudden shrill cry of despair (or anger?).

Like many people, I can’t help but watch a car crash.