Late night dissertation writing sessions.

i am in severe distress. i am vibing. i am king of the world. i am bored. i am lost at sea. i am making coffee. i am foraging in the forest. i am making tea. i am chasing pigeons. i am napping in a chair

how i'd like to spend every night: reading and eating cake in bed

A diary of my pandemic experience

Note: I am privileged to not have lost my job, worried about finances, or lost anyone I personally know during the pandemic so far. This post is mostly track each month of the pandemic so that I can remember these times later on. tw // mental health.

In March, we tour campus with the admitted PhD students. I eat brick toast with a friend in SF. He tells me a story of a co-worker taking a work call on a sidewalk, because their apartment is too small for multiple people to take calls at the same time. I try boba cake with friends, indoors in a shop, a few days later. I walk along the beach near Half Moon Bay, and stop by a plant nursery on Highway 92. Classes become fully remote. I adopt a garden snail.

In April, we figure out how to entertain ourselves with entirely outdoor activities. We visit gardens. We take walks. Make pad thai at home. I bake banana bread, but I baked banana bread before the pandemic, too. I see so many different wildflowers on hikes. My mom delivers me some succulents in a box. I learn to make smoothies.

In May, it seems like the whole idea that this will be over soon, over in two weeks, in just a bit, is fading. I take care of my plants and my snail. I try boba popsicles, and grow green onions at home. Social media is my only window into the world, and it is plastered with images of police brutality, protests, and uncertainty.

In June, it’s peach season. I make spring rolls and plant more succulents. I worry about pandemic weight gain. I make salads and workout at home. I renovate the yard of a homeless center, pivoting my energy from my plants at home to something that can be shared. I take progress pictures, studiously watch gardening videos on Youtube, and drive around the Bay to pick up boxes of donations. I’m also a Facebook Marketplace plant dealer from home, selling house plants that I can’t plant outdoors. I struggle to stay focused during work, because the Internet has many rabbit holes for me to channel my anxieties. I revamp my wardrobe, and acquire pen pals. My snail escapes, leading to several hours of worry until they’re finally found in my closet, injured but alive.

In July, my snail dies. I indulge in tea. I purchase new flavors to try, organizing them meticulously in a Google Sheet. The yard renovation is nearly complete. Lobster is cheap due to the pandemic; we buy and enjoy some from an Asian grocery store. Pandemic dining has evolved, with exciting takeout bundles to try. I collect cute enamel pins, and order more plants off the Internet.

In August, I consider moving. I’m enchanted by places in the Bay with less city, more water. I attend a virtual wedding. I get a Switch to finally play Animal Crossing. I watch a Youtube video about how the universe will one day cease to exist, stirring existential crises I hadn’t had before. I help a friend move out during her breakup, pushing a shopping cart of luggage and boxes in a parking lot late at night in Palo Alto, in an apartment complex filled with old memories.

In September, I move amid smoke season. I pack up my life on my own, after several donation runs to reduce the weight. A pen pal visits. I walk the beach at sunset in my new home. The power goes out on the first night, and we eat In-N-Out by candlelight. The sky, everything, is orange. I refresh the air quality website hourly. We discover the joys of homemade hot pot. My air purifier’s filter is filthy.

In October, we enjoy the leftover mooncakes still up for sale. It’s pumpkin patch season, and I make pie dotted with chocolate chips. I arrange a new succulent bed at the homeless center. I order macarons on my birthday, and visit a purple beach in Big Sur. My personal plant business thrives less and attracts fewer customers in my new home, so I stop selling.

In November, I struggle with the shorter days and dark apartment. The existential crisis that started in August creeps slowly into everything I do. I endlessly read about death on the Internet, and I cannot stop thinking about it. The election makes us all hold our breaths. I try to learn how to play a ukulele. We have Peking duck for Thanksgiving. Every once in awhile I announce that my existential crisis is over, but it’s always a false alarm. I pull out my bike from retirement and ride it on the island.

In December, I have a tea advent calendar, but I drink the teas out of order. My bike gets stolen. This was a hard, dark month.

