Conversations
22 April 2014, Tuesday
11:47 PM
What a
beautiful night.
I am already sleepy but I just need to write this down in my trusty, messy notebook. (Gosh, my handwriting looks so bad at this time of the year.) I will fight off sleep and try to write and remember the memories made this night before they escape my undependable mind. I am writing under my blankets and sweating lightly and I don’t care.
This little red flag from my sandwich and the photo I have of this little red flag (why yes, I take bad pictures and overkill my editing) are the only concrete evidence that this night ever happened. We forgot to take photos of ourselves because we were either too busy talking or too engaged with our food (and okay, maybe we were just waiting for one of us to announce “selfie!” or “photo op!” first because we act cool like that). But even though this shit flag is the only proof of this night, I believe that the memories I’ve accumulated from our three-hour affair were enough to be imprinted on my mind eternally.
It is enough to remember the persons I share this memory with. It is enough to remember how dang beautiful Bea looked and how awesome Aram’s shirt was (of course I never told Aram that; his head would’ve
bloated). It is enough to remember the ridiculous dilemma we had and the painful decision-making we had to undergo just to select where to satiate our growing-kids hunger (in which, yes, we ended up in the restaurant where I got this little red flag). This walking-talking-deciding-blaming each other episode we had on the sidewalks (where we looked like lost children) led us to our labels that night: The Guest (me), the Tag-along (Bea) and the Host (Aram, a label he’d also integrated with “the Fool”). Just thinking about these labels puts a smile on my face (I look like a crazy person here).
This little red flag is a witness to the conversations shared over plates of salad and pasta, with too many service crew people around us. The conversations. How
freaking awesome the conversations were! I guess you know it by now, but I’m the type of person who’d consider a hang-out over meager food and sucky venue but is full of sensible rapport already awesome. I remember the stories and the laughter, not the food served, not the place, not the ambiance. I remember words and how they make an impact in my life. The conversations are more important than anything else (and yes, this is me being a dork).
I will not forget the opinions we shared on today’s trend on entertainment: we all agree that people should be more creative and original; that a lot of mainstream movies are total shit; that independent films are the bomb; that these celebrities and rich people need to stop producing record albums on the account of their
just-okay talent with a confidence that blows the roof off; that musicians who can really sing and have the capacity to write exceptional songs should be given chance and priority.
I also will not forget our shared love for reading and the weird possessiveness we all have over our favorite novels. I thought I was the only one in our group who experiences this, but I learned that even my friends feel possessive over books and musicians that they have loved
way before the whole universe knew about them. Oh, the
wretchedness we feel when our babes are now everyone else’s babes, when for a long time nobody cared and they were only
ours! Bea, Aram and I also seem to share the same perks and disappointments when our favorite novels are made into films; the annoying feeling we get when we compare the original story to the adaptation; the opinion that everything could have been better; and that we believe reading comes first before the movies; that
Fifty Shades of Gray is lame; that we are all such suckers for beautiful metaphors and simple stories that were written beautifully; that we believe people should strive harder to develop and widen their intelligence. We are kind of awesome, aren’t we?
How I wish all of the people around me were as intelligent, opinionated and fun as Bea and Aram. It had been a long time since I’ve had a conversation as animated and deep as this night’s. I need more people like them in my life, people that you can talk to about the most stupid things and they’d still listen intently, people who can be a constant source of inspiration, people who push you to your limits in a very beneficial way. If only you’d seen us at that restaurant – we looked like three kids that were too young to be talking about and dissecting the entirely screwed philosophy present in today’s world. Maybe that’s why I never had a lot of friends: I am too picky and have high standards (I have maybe ten or so people I really consider friends in my lifetime). I don’t know the rules of friendship (e.g. My maybe-friend cheats on our exam, what should I do?). This shall be one of my biggest dilemmas.
It is true that real friendship can withstand time. We haven’t seen each other in almost two years but it’s nice that we can still connect this way. All that time apart must have hugely contributed to the development of our friendship. Bea and Aram, you guys are the two closest friends I have from grade school. I’m lucky I can still keep you after eight years. We are so awesome. (Look: ABC = Aram x Bea x Christine. Ha!) I love you, guys.
PS: This night also made me realize how awfully untalented I am. Bea sings and is part of a huge university choir; Aram produces sick works of art. Me? Hmm, more like
meh.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Conversations
22 April 2014, Tuesday
11:47 PM
What a
beautiful night.
I am already sleepy but I just need to write this down in my trusty, messy notebook. (Gosh, my handwriting looks so bad at this time of the year.) I will fight off sleep and try to write and remember the memories made this night before they escape my undependable mind. I am writing under my blankets and sweating lightly and I don’t care.
This little red flag from my sandwich and the photo I have of this little red flag (why yes, I take bad pictures and overkill my editing) are the only concrete evidence that this night ever happened. We forgot to take photos of ourselves because we were either too busy talking or too engaged with our food (and okay, maybe we were just waiting for one of us to announce “selfie!” or “photo op!” first because we act cool like that). But even though this shit flag is the only proof of this night, I believe that the memories I’ve accumulated from our three-hour affair were enough to be imprinted on my mind eternally.
It is enough to remember the persons I share this memory with. It is enough to remember how dang beautiful Bea looked and how awesome Aram’s shirt was (of course I never told Aram that; his head would’ve
bloated). It is enough to remember the ridiculous dilemma we had and the painful decision-making we had to undergo just to select where to satiate our growing-kids hunger (in which, yes, we ended up in the restaurant where I got this little red flag). This walking-talking-deciding-blaming each other episode we had on the sidewalks (where we looked like lost children) led us to our labels that night: The Guest (me), the Tag-along (Bea) and the Host (Aram, a label he’d also integrated with “the Fool”). Just thinking about these labels puts a smile on my face (I look like a crazy person here).
