She is a street artist.

103 is her home, but she spends more time at work.

She considers art her job.

She rents a small windowless room in Brooklyn.

She creates and sells her art there,

She daydreams about painting the best murals there.

She is at the bottom of the artist food chain.

She has no art degree — school was too expensive.

She has no connections — no fancy collectives to follow.

She has no concept of time - over two minutes, and the cops arrive.

All she has is her art.

All she needs is her art.

She thinks she is a real street artist. No tarnish —

Real paint.

“You stole sh*t from my mother’s house, this relationship is over,” he called his friend.

He is a young man living in apartment 102 who discovered two hours ago that his mother’s house was broken into by his friend. Her jewelry went missing, as well as 1000 dollars tucked away in her safe. The 1000 dollars were kept in case of medical emergencies.

“I don’t wanna hear you talk abt it.”

“I WAS HIGH.”

“Next time you approach my family, I’m calling the cops.”

“* ”

Hw hung up the phone.

He buried his head into his hands, not knowing why his friend, now ex-friend, would steal from his mother. His friend had a proper job and always dressed decently. The cigarettes he smoked were even the nice white people type of stuff.

“Why is this happening to me?” he thought to himself.

Adulthood hasn’t been treating him well; he wishes he could return to living at his mama’s house.

He started to dial 9-1-7 5-4-2-6… Then, he stopped, turned away, and slammed his phone onto the stupid sidewalk.

Apartment 101

In the apartment lives a middle-aged woman who loves to write. She has been a tenant at the building for as long as she and I can remember.

Sitting at her dining table, tightly squeezed into her small and cluttered kitchen, she described to me the benefits of keeping a neatly organized diary.

When she was a child, she used to have an old notebook with torn pages that she would often scribble in with her fluctuating but occasionally decent handwriting. She wrote about school, love, family, and dreams.

Ever since she grew up and traveled to college, she has lost her diary.

I think she’s still sad even until this day. Frankly, she put so much time and effort into that small book. She doesn’t deserve the pain associated with lost memory.

Today, an incredibly brilliant young man asked me what childhood is.

I couldn’t provide an adequate answer on the spot, but after some thought, I think childhood refers to the ages before realizing that life has so much more to offer than love. There’s pain in life, there’s suffering.

There are people who are barely able to put food on the tables and pay rent.
There are people working from sunrise to sunset, earning so little money that it is almost illegal.

I have just now realized,

Documenting childhood is so important because living with pain is inherently miserable, and childhood provides a bandaid to the wound, some sugar in that bitter and awful-tasting coffee called real life.

This realization may have come too late,

Or maybe not – we’ll see

Today, after eating a rather decent three-course meal at some American kitchen in downtown Chicago, Linda and I decided to travel back to her office by foot because the Uber is simply too expensive at rush hour.

After walking twenty minutes in the awful Chicago rain, we arrived at her office to pick up my suitcase. During the journey, we trudged past a couple of suspicious-looking guys on the streets - but - they are not the main characters of this rather unique story.

At the office, I changed into a warm hoodie and prepared to go to the airport. Standing at the main entrance of the building, I patiently waited for Stanley to pick me up. Stanley did not pick me up. Stanley canceled. Some moments later, Lamar is scheduled to pick me up. You would assume that because Lamar’s Uber profile literally says he’s an “aspiring pilot,” he would not cancel on an airport trip. Well, Lamar canceled. Bummer.

Here, our savior of the story enters: Mohammed. Mohammed is a slay. His “boss-like” walk pose and his “hip” outfit echo his rather “lit” energy. He steps in - like a star - into my life, saving me from being late for my flight.

Mohammed opens the back of his car, and I stuff my suitcase in there. I climbed into the car and was absolutely astonished by what I saw. Fur, literal - fucking - fur, everywhere. The seats of this Mohammed guy’s entire car are covered by fur.

I quickly scooted further into the passenger’s seat, but something was restraining my entrance “Mohammed might’ve kidnapped me, odd,” I said to myself.

After a slow couple of seconds, I gathered my remaining bravery to turn around, and I shit you not, the rubber rim of our homie Mohammed’s car fell off. I was caught in the rubber rim of his car. The rim of his fucking car fell off.

Mohammed spent the next three minutes desperately trying to stuff the rim back into his car. He tried really hard and finally semi-successfully figured it out. By semi-successfully, I meant Mohammed forcefully pushed the door five times and eventually closed it. Well, sort of.

“Does this usually happen?”

I asked Mohammed.

“Ooo, uh, no. The previous person closed the door very hard.”

Mohammed said.

I was left speechless.

The rest of the ride was nice. I felt like I was cuddled by the warm long, tender fur in Mohammed’s car. I complimented Chicago (rare occurrence), and I thanked him for not cancelling the ride.

I also gave the guy 20 dollar cash tip.

Btw, unrelated, but I found my new interest - fish paleontology.

Found this tucked away in my notes app...

I feel compelled to write a little something about Hamilton:

Everyone was a theater fanatic three years ago, teachers would play Hamilton on big classroom screens and kids would talk about musicals they love. It was the best [and worst of times (for my unrelated mental health issues lol)].

I vividly remember taking 40 minute subway rides on weekends to the theater plaza in the French concession of Shanghai to watch live performances of Mozart L’opéra rock, wicked, and other top tier musicals. My mom thought it’s good for my personal growth, so that really helped fund my obsession.

Despite all of this, I never had the chance to watch Hamilton in theater. I even had a period when I unironically hated Hamilton for its cheesiness, underrepresentation, misrepresentation, and lowkey bad lyrics. While some of that detestation still remain now (seriously, how many times do you HAVE to rhyme burr with sir), I definitely see why people love this stuff. Amazing stage design, incredibly charismatic & funny characters, skillful actors, catchy tunes, historical story, and most importantly that one cute Asian guy.

All weird compliments aside, there were genuinely moments when I found myself on the verge of tears (and moments when I actually cried). I don’t know whether it was me empathizing with the characters or my past theater kid memories catching up to me. Funny enough, I went to the show because I thought I needed that so-called “American experience,” I left the show with so much more than I asked for. You know that feeling you get when you smell a familiar scent, visit a familiar place, or, in simpler terms, rediscover that one game file you had when you were 5? That kinda sums up what I felt like today.

Anyways I guess what I’m trying to say is that the show was pretty okay I guess.