I want a weekend.

It doesn’t even have to be a whole weekend. Just a day off would be nice. I miss off days and sleeping in. The past few weeks have been thing after thing after thing without end. I neglected my blog and my emails and a whole bunch of things, but it’s really time to pick up blogging again. So starting tomorrow will be a series on these last few weeks being absurd. Each day will cover one major event, roughly in chronological order. At the end of the week, I’ll’ve gotten to this week, and this week would have gone on long enough to be worth writing about, and then this shall be a chilling tale of the horrifying reality that is Being an Adult. I really want to sleep. Season 3 of Friendship Is Magic needs to hurry up and come out.

An interesting thing happened last night. There is an unnamed person of some unspecified relation to me. We shall call this person Chad, assumed to be male. I randomly generated a gender, and then randomly generated a common name of that gender. Chad’s name and gender are my best effort to give absolutely no information. Chad was not being rude either. Chad was well-intentioned and familiar with my preference for information over politeness. He held my best interests at heart.

Chad told me that I ought to lose some weight. He said that when I sat slumped over, folds appeared in my skin, and my stomach bunched up. I said that I believed fat content to be a better measure of health than weight, and he agreed. I asked him what percentage of body fat did he think was optimal. He answered, well, less is better, isn’t it? (It is not.) He said that I did not have that much muscle (this is true), and that for me, weight is a pretty good indicator of fat content. I agreed to this, and also to using weight as a measure of fat content for myself.

I made a big show of not looking it up beforehand and asked Chad where he thought I was, relative to a healthy weight. He answered that he believed I was straddling the line between healthy and overweight.

For reference (nudity censored in MSPaint): front and profile.

Actually, I had looked into this some years prior. I did have some idea what was the healthy range for a person my height, and I knew that I was well within it. I found a website that calculated ideal weight from two different sources and a recommended range from an additional two sources. I picked this site by typing “ideal weight” into Google and taking the first thing that turned up; I was not picking and choosing which site I used. In fact, I was within 5 pounds of both given ideal weights and towards the lower end of both recommended ranges.

I already knew this. I know I’m nowhere near overweight. I don’t need people commenting to reassure me either. I know what is a healthy range, and I know where I am compared to that. I am not offended, and I don’t feel fat, or any of that.

However, I am very greatly surprised. I know that the portrayal of women in television, in cartoons, and generally in the media is inaccurate, but I didn’t quite realize how very pervasive it is. To the point where men and women do not know what ordinary women look like. To the point where someone can be well within normal weight, and people (including themselves!) will believe they are overweight.

But, Chad protested, the women portrayed are attractive. Being thin is attractive because it is difficult to attain, so it shows discipline. My response is that I don’t think this is the reason people find thinness attractive. I think it is a justification: an excuse used to justify it. I think attractiveness is judged the moment you look at someone, and you don’t sit there thinking, wow that person must be really disciplined. I think the real reason people find thinness attractive is because that’s what they see, everywhere, from the day they start watching TV.

I don’t know what shows are popular, so I picked some whose names I know. Here is the main cast of Firefly. Four of them are women; all four of them are slender. And again: the Gossip Girl characters. The anime Kanon: nine girls with differing heights, hairstyles, and breast sizes, but all the same skin tone and the same narrow waist. The Disney princesses. That’s the overwhelmingly prevalent body type. Nearly every movie star and TV star looks like that. That is “normal”. That is “attractive”. Anything else is suboptimal. Girls should strive for that.

But of course, very few people do look like that. That’s all a young girl sees, and she believes women look like that, and she looks different. What will she think? What will the people around her think?

Maybe she’ll look at her normal body and feel overweight. Maybe she’ll pursue an idealized this thing. Perfectly well-intentioned people will suggest that to her in her own best interest, because they don’t know any better.

Sarah Robles is the strongest woman in the U.S., training full time, on her way to the Olympics for weightlifting. She’s built so much muscle; she’s probably among the healthiest people in the country. She’d be a great role model for girls to eat healthy, work hard, and pursue dreams with a passion. She’s living on $400 a month because companies don’t care to sponsor her, because she doesn’t look like the prevailing notions of beauty.

I knew that our perceptions of female bodies were skewed, but I didn’t realize how far it was, that this is the perceived borderline of overweight. It sort of makes the world seem like a scary, unreasonable place for girls to live, and the girls themselves vastly more likely to be angsty, unstable creatures than I’d previously thought. Well I think normal-weight people don’t need to feel inferior to movie stars and cartoons. Maybe they are perfectly healthy as they are.