This little red flag is a witness to the conversations shared over plates of salad and pasta, with too many service crew people around us. The conversations. How
freaking awesome the conversations were! I guess you know it by now, but I’m the type of person who’d consider a hang-out over meager food and sucky venue but is full of sensible rapport already awesome. I remember the stories and the laughter, not the food served, not the place, not the ambiance. I remember words and how they make an impact in my life. The conversations are more important than anything else (and yes, this is me being a dork).
I will not forget the opinions we shared on today’s trend on entertainment: we all agree that people should be more creative and original; that a lot of mainstream movies are total shit; that independent films are the bomb; that these celebrities and rich people need to stop producing record albums on the account of their
just-okay talent with a confidence that blows the roof off; that musicians who can really sing and have the capacity to write exceptional songs should be given chance and priority.
I also will not forget our shared love for reading and the weird possessiveness we all have over our favorite novels. I thought I was the only one in our group who experiences this, but I learned that even my friends feel possessive over books and musicians that they have loved
way before the whole universe knew about them. Oh, the
wretchedness we feel when our babes are now everyone else’s babes, when for a long time nobody cared and they were only
ours! Bea, Aram and I also seem to share the same perks and disappointments when our favorite novels are made into films; the annoying feeling we get when we compare the original story to the adaptation; the opinion that everything could have been better; and that we believe reading comes first before the movies; that
Fifty Shades of Gray is lame; that we are all such suckers for beautiful metaphors and simple stories that were written beautifully; that we believe people should strive harder to develop and widen their intelligence. We are kind of awesome, aren’t we?
How I wish all of the people around me were as intelligent, opinionated and fun as Bea and Aram. It had been a long time since I’ve had a conversation as animated and deep as this night’s. I need more people like them in my life, people that you can talk to about the most stupid things and they’d still listen intently, people who can be a constant source of inspiration, people who push you to your limits in a very beneficial way. If only you’d seen us at that restaurant – we looked like three kids that were too young to be talking about and dissecting the entirely screwed philosophy present in today’s world. Maybe that’s why I never had a lot of friends: I am too picky and have high standards (I have maybe ten or so people I really consider friends in my lifetime). I don’t know the rules of friendship (e.g. My maybe-friend cheats on our exam, what should I do?). This shall be one of my biggest dilemmas.
It is true that real friendship can withstand time. We haven’t seen each other in almost two years but it’s nice that we can still connect this way. All that time apart must have hugely contributed to the development of our friendship. Bea and Aram, you guys are the two closest friends I have from grade school. I’m lucky I can still keep you after eight years. We are so awesome. (Look: ABC = Aram x Bea x Christine. Ha!) I love you, guys.
PS: This night also made me realize how awfully untalented I am. Bea sings and is part of a huge university choir; Aram produces sick works of art. Me? Hmm, more like
meh.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Profile
Already several months had passed, and I am missing
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry more and more each fleeting day. There are just some things in life that we can never forget – especially that something that had given us knowledge, skills, strong relationships and a second home. I am glad that everything in the magical world is now at peace, since Voldemort (yes, I can now say his name; no need to be afraid) had died. I had secretly admired Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort’s birth name) though, because of his intelligence, passion and love for magic. Wasn’t he very clever to think of and conjure his seven
Horcruxes to preserve his life, or form a clan of
Death Eaters who were very loyal to him and would give up their lives just for him to succeed? Not everybody can acquire that much loyalty from people these days. I do not, however, admire him for the way he had carried out all of his plans. He had a good agenda, his means just weren’t morally right. But he still is one of the darkest wizards of all time… and let’s leave it that way.
Oh, for all those who are baffled of what I’m saying here and who the heck I am, my name is
Christine Faye Ordas, and I am an alumnus of Hogwarts. I came from the bronze-and-blue-clad house of the smart ass witch Rowena Ravenclaw and her dictum
“Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” And yes, I know the wonderful Luna Lovegood (she’s such a darling) and Harry Potter’s first crush Cho Chang. I had just left Hogwarts last May. Right now I am trying to pursue a career in magical researches, literature and writing. It’s my dream to inscribe intellectual books, publish and sell them in
Flourish and Blotts for the future Hogwarts students’ use. I am also planning to credibly write for the
Daily Prophet, the magical world’s primary news bulletin. And of course, I will be very much honored to contribute to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood’s
Quibbler (hence, my interest in magical researches). I have always found the Lovegoods a fascinating family, and I bet working with and for them will be very exciting. Or maybe, in Merlin’s beard’s time, I can write legends and bedtime stories like the famous – and wickedly brilliant – Beedle the Bard.
And that’s how my life goes these days. I am utterly missing my old school, my friends, the Great Hall, the bronze eagle knocker just outside the Ravenclaw common room, Professor Flitwick (the head of our house), Hogsmeade, the Quidditch matches (although I didn’t actually play for the house), the moving portraits, the castle ghosts, the pumpkins on Halloween, the giant pine trees on Christmas, Rubeus Hagrid’s (Hogwarts’ gamekeeper) tea and treacle fudge – even the crabby Argus Filch (Hogwarts’ caretaker) I miss. Maybe I can visit the school grounds sometimes and see how the magical world’s been doing since Voldemort died (I’ve been spending my months in the muggle world, you see). I’ve heard everybody’s been moving on and starting all over again; the ministry is back on work under Kingsley Shacklebolt; and Harry Potter’s scar haven’t been disturbing him since.
All is well, indeed.
And because of that, we should celebrate and drink firewhisky! Oh, I still don’t drink firewhisky; I can take butterbeer or tea or pumpkin juice – just not firewhisky, please.
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