Reliability is one trait I value about myself. My sister too.

But what is flaking? Why does it happen? Why would someone flake in face of a great possibility? Is it because of discomfort? Is it because of distaste?

Most of the time, I can sense it. I can smell it. It’s as if I dip my hand into a deep barrel of muck, I can tell you whether flaking will occur.

So why do I even go ahead to buy tickets—to spend my own money—almost betting that the person I buy it for will show up.

It’s a cost-value analysis. If there’s not enough benefits and the barrier of entry is too high, it’s a no go. But this analysis often doesn’t happen until the end. But perhaps for some, no decision is ever set in stone. Everything can be changed.

Never for me. The idea of me changing my mind is not something that is natural to me when I have already made a final decision. Even if I will dislike the event and know that I won’t enjoy it, I will go even if it’s to satisfy my own principles. But then, all events have potential for something greater. I can’t get anywhere if I stay home and sleep more.

Several years ago, I took a bus across turn at an insane hour of 8 am. When I arrived at the restaurant, I felt it in the air. My friend wasn’t going to show up. “Table for one,” I said after the fifteen minute waiting period. And by myself, I enjoyed a breakfast on my own.

So tell me, why don’t people just tell me the truth? Why are they too cowardly to say, “hey i really don’t like spending time with you”? Why can’t they tell me upfront that they really aren’t that interested? Sure things do come up, but what reason is laziness?

At least in my planning ways, I typically have plan b and plan c in works. Or at least would anybody want to go to a Giants Game (vs. Dodgers) on April 6th? Just one ticket. ONE. It’s opening week.

Two months ago, I experienced Phil Collin’s piece titled New Work at the SFMOMA.

I had been wandering among the other installations in the area, but heard a familiar melody. The melody that brought back memories of Pittsburgh when I was enamored with 80s night at the Upstage and mixed feelings about the entire experience in that midwest town.

In a small room away from the installations, a projector lit the opposite wall with moving images of people singing along with Morrissey. They were Turkish but now more than 2 decades later, they are lost with the lyrics. The world won’t listen, they say.

Apparently, all kinds of people ride the BART. The crazy ones, the musicians, the loverbirds, the lawyers, the designers…today I saw a man in a full black business suit with a segway.

He was hugging the segway with one arm and in the other, he was frantically writing a message on his smart phone. Somehow, you couldn’t help but stare. At every stop, he would push the segway out so that people could walk out. He seemed reluctant to let people walk around it. Then he would walk back in. During the whole ride, he kept his head down writing the message as if he didn’t want to notice the stares.

The stares of why would he ride the BART if he had a segway. And if he could afford one, why didn’t he take a taxi instead? And why…why…a segway? Although my first thought was how heavy is the segway, did he use the elevator or the stairs to get it down?

He got off at the same station as me and headed toward the back while I scrambled up the closest staircase to me. Lost in the moving flow of people with my $45 Fast Pass, I stood on the escalator slowing moving into the cool night in the San Francisco Mission.

More than a week ago on the way to my parents’ house, I saw someone I recognized. He had gotten onto the same car as me somewhere in the financial district. I was in the back of the car, stuffing myself in the corner with three huge bags – not able to move with all the people around me.

He was someone I used to know my second year of college—I met him through my roommate. At the time, I thought we had connected on many levels. The night that we watched Memento together. And when I first experienced Disney DDR which regardless of it being made for kids…was still so difficult. There was the studying for data structures. But fast forward 8 months later, we completely lost touch with each other – him making it into computer science and me deciding to go with cognitive science. He was the one who introduced me to Jimmy Eat World – my favorite band for a few years.

In September when I went to my first (real) football game at Cal, I was startled to see him high up in the bleachers. The same look of easy happiness. I had intended to go up and say hi after almost 4 years of no communication. But by the time the game was over, I was cold and he was no longer there.

And a week ago, I saw him enter the train and took a standing position near the door. At first, I stared at him trying to figure out if it was him. The dishelved clothing – almost like sweats. Messy hair. And headphones. With my three bags and stuck in a crowd during rush hour, I couldn’t get up. I stared at him. At some point, he did return my gaze but his facial expression didn’t change. Disinterest? Lack of recognition? Or just the fact that no matter where I go in the Bay Area, eventually I’ll run into someone I know—or someone I used to know.

I am not sure what to say when my mom calls me and says that she just talked with an agent for the health insurance I was considering. But more so, the fact that my mom tells me the agent told her that I was on their system last night at 11 pm.

Specifically in my mom’s words, “they know everything.”

What happened to my privacy? Although I really don’t have that much to hide from my mom, but the potential for my information to be leaked out is just…so unpleasant. The website is nice though–obviously pitched toward people my age. I am buying the calculated risk-taker plan.

My mom was enamored with this health insurance because they constantly advertised it on Chinese TV.

But at what point is information really not private? When do I want to tell someone my neighborhood vs. the closest intersection vs. the specific address? Today at a networking event, someone asked me where I lived when I said I lived in the Mission. Somewhat wary of the question, I said that I lived off of Valencia rather than providing the intersection. Yet later, I realized I would have gladly given out my business card (if I had one)—information that included full name, phone number, email address and possibly home address. So why am I so willing to give out that information (it’s all posted on my portfolio) when I am unwilling to discuss it openly in conversation?

Regardless, it’s nice to run into someone who I had talked with email and phone for awhile. It’s always the moment of It’s great to finally meet you!

In three words from a number I did not immediately recognize, it said, “looking dangerously underabsorbful.”

Tell me, what does that mean?

I’ll probably never finish this burger. Like I never did for this.

Yesterday, I left my wallet in my parents’ car as I was dropped off at the BART station. As a result, I had to come up with all the loose change and bills in my bag to get a BART ticket. And convince myself to only spend 39 cents on cilantro rather than splurging on tomatoes.

Because in reality, I had less than $20 in my apartment and would be unable to get my wallet until Thursday. And fortunately my slight disorganization of money (with my bills and coins in stashed in different bags) and the recent Chinese New Year (many red envelopes with floating cash). I survived more than 24 hours without a source of money.

Too bad most places don’t accept checks anymore.

I came across this card table in a side street. There were kids selling lemonade for 50 cents. I promptly bought one with part of my bus money. Then I looked at the items they had for sale on the table. There was an interesting piece–a cork shoved underneath a cupcake tin. Inside the tin were small plastic bits of all different colors. The cork and the cupcake tin were wrapped in clear tape. When I shook it, there was noise.

“It’s a rattle,” the kid said as I fingered it. “10 cents.”

I found a dime in my wallet and gave it to their mother who said, “Isn’t it such a steal?”

I would be a parking enforcement officer. Even if this could be scary. And there are no benefits. Except to “safely” satisfy a slight sadistic nature. After all, I do want to help the cities bring in revenue.