Here we go again. Facebook can suck it. All those “like” buttons can suck it. Discord and I were driving back to New Haven from Tampa, and the radio station in Virginia broadcasted a tornado warning. So I went to my iThing to look it up, and then BOOM my Facebook claims I “liked” it. I didn’t even realize I was signed into Facebook! And it didn’t give me a box asking if I wanted to like it either. It just liked it while I was mashing at the page because it was loading slowly. A whiles back, a game or page or something that I’d looked at once claimed I “liked” it. Last year, there was a Facebook page that asked to access my Facebook data, the way Facebook apps did back then, and that added itself to my “likes”. Sometimes things I’ve never ever seen or heard about appear on it, stupid internet romance/personality quizzes claiming my support. Go away.

A friend begged me to download Rage of Bahamut for the iPhone/iPad and use his referral code. I played it for about a week. It was the sort of stupid thing where time is currency, and not checking back in time meant wasted currency, and my time-earned currency could be stolen away by PvP that I couldn’t opt out of. But you know what? I don’t mind that. I was fine playing inefficiently because I liked the pretty cards and didn’t care about being better than other players. But it kept sending me notifications! Its settings were all cosmetic, so I went to the notification center and turned them off for that app. I got them anyways. I turned the whole notification center off. I got them anyways. I deleted the app and went to the app store to leave it a scathing review. There, I saw the other reviews, which were incredibly incredibly stupid. All people begging for others to use their referral codes, so they could get an in-game reward. If you ever run into Rage of Bahamut, stay away! It’s a stupid game. It asks you to spam your friends, and you can’t turn off notifications. It’s also poorly-designed. It’s really hard to find anything in-game.

Sometimes I look at sites, or buy things from sites, or donate to something, or sign a petition. And then it asks me for my email address, sort of like an online signature. That’s fine. But then I get added to the stupid panlist by default, and it’s such a silly panlist that it sends many many emails over totally trivial things. I’m fond of the Democrats. But I don’t give a baboon’s butt if Romney got more donations than Obama. I certainly did not need six emails about it in one day. I saw it the first time. I might read it if it was on WikiNews. I don’t appreciate people trying to whip me into an outrage over something that isn’t an outrage. And all those emails asking me to donate to be entered into a lottery to have dinner with Obama. I wasn’t interested the first time, and I’m not interested now! It reminds me of a class of little students copy-paste spamming, over and over. I saw it the first time. I don’t need it every week for months.

It’s a real shame, because a panlist can be used to communicate important things. But here they just get lost in all the junk. And I unsubscribed. I found the tiny “unsubscribe” link, and then I did it despite the page trying to guilt me into staying. Oh, we know you get too many emails, but you should stay anyways because we need your help! Too bad.

There was some thing I joined awhiles back. It might have been ACLU membership? (But I don’t want to falsely accuse the ACLU if it wasn’t.) Some feel-good human-rights thing. I joined because the membership fee felt like a worthwhile donation at the time. But then they called me on my phone, and they asked me to donate. I said I would look it up online later. The lady on the phone did not say “have a nice day” and hang up. No, she kept right on talking, talking about how important it was and asking me to make a donation now. I said I did not feel comfortable donating to something I had not researched. I said I would look it up and decide then. And then she started to become cross and pushy, repeating how important she thought it was and asking me to donate then, and eventually I told her I was busy and hung up. Henceforth I am an enemy of phone campaigns.

It is vastly too easy to get things associated with me. They become associated with me, and it’s not an underlying passive association either. It’s one that makes itself felt and heard, like a sore in the mouth or a mosquito bite on the foot, that comes back to pester me, all for the sake of getting my attention or that of people whom I interact with. By uglifying my Facebook, by cluttering my inbox, by interrupting my iThings, by claiming my time for their beggars to chastise me, and by advertising to others that I allegedly support these things (I do not). In fact they are alienating me from otherwise worthy causes.

Where did all you zombies come from? But I don’t like you. I wish I could have a “dislike” button to permanently dislike you and make your popularity suffer. All you zombies, go away. To the rest of you, please disregard anything on my Facebook that claims I “like” it.

