poor-student-blog

[poor-student-blog]

[poor-student-blog]

Imagine

Imagine being 5, and believing that your grandparents were invincible. They took a stick, lit it up, and could breathe out smoke. That smoke clung onto their clothes, your clothes, and was the only smell you could recognize them by. Your grandfather doted on you, his youngest grandchild, always bringing you out to fast food places, libraries, fetching you from school. You see the pictures on the boxes, the rotten teeth, dead baby, black lungs, as your grandfather asks you to fetch a box from the shelf, and you think that it was bullshit. There was no way that was going to happen to your invincible grandparents.

Imagine going into his bedroom and seeing him lying on the bed. Remembering blood on the floor, in the shape of his face, and not knowing, till now, if it was the product of nightmares or something you really saw. You are 6, and all you know about people closing their eyes was that they were either asleep, or dead. And he was not waking up. You don’t even know what dying was, you just knew that in TV shows and movies, it meant that they were never coming back. So you scream.

Imagine hearing your daughter scream in your father’s room, and then following the noise, wanting to whoop her ass for disturbing her grandfather. But you realize that he has been asleep for too long. So you send her to your brother, to wake him up, so he could do something to solve a problem you still did not understand.

Imagine coming home from work, sleeping, and you are awakened by your 6 year old niece breaking into tears at your door, screaming that he was not waking up.

Imagine being at the hospital, playing with the mask that you have to wear, while your grand-uncles shushed you. Then, a shout. From your grandfather, who you always thought was invincible, as needles were pushed into him. Your mother cries, and your chest hurts, but you dont know why.

Imagine that you are 7, at your grandparent’s, but your grandfather hasnt been home in a while. A phone call. Your mother quietly sobs after picking it up. She whispers into your grandmother’s ears, and in a hurry, suddenly, everyone’s gone to the hospital. You stay behind, lying face down on the sofa. The tears don't flow, no matter how you hope it would, and your chest hurts, but you don’t know why. And yet you still did not understand what death was, as you stand beside his coffin, tip-toeing to see him sleeping. But you would, when you sob silently in bed because damn it, you miss him, and when you burst into the house, “waigong” at the tip of your tongue, before you realize that you no longer had one. Months later you would write a letter on grandparents day, about how everyone misses him. You would slot it behind the dressing room closet, and your grandmother will cry when she finds it.

Imagine being 15, and your grandmother is nagging at you to not be an idiot when you are overseas with your school, to listen to the teacher, taking a puff from the smoking stick every so often.You no longer found it magical. Then, you leave, and the first thing you hear when you come back was that she was in the hospital. You rush there, but it was merely a shell. She spoke softly, and for the first time, you realized how weak she was. But she was still her. She complained about the lady beside her who would not stop moaning about going home, about the shit food in the hospital. It was still her.

You come back to the hospital to visit often, but you thought it was just a old person’s disease, that she would be fine. You were told that it was low sodium. Months later, you would dread that very term. So you stopped caring. You went to the hospital, showed your face, and left, because you were so fucking selfish that you did not want to see her like this. You see her and suddenly you are 6 again, standing in the hospital looking at your grandfather, growing weak, growing delirious, becoming unlike him, and so you run, your close your eyes, ignore the facts.

When she came home, you stayed with her, helping her onto the wheelchair, pushing her out. She told you that she wanted to die. She hated being like this. You laughed it off.

Imagine one night, you receive a call. Your mother is making you come down to the hospital. You almost yell at her because you are so fucking tired but something in her voice makes you obey. At the A&E, the adults stood together, whispering. You could only hear snippets, “They said 8 months, but it spread...1 month…”

You see her on the bed, a bandage wrapped tightly around her swollen wrist, her jade bangle constricted around her wrist.

Another day, you went to the hospital. Your mother was there almost the whole day, and when you wanted to leave, you heard your grandmother scream, begging you to take her home. Your mother smiles, and promises her that once she got better, she could go home. She did not stop. Your mother grabs your hand, and tells you to leave. Her shouts and begs echoed through the hallway, ringing in your ears. You hold on tight to your mother, and she you, stopping each other from turning back. for the first time in your life, you felt heartbreak.

Another day, you visit. You see your mother trying to pacify her. She was asking for her son. Your mother smiled, lying, saying that he will be here soon, and you cry, and you don’t know why. You call out to her, but she looks through you. And yet you smile and say it again. You see your niece, her great-grandchild, with a drawing she drew. 2 months later, at her birthday BBQ, everyone would be there, eating, having fun. Including your grandmother. The paper was covered with hearts, one for all the love she had for her. Will you have the heart to tell her it might not happen?

The doctor asks your mother and uncle to step out, and told him that they are giving him the choice to stop the antibiotics. She was in pain. The choice: to let her live in pain, or die peacefully? He broke down. You start crying, embarrassed by that very fact that you were, so you went to the end of the corridor and sat on the floor.

Imagine that, after she’s gone, you stare at her, and see that her stomach is still moving, clinging onto the hope that she is still alive, though everything else says otherwise. And this time, your chest hurts, and you know why.

[poor-student-blog]

Talk shit, get hit

[poor-student-blog]

“Writing a book is so easy.”

Yes. Writing a book is the easiest thing in the whole world. In fact, let me show you just how easy it is!

Goal: change all this paper into a book.

Eh, not that hard. I mean, you just have to read, right?

Maybe scratch a few notes in the margins as reminders.

Yeah, writing and editing isn’t time consuming or painstaking at all.

In fact, I find it quite relaxing. Good meditation. No stress whatsoever!

I mean, it’s not like writing a book involves any train of thought or decision making, like when to cut scenes, because whatever you write is perfect and there to stay!

