A middle-aged gentleman followed me from the BART station to work today. He walked several steps behind me, saying a few words like “bellesimo” and coughing here and then. I considered what normal people would do. They would go in the closest store and tell the man off. But I didn’t really.

I remember during my sophomore year in college, my roommate freaked out when someone followed her home. I brazenly went downstairs and told him to go away. Then I called the police, because my roommate was upset.

But people know me. I am not good at sensing when I am in a dangerous situation like that. And besides, it was sunny in the Mission. Couples and hipsters walked past me without noticing something amiss. Just two people who seemed to be coincidentially on the same path taking a walk. At the corner of 20th, I stopped at a mailbox to mail an envelope. He stopped. “Are you following me?” I asked a bit accusingly.

He grunted.

I rolled my eyes as I turned away, continuing on my hike up a San Francisco hill. Finally, it dawned on me how it really could be dangerous. Perhaps, he wanted to know where I lived (maybe my belief that I wasn’t going home decreased my paranonia). But would he have a sick side? Then I thought about how I could walk all around San Francisco, walking and walking, having him follow. What if I could wear him down, a game? Or what if I sprinted? But then, my common sense came back as I saw a police car parked at the corner of an upcoming street.

I turned around suddenly and said, “You can stop following me.” I gestured toward the pair of cops sitting in their car.

There are very few places where you feel good after being rejected.

On the BART, someone choosing another seat rather than next to you is one. In the last few weeks during my commute, I have watched people who choose to sit next to me. I typically dress conservatively with an occasional fashion trend. Most of the time, I am leaning against the window with my ipod, sunglasses on, staring out the window.

It’s always the conservative business people that sit next to me. Or the people around my age, in their twenties. But if it’s the last seat available in the car, it’s whoever can get to my seat first. But respect my personal space is the most important factor.

However, last Friday, a guy sat next to me and promptly fell asleep. He slipped over that border–the one separating two seats. Personally, I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. Although he smelled like he was covered in cheap lotion (or hand wash), I inched closer to the window. I admit I don’t like coming into contact with people I don’t know. By the time I reached my stop, he still didn’t get up. I said excuse me with varying levels of volume to no success. And probably to the derision to the people around me, I rudely climbed over him to get off before the doors closed. The guy suddenly woke up and stumbled out of the train, realizing where he was. Seat buffer.

Dear seat partners, just don’t fall asleep next to me. Let’s have a pleasant journey to wherever our final destination may be.

The new feed on facebook is rather difficult to swallow.

Firstly, it takes away plausible deniability. Feeds are more appropriate for news and similar non-personal sites (including topical blogs). However, for personal data, websites must designed in such a way to consider people’s privacy. I can’t claim that you did not see it. I can’t claim that I had changed it a month ago. Every time I change my profile, every time I update photos, everyone will see it. Unfortunately, not all friends are created equal.

Secondly, the design tears away the mindless browsing. I personally like shopping in a b&m grocery store rather than an online store, because I like to touch and feel. Here, I am encouraged not to browse. But at least, it doesn’t track which profiles I read…or does it?

And besides, I noticed today a friend finally changed single to in relationship today almost a few months after his girlfriend moved into his apartment. I guess this goes to show, what we do online probably isn’t a reflection of our real life. So does this new design count as stalking?

So now, when is it the appropriate time to change the relationship status to “in a relationship”? When is it appropriate to change to “single” or “it’s complicated”. Do people nowadays ever say “HEY LET’S GO STEADY?”

The most I ever did was as I was pointing my finger in the air, “Are we boyfriend-girlfriend now?”

He’s the oldest of my dad’s twin brother. Just a few months older than me. After more than 10 years, I saw him again yesterday at dinner.

I had been walking around Pacific East Mall, looking for sunglasses. I had left my pair at the salsa club Saturday night, rushing out to catch the 1 am Bart train since the Bay Bridge was closed. When I finally found the right pair, I walked to the restaurant. Through the restaurant windows, I saw my cousin standing between my aunt and my dad, surrounded by my grandfather and my uncle. Looking at a camera.

Small scattered breakouts, which runs in the family. He had this sincere interested way of speaking. Despite everyone else speaking Chinese, he didn’t react in surprise even though he didn’t understand a single thing. In California for a vacation after a rotation at Daimler-Chrysler, he was visiting friends. Staying in Sunnyvale, but had time to drive North to see us.

He wore a white polo shirt and stood towering above most of the family. Carrying a canon s200. He called my dad by his first name, Paul–the same way my grandmother calls my dad–aaah-Paul in a soft tone. My grandfather can’t speak English and simply patted Matthew on the back as they parted.