I’d hoped not to make a yearly tradition of having an unpleasant visit to the Apple store, but it’s something I wasn’t quite able to avoid. Way back about a year ago, I put some leftover food in my purse, and it leaked a bit. All over the silly thing, and my iPhone battery has been a bit strange since.

I went to the Apple store, and first I had to make an appointment. Eventually I talked to this person and told him about my phone, and that I was willing to pay for repairs. He said there was probably some kind of water damage, and that he could replace the battery. I asked if he could take it apart, wipe off the parts, and put it back together? He said no, there were people who would do that, but not Apple-certified people. I said, ok, do you know how to take it apart? He said he did. Just unofficially, can you tell me how to take it apart? No, because that will void the warranty. I don’t care about the warranty, I said. I’m willing to pay for it. Well it might mess up something else, like the Wifi antenna, or the internal antenna. That’s fine, I said. If that happens, I’ll deal with that when it comes up. Well there are people who would do it, but they aren’t Apple-certified, he said. That will void the warranty. What can you guys do? He said they could replace the battery or the camera, or they could replace the whole phone. Can you sell me the parts so that I can fix it? I asked. No, that would void the warranty, he said. I know that; I was at the Apple store in Berkeley last year for my old phone! They’d refused to work on it because I’d replaced some of the parts, and the guy there said they kept spare parts in the back room, but they couldn’t sell me new parts anyways. Well there are other places where they sell parts, and they might look like Apple parts, but they’re not, he said. I don’t care if they’re Apple parts, I said. I just want this thing fixed. I have to get the parts from elsewhere because Apple won’t sell me parts. Putting in other parts voids the warranty, he said. But the warranty isn’t doing me any good if I can’t get it fixed, I said. How did you get the last one open, he said. I unscrewed the screws here and pried it out with a flat-headed screwdriver, I said. But that was a different model that was easier to open. Well we can’t open it up and look at it, because that would take a long time, he said. So we just replace the whole phone. There are other places that might do that, but they’re not Apple-certified. That would void the warranty. I don’t think the warranty even applies anymore. I spilled oil on it. The warranty is already void. What do I care about it then?

This went on for a while. Eventually we established that no Apple-certified person would work on it, and all they could do was sell me a new phone. What’s an Apple-certification for anyways? As far as I can tell, replacing exterior parts and sales. I hate this.

I downloaded a great big custom map, and it’s gorgeous, with a storyline and puzzles and really pretty buildings. But it’s taking forever, and I’m not even very far in. I’ve beaten four bosses so far out of a promised 17, and it’s already taken three days. I’m not even doing anything else: not checking webcomics, not playing Dragon Cave, not playing Kingdom of Loathing, just sitting here playing Terraria for hours and hours upon end, but I’ve never played such a large map before. And there are whole sections that I haven’t gone to yet. I always want to quit for the day, but then I see that a knew section has opened up, and it can’t hurt to just go in and take a look, could it? But it does, because there’s always another corner to look around. With other maps I’ve played, this would come to an end after a few hours, but this one just keeps on going.

Today needs to hurry up and go away. I had this weird dream where I had a weird stomachache, and then I woke up and really did have a stomachache and really unpleasant cramps. As happy as I am to not be spawning, all this cramping is like a non-spawning tax that is collected every few weeks. I rolled around crankily in bed for a while, and then I slept until midafternoon. When I woke up, they weren’t as bad anymore.

For a few days, nothing works right. Standing up for any length of time makes things throb in weird ways, and I’m constantly slightly crampy. My gastrointestinal system doesn’t work entirely right. Things don’t digest as they should, and I don’t feel like eating anything.

So I finally got up. The sun was already low in the sky, casting long shadows across the streets. And there wasn’t anything interesting on the Internets. Of course that’s false. I didn’t feel like sitting on the Internets. I ejected myself from the house and saw a movie.

I miss my piano. When I get home, I’m going to play piano all the time.

There is that moment when an online class begins, same as any other class. One sits down before the computer, reviews the day’s lesson, and scans over the chatter of the students. Class time arrives, and the class begins.

Suddenly, I realize I’m the teacher.

When I taught for the first time on Wednesday, it was very surreal. The same introduction that had always come from a position of authority and the polished, crafted explanations. Being the authority was entirely strange. For a moment, it felt very very strange. The students were all there, watching for my words. Why am I the authority now?

And then class went on, and things were ok again.