I mean, come on, it’s not like I’m going to rewrite the first chapter 51 TIMES to make sure it’s how I want it, right? That’d be crazy.

And no, it’s not like I spent over 3,000 HOURS READING AND REVISING 14 DRAFTS OF THE BOOK to make this book readable.

No sweat, no tears, no blood, and DEFINITELY no coffee stains.

Nope, writing is the easiest job in the world. I don’t see why anyone thinks otherwise. I mean, all we do is scribble words and take a few out, right?

We feel no satisfaction AT ALL when we receive a shipment of the final product for a book signing. *yawn* BOR–ING.

Nope, we don’t get excited at all. It’s just another day in the life.

And the sequels? Bitch, please. That’s child’s play.

You’re right. Writing a book is so easy. It’s not stressful, not exciting, and it’s definitely not worth the reward of holding something that USED TO BE EXCLUSIVELY IN YOUR HEAD AND NOW YOU GET TO SHARE IT WITH THE WHOLE WORLD.

[poor-student-blog]

THIS IS THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN

[poor-student-blog]

people seem to have trouble understanding why i’m an anti-capitalist, so i’m going to try and put it into simple, real-life terms.

i work at a restaurant. i make $12 an hour, plus tips. minimum wage where i live is relatively high for my country - the national minimum wage is $7.25/hr, and has not been raised since 2009. before taxes, working full time, my yearly income is about $22,000 a year. ($25,000 if you count tips)

at my job, we sell various dishes, with an average price of about $10-$15. we get printouts every week detailing how much money we made that week; in one week, our restaurant makes about $30,000. (one of our other locations actually makes this much on a daily basis!)

i’m not going to go into details, but after the costs of production (payroll for employees, rent for the building, maintenance, and wholesale food purchasing) are accounted for, the restaurant makes an estimated profit of $20,000 per week.

this profit goes directly to the owner, who does not work at this location. the owner of my restaurant has actually been on vacation for a few months, but still profits from the restaurant, because they own it. i have met the owner exactly twice in my year of working here.

to put this into perspective, the owner of this restaurant earns in 2 days what they pay me in one year. and that’s just from this single location - the owner has several other restaurants, all of which make more money than the one i work at. this ends up resulting in the owner having an estimated net worth of tens of millions of dollars, even after accounting for the payroll for every single worker in their employ.

now, i have to ask you: does the owner of my restaurant deserve this income? did they earn it? did their labor result in this value being created?

the naive answer would be “yes”; the owner purchased the location and arranged for the raw ingredients to be delivered, did they not?

the actual answer is “no”. the owner may have used their initial capital to start the location, but the profit is a result of my labor, and the labor of my co-workers.

the owner purchases rice at a very low bulk price of about 25 cents a pound. i cook the rice, and within a few minutes, that pound of rice is suddenly worth about $30. the owner did not create this value, i did. the owner simply provided the initial capital investment required to start the process.

what needs to be understood here is that capitalists do not create value. they use the labor of their employees to create value, and then take the excess profit and keep it.

what needs to be understood is that capitalists accrue income by already HAVING money. the owner of my restaurant was only able to get this far because they started off, from the very beginning, with enough money to purchase a building, purchase food in bulk, and hire hundreds of employees.

that is to say: the rich get richer, and they do so by exploiting the labor of the poor.

the owner of my restaurant could afford to triple the income of every single person in their employee if they felt like it, but this would mean that they were generating less profit for themselves, so they do not.

the owner of my restaurant pays me the current minimum wage of my area, because to them, i am not a person. i am an investment. i am an asset. i am a means to create more money. 

when you are paid minimum wage, the message your boss is sending you is this: “legally, if i could pay you less, i would.”

every capitalist on the planet exploits their workers for their own gain. every capitalist, even the small business owners, forces people to stay in poverty so that the capitalist can profit.

[poor-student-blog]

au where i’m not a useless piece of shit

[poor-student-blog]

Vintage women being badass. You’re welcome.

[poor-student-blog]

People need to realize that there’s a difference between straight people and Straight People™

[poor-student-blog]

isn’t it weird that you can have friends but also have no friends at the same time

[poor-student-blog]

Doubt

"doubt rears its ugly head and roars the sound echoing through my brain drowning out any other thoughts i slow down as i am reminded of how anything everything can go so horribly wrong the monster and i battle and what should i listen to? go on to experience it or stop because everything will go wrong? the monster roars once more and i flinch the monster threatens to eat away at me and i stop. "

#poem #poetry #self doubt #doubt #anxiety

[poor-student-blog]

i used to only hate my body but now i hate who i am as a person too lol

[poor-student-blog]

do u ever do something mildly impolite like not give a nice goodbye or not hold a door and spend the rest of the day thinking about it

[poor-student-blog]

i was havin a great time until i remembered that i was ugly

[poor-student-blog]

fictional kiss things that end me

being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward

one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other

pressing their foreheads together while kissing

speaking normally, then after the kiss their voice is hoarse

guys furrowing their brow when kissing passionately

staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

running their thumb over the other’s lips

when they lean forward a fraction as if to kiss the other person, then realize they shouldn’t and pull back to stop themselves

ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close

one sliding their hand into the other’s hair slowly

their entire body freezing for a second when their love kisses them

accidentally being forced inches apart from each other, staring at each other’s lips, and just before they kiss someone pulls them back apart

when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

then licks their lips and says “please”

[poor-student-blog]

quick doodle of V being all like AYYY YO

[poor-student-blog]

here’s to those who didn’t make it to 2017 and here’s to those who didn’t think they’d make it to 2017