The other day, I was telling a friend how I had always wanted to be a writer (fiction, journalism, creative non-fiction, columnist), but due to practical culture of my parents, I took a more feasible route from computer science to human computer interaction.

He requested to see some of my writings and I showed him the 40,000+ words I wrote for nanowrimo a few years ago. For that, I wrote my autobiography (obviously breaking the rules, but hey). Apparently, I didn\’t remember what I had written, just knowing that I had wrote about everything that had affected my life in those 20 years.

He liked how I used to say \”I see you never\” to people I didn\’t want to see again. He laughed about my story of Mike Fernando. He told me that it felt like the Matrix where someone pushed a button and he suddenly \”knew Jenn\”. He repeated some of the stories I wrote about…but to my surprise, I barely had remembered that I had done some of those things. I didn\’t remember why I now dislike calla lilies or how I used to always ask \”do you watch porn?\” Yet like most people, I couldn\’t bear to re-read the parts that were embarrassing and painful. I always thought I would be over it, but to remember the naivete, the what i would do now with what i know now feeling…that\’s always the biggest challenge of confronting the past.

Or worse yet, did I mature?

I went to Panera today and decided after much thought, just to get a cup of hot tea. The cashier went to the other side to get me a cup of hot water.

\”One seventeen,\” the cashier said.

I pulled off my gloves and extracted a dollar from my wallet. Then I searched for a bit through my coin purse for 17 cents. I eventually settled on giving her a quarter, thinking to myself that I would leave the change as tip. She took the dollar and a quarter. Then she stepped to the other register. Confused, I stood there for a bit and gave up grumbling to myself whether it was worth it to fight for 8 cents.

A single lone question mark in an instant message has no meaning.

The snow is falling like a blanket to the city. It was silent and almost still. Cars moved slowly on the road. Nine at night, I stood and looked up at the sky catching snow in my face. Warmer than a few days ago.

I haven\’t experienced many snowfalls. This is only my second winter and possibly last in an area that has \”real\” seasons. Most of the time, I spend inside not noticing the outside. Today, I left a great fondue party someone had conjured up to be held in our lab (complete with cheese fondue and chocolate fondue). The snow fell down like powder, coating the parked cars covering everything in the sameness of white winter snow.

I stood at the corner, near the bus stop and headed to an area with benches underneath the falling snow. My friend walking home found me dancing in the snow, getting my pants inadverdently wet and cold. I was packing the snow together to make another mini-snowman (or to some passerbys, a snowball). I wanted to roll in the powder. Eventually, I decided to stop being a child in the midst of the other students who were hiding in the bus shelter. I stood outside the bus shelter letting the snow fall.

When I finally got on the bus, someone said outloud, \”Frosty! Snowman!\” As I walked in the aisle, trying to find a seat, snow fell and dripped off my hat and my backpack. Any movement I made, a lump of snow fell to the ground.

I got off the bus, enjoyed the silence that snow brought. A stillness like no other.

From time to time, I see something that makes me wonder why I chose hci–a field that people won\’t recognize because our job is to make things easier. As I say in my bio on the mhci page, I want to design something that seamlessly blends in with the world, that will change the world, so much so that people won\’t notice it.

When i was younger, I wanted to be a singer. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to do the opposite of hci. I wanted to create something that put in front of people, would change their perspectives, make them think differently. I wanted to have the ability to make them feel something, to imagine a different world from where they are now. A better world or perhaps make them appreciate what they have now. I would have liked to be…an artist. Creativity.

Today, it was the Building Virtual Worlds showcase. Every single world was amazing. BVW, as its called by the students, is a class (24 units which translates to 24 hours) at the Entertainment Technology Center. Generally, the masters students–most who go into the video game industry as entertainment programmers or designers–take this class. They each had 14 days to create a world comprised of teams of designers, programmers, storytellers and a producer. At the showcase, people acted out the world using amazing technological techniques such as light sensing, space detection, or even flashlight movement. One memorable world was the one that the professors called \”dangerous\”. In this world, the audience was given \”rocks\”. The world included a large ugly green monster and a little girl. We would watch as the monster befriended the girl, but then someone in the back of the audience would shout \”Stone the monster!\” People would throw the rocks at the monster and then…the monster would die…giving a flower to the little girl. Awesome.

Today, a man screamed.

It was 23 degrees outside, just barely above freezing. There was a group of us–at least 10–waiting at the bus stop right at the corner of the house. Ten minutes had passed and no bus had arrived. My fingers were feeling numb and cold despite wearing my leather gloves. I made a fist with my fingers, pulling my hands into the sleeves. The little snowman I had made a few days ago was still up, slightly smushed when I had tried to force the snowballs to stay together. I considered playing with the snow again, just to distract myself from the cold. But thoughts of my upcoming presentations distracted me.

And then the man screamed. All of us glanced him, mentally backing away from him not because of fear, but because we all understood we had a crazy one here. The cold was bad, sneaking into our layers of clothes. Soon though soon hopefully, the bus would come.

A bus did come. It was packed with passengers. The driver did not open the door as it pulled to the traffic light. The man started yelling at the bus. \”I need to get to a class!\” he yelled and kicked at the ground.

The bus–filled with possibilties of heat–only pulled away. The man screamed at the air as other people glanced at each other. All of us looked in the distance, the bus stop before ours–looking for hints of the next bus.

Another bus came shortly after, still somewhat full and did not stop. The man screamed again. He was upset. Finally, the next bus barely filled arrived. He was the first one on and he complained loudly, \”Fifteen minutes! Fifteen minutes!!!\”

The bus driver, a young African American with dreadlocks, took no such nonsense and told the man to quiet down. The man apologized without regret and said that he was very upset with the timing of the bus system. The driver again told the man to lower his voice or he would have to get off the bus. The rest of us shuffled into the bus, happy for the warmth. People exchanged murmurs of the man, opinions of how disruptive he was. But in the end, we could understand his frustration–we like everyone else don\’t want to be ignored and most of all, left behind.

I just noticed that in the dock, ical shows July 17 when it is not open. When iCal is opened, the little calendar icon changes to the current day. However, when iCal is closed, it returns to July 17.

That\’s it. More icon replacements from my latest favorite artist, David Lanham.

My dad sent my sister and me the following poem titled \”Happy Holidays\”:

The holidays are coming
The girls are homecoming
We have no planning
Books and supplies we will be buying
The girls will not be on the street standing

Ching, ching, ching

One day the old man will be smiling
A Mercedes good to travel
The old lady will not bellow ‘cause
Too many trips to marvel

Yep yep yep

The girls ask why the old man’s rapping
He replies time’s changing

Ching, Ching, Ching

My mom gave me a package of lychee jelly to take back when I went back for Thanksgiving. When my friend saw them, her immediate reaction \”Aren\’t they illegal?\”

To my surprise (and maybe not), they have been banned in the United States and all across Europe. Maybe I missed the big news a few years ago, but they apparently are no longer sold in stores because they are choking hazards for children. Unless I am wrong (and the lychee jelly cups have not changed in content), my mom obtained this bag illegally. Or perhaps she didn\’t know that and wanted to surprise my sister and me with some nice sweet treats.

They are deliciously unhealthy and horribly messy, but for me, they recall a time of nostalgia in high school. Where it\’s exoticism, fascination.