Having students is the sort of thing that leaves no question and no room for compromise. If I have homework, it’s easy to put it off or to accept a lower grade for a lesser amount of effort. Sometimes, that even seems acceptable to me. But it’s entirely unacceptable to go into a lesson ill-prepared, or to have a fuzzy understanding of a problem that I’m to explain. Maybe that’s how responsibility actually works, that I’m in a position where doing poorly would compromise not myself, but someone else’s understanding of a topic. That’s something I haven’t the right to decide.

Tonight was my second class, and the great and might AoPS administrators let me teach the first week of a course this time. That was very scary, but it went over well enough. I very much wanted time to review the script, so that I’d be familiar with the problems before the class started. I hope it stays as scary as it is. Even if it isn’t the friendliest feeling in the world, it’s useful to have some external pressure to prepare for class beforehand.

An interesting thing happened today. I went out to buy candy and dinner, and as I was walking, I passed by a young lady in a car parked by the road. The car’s window was open. The lady leaned out the window, and called at me. . .

“Ching chong.”

The young lady was not terribly young. She appeared to be twenty-something, and she was certainly not a little child. So I was very taken aback. I’m not too surprised by this sort of behavior among children, but I don’t expect it from an adult. I was strongly reminded of people tapping on the glass at a zoo. Was she prodding me for an amusing reaction?

So when I got to the store, I was rather crosser than average. I wandered around the store, and a gentleman who works there asked me if I was Buddhist.

Unlike the lady, the gentleman was not ill-intentioned. He was genuinely trying to be friendly, and I appreciate that. All the same, I began to wonder if I was a strange curiosity for people, and so I was a bit short with him.

“Are you Buddhist?”
“No.”
“Christian?”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
“I’m a student.”

I’m actually no longer a student, but I still count as a student for the IMC, so it seemed a reasonable answer.

“No, I meant, Buddhism is a religion.”
“I know that.”

And then, a few minutes later:

“Where are you from?”
“I’m from Florida.”
“But where are you from?”

I have this conversation often. I meet someone, who is trying to be friendly, and they ask me where I’m from. And I know they mean what foreign country, but my first answer is always that I’m from Florida. Unfailingly, they persist, and then I’ll say that my parents were from China. It never really struck me as terribly odd before, but today it annoyed me. It annoyed me a lot. For some reason, this is an ok thing to ask me, because I have black hair and yellow skin, and so I have to be foreign. I can’t just be an American from Florida. Strangers can demand my family history.

The same way strangers in cars can yell ching chong at me.

I held my tongue and refrained from asking which part of Africa he was from. Cultural standards aren’t his fault.

I don’t actually know the cost of food for a month, so I’m going to try to figure it out. I have my receipt from the last grocery trip, and I’ll need to go grocery shopping again tomorrow. I’ll save that receipt too. Then, through the end of June 14th, I’ll total all my food costs, unless I’m out of town. I’m not counting out-of-town days because I’m not usually out of town as often as these couple weeks.

Last summer, the target was $500 per week for a house of twelve people, but at least half of those people were trying hard to put on muscle. We also had guests over often. I think we also went over $500 nearly every week. I’m not sure how that all balances out, but if it really were $500 per twelve people per week, that would make around $200 per person per month. Is that reasonable? Do my mere existence require the permanent destruction of $200 of value each month?

Today’s tale begins ten years ago, when Brian Banks and Wanetta Gibson had a make-out session during school. Gibson accused Banks of taking her to an elevator and raping her. In reality, they never had sex, and any DNA test could have determined that.

Brian Banks was 16 at the time, a star football player who already had a scholarship to play at USC. If convicted, he would have faced up to 41 years of prison. His lawyer told him he was a big black teenager, and that no jury would believe him. So he took the plea bargain, served five years in prison, and then tried to make a life for himself as a convicted sex offender with a monitoring ankle bracelet.

Wanetta Gibson contacted him on Facebook, saying she wanted to help clear his name. She refused to talk to prosecutors because she had received $1.5 million from suing the school district. Banks secretly videotaped a conversation they had. With her taped confession, Banks was acquitted. He hopes now to try out for the NFL.

This story makes me furious. In other tales of wrongful conviction or false arson, everyone tries to do what is best to protect people, and sometimes mistakes are made. But this case was not the result of accumulated mistakes. It was the result of a stupid girl lying for money, throwing away someone else’s life so she can have money, and even after all these years placing her own money above another’s good name.

What a shameful way for a person to behave.