In January, I say I want to keep up the Christmas spirit as a New Year’s resolution. I hike my favorite hike near Mt. Tam, and we have cocktail flights and appetizers delivered. I wonder what my mind was like before the pandemic, before existentialism plagued every thought I had. I work outdoors in chilly weather to increase my dosage of vitamin D. I learn what “derealization” means. I relearn that humans are not just figures on a screen, and try to retrust my surroundings. I try Korean corn dogs and make sushi at home. Some people are starting to get vaccinated. I visit one of my best friends from college, and he’s saddened by the shortness of our evening walk. So, we follow that up with another adventure together on another day, seeking  free pizza, getting lost, and unintentionally climbing up to Coit Tower. I like to think of these little quirks in life as evidence of God’s creativity and humor. I seek solace in religion.

In February, we hike Mt. Diablo. I make a bouquet of cheese, because flowers die too quickly and you can’t even eat them. I’m nostalgic for the community I had in college, but maybe I’m just nostalgic for community in general. I soak in the sunlight that we’re gaining each day.

In March, we visit Carmel. I renovate my apartment, and endlessly plan ways to brighten it to offset the darkness that shrouds my existential thoughts and my fear of lonely weeks. I get my first dose of the vaccine. The days are brighter and longer. I reach out to others and reconnect with friends over spring break. I want to feel like I felt in 2019.

A diary of my pandemic experience

Note: I am privileged to not have lost my job, worried about finances, or lost anyone I personally know during the pandemic so far. This post is mostly track each month of the pandemic so that I can remember these times later on. tw // mental health.

In March, we tour campus with the admitted PhD students. I eat brick toast with a friend in SF. He tells me a story of a co-worker taking a work call on a sidewalk, because their apartment is too small for multiple people to take calls at the same time. I try boba cake with friends, indoors in a shop, a few days later. I walk along the beach near Half Moon Bay, and stop by a plant nursery on Highway 92. Classes become fully remote. I adopt a garden snail.

In April, we figure out how to entertain ourselves with entirely outdoor activities. We visit gardens. We take walks. Make pad thai at home. I bake banana bread, but I baked banana bread before the pandemic, too. I see so many different wildflowers on hikes. My mom delivers me some succulents in a box. I learn to make smoothies.

In May, it seems like the whole idea that this will be over soon, over in two weeks, in just a bit, is fading. I take care of my plants and my snail. I try boba popsicles, and grow green onions at home. Social media is my only window into the world, and it is plastered with images of police brutality, protests, and uncertainty.

In June, it’s peach season. I make spring rolls and plant more succulents. I worry about pandemic weight gain. I make salads and workout at home. I renovate the yard of a homeless center, pivoting my energy from my plants at home to something that can be shared. I take progress pictures, studiously watch gardening videos on Youtube, and drive around the Bay to pick up boxes of donations. I’m also a Facebook Marketplace plant dealer from home, selling house plants that I can’t plant outdoors. I struggle to stay focused during work, because the Internet has many rabbit holes for me to channel my anxieties. I revamp my wardrobe, and acquire pen pals. My snail escapes, leading to several hours of worry until they’re finally found in my closet, injured but alive.

In July, my snail dies. I indulge in tea. I purchase new flavors to try, organizing them meticulously in a Google Sheet. The yard renovation is nearly complete. Lobster is cheap due to the pandemic; we buy and enjoy some from an Asian grocery store. Pandemic dining has evolved, with exciting takeout bundles to try. I collect cute enamel pins, and order more plants off the Internet.

In August, I consider moving. I’m enchanted by places in the Bay with less city, more water. I attend a virtual wedding. I get a Switch to finally play Animal Crossing. I watch a Youtube video about how the universe will one day cease to exist, stirring existential crises I hadn’t had before. I help a friend move out during her breakup, pushing a shopping cart of luggage and boxes in a parking lot late at night in Palo Alto, in an apartment complex filled with old memories.

In September, I move amid smoke season. I pack up my life on my own, after several donation runs to reduce the weight. A pen pal visits. I walk the beach at sunset in my new home. The power goes out on the first night, and we eat In-N-Out by candlelight. The sky, everything, is orange. I refresh the air quality website hourly. We discover the joys of homemade hot pot. My air purifier’s filter is filthy.