We bid our farewells as we walked toward our car. Promises to come back for my grandfather’s birthday the following year. No more decade-long gaps?

Yesterday, I gave salsa a second chance. No luck.

A friend from undergrad invited me to the city. I wandered in the dark for a few blocks before finding his apartment. Along with his friends, we ate Korean bbq covering our hands with grease. When 8:30 pm, I rushed out with 3 others in my black flats and black swishy skirt to the club across the street – Roccapulco.

Inside, it was how every club should be. Organized like a restaurant, with ample sit-down areas. And a dance floor. A stage where a live band sang and danced on thier own accord.

I did not like the lesson. Fast paced, everything I learned in 6 weeks was taught in 60 minutes. I dreaded the rotations of partners. Some were nice, some were not. Some were too tall. Others were too short. At first, I enthuastically introduced myself to each new partner, but halfway through, I lost my own personal energy and started stepping on feet. The instructors corrected me several times.

I enjoyed watching. The spins. The looks that partners had. Some couples showed off when they realized they were being watched. But at the stroke of midnight, the music changed. No more coordination necessary. No 6-step. No awkward hand holding. And that’s when I felt better, rather than sitting and wasting the $10 cover.

Today, I realized why people don’t like going to parties where they don’t know “anyone”.

My roommate in Pittsburgh loved watching that show “what not to wear”. I at first dismissed it thinking it was one of those reality shows. But the thing about the shows is about how to improve yourself.

Every day on the BART, I see people dressed up for work. The twin set with black belted sandals–administrative assistant or liberal law firm?. The polo shirt and khakis with black converse–a programmer?

What we wear is often a reflection of who we are. Our appearances become who we are. So it makes me wonder. Are such tv shows suggesting a makeover for both the outside and the inside?

I used to wear solid shirts and (comfortable) pants. Usually sweats because they were comfortable. Nowadays, I occasionally wear jeans even though they’re not comfortable. I wear the camisoles, the trendy prints, the layers. People who have known me for awhile say that I have lost my initial edge and become *gasp* (more) normal.

In the last week, I have realized two pet peeves of mine. Yet I confess that I may be a hypocrite. Awareness is the first step to recovery. But still.

1. Lack of punctuality. Arriving early appeases my social anxiety. But besides that (I have arrived 1 hour before an interview before), I don’t want to wander the streets of a dark downtown waiting for someone. Why does that happen? I don’t know. I can’t read people easily when they say they’re going to arrive around 5 pm, which actually means 5:45 pm.

2. All talk, no action. I need to take people less seriously. When you say that you’re going to make a movie this summer, I’ll remember it. And I’ll hold you to it because I’ll want to take part. Design, of course. Perhaps I have trouble telling the difference between dreams and true decisions. Don’t tell me you’re going to send me an e-mail, say that you’re doing it. Like right now.

“I quit the Internet last year,” my friend’s sister said at yesterday’s Women 2.0 pool party.

One of the more shocking moments I had at the pool party where guys outnumbered the girls. While talking to a member of Flock, he noted that this web 2.0 community is like high school but with the ability to drink alcohol and lack of parental observation. Pretty much that’s what it was. It was full of mostly twentysomethings scattered with thirtysomethings making small talk about what companies they just started, the power of being a community ambassador, and overall feeling of how to get the next round of funding.

In comparision to my experience at Lunch 2.0 and Bowling 2.0, this time it was much more friendly and social. Possibly because of the food and drinks. Not to mention, I had dragged a few CMUers and Rescompers along to the party.

As for the comment, she said that she had to get back in for her sister. Since after all, her sister beats me on the number of social networks she has joined.

I thought that once I got a real job, my life would decrease in its interestingness and I wouldn’t find things to blog about. Rather, quite the opposite. Although nowadays, I get home late, feel really sleepy, and cannot find the mental energy to blog thought-provoking pieces.

But well interesting moments. BART is a culimination of oddities in the Bay Area. Every morning, I rush up to the station and hope that a train will be waiting for me. Then I would nervously find a seat–preferably close to where I am standing. And there I would plop down with my laptop bag and my bag (the word purse does not exist in my atypical femaleness). Then after a minute or so, I would unravel my headphones from my ipod and sit in a senseless state until I reach 16th street mission.

Yesterday though, this woman got on at Orinda, gave me a long stare. I stared at her back, but she didn’t change her gaze. Then she looked away. 10 minutes later, she stared at me again, an observing, interested stare. Then 5 minutes later again. And again. Then she left, staring at me.