In October, we enjoy the leftover mooncakes still up for sale. It’s pumpkin patch season, and I make pie dotted with chocolate chips. I arrange a new succulent bed at the homeless center. I order macarons on my birthday, and visit a purple beach in Big Sur. My personal plant business thrives less and attracts fewer customers in my new home, so I stop selling.

In November, I struggle with the shorter days and dark apartment. The existential crisis that started in August creeps slowly into everything I do. I endlessly read about death on the Internet, and I cannot stop thinking about it. The election makes us all hold our breaths. I try to learn how to play a ukulele. We have Peking duck for Thanksgiving. Every once in awhile I announce that my existential crisis is over, but it’s always a false alarm. I pull out my bike from retirement and ride it on the island.

In December, I have a tea advent calendar, but I drink the teas out of order. My bike gets stolen. This was a hard, dark month.

In January, I say I want to keep up the Christmas spirit as a New Year’s resolution. I hike my favorite hike near Mt. Tam, and we have cocktail flights and appetizers delivered. I wonder what my mind was like before the pandemic, before existentialism plagued every thought I had. I work outdoors in chilly weather to increase my dosage of vitamin D. I learn what “derealization” means. I relearn that humans are not just figures on a screen, and try to retrust my surroundings. I try Korean corn dogs and make sushi at home. Some people are starting to get vaccinated. I visit one of my best friends from college, and he’s saddened by the shortness of our evening walk. So, we follow that up with another adventure together on another day, seeking  free pizza, getting lost, and unintentionally climbing up to Coit Tower. I like to think of these little quirks in life as evidence of God’s creativity and humor. I seek solace in religion.

A diary of my pandemic experience

Note: I am privileged to not have lost my job, worried about finances, or lost anyone I personally know during the pandemic so far. This post is mostly track each month of the pandemic so that I can remember these times later on. tw // mental health.

In March, we tour campus with the admitted PhD students. I eat brick toast with a friend in SF. He tells me a story of a co-worker taking a work call on a sidewalk, because their apartment is too small for multiple people to take calls at the same time. I try boba cake with friends, indoors in a shop, a few days later. I walk along the beach near Half Moon Bay, and stop by a plant nursery on Highway 92. Classes become fully remote. I adopt a garden snail.

In April, we figure out how to entertain ourselves with entirely outdoor activities. We visit gardens. We take walks. Make pad thai at home. I bake banana bread, but I baked banana bread before the pandemic, too. I see so many different wildflowers on hikes. My mom delivers me some succulents in a box. I learn to make smoothies.

In May, it seems like the whole idea that this will be over soon, over in two weeks, in just a bit, is fading. I take care of my plants and my snail. I try boba popsicles, and grow green onions at home. Social media is my only window into the world, and it is plastered with images of police brutality, protests, and uncertainty.

In June, it’s peach season. I make spring rolls and plant more succulents. I worry about pandemic weight gain. I make salads and workout at home. I renovate the yard of a homeless center, pivoting my energy from my plants at home to something that can be shared. I take progress pictures, studiously watch gardening videos on Youtube, and drive around the Bay to pick up boxes of donations. I’m also a Facebook Marketplace plant dealer from home, selling house plants that I can’t plant outdoors. I struggle to stay focused during work, because the Internet has many rabbit holes for me to channel my anxieties. I revamp my wardrobe, and acquire pen pals. My snail escapes, leading to several hours of worry until they’re finally found in my closet, injured but alive.

In July, my snail dies. I indulge in tea. I purchase new flavors to try, organizing them meticulously in a Google Sheet. The yard renovation is nearly complete. Lobster is cheap due to the pandemic; we buy and enjoy some from an Asian grocery store. Pandemic dining has evolved, with exciting takeout bundles to try. I collect cute enamel pins, and order more plants off the Internet.

In August, I consider moving. I’m enchanted by places in the Bay with less city, more water. I attend a virtual wedding. I get a Switch to finally play Animal Crossing. I watch a Youtube video about how the universe will one day cease to exist, stirring existential crises I hadn’t had before. I help a friend move out during her breakup, pushing a shopping cart of luggage and boxes in a parking lot late at night in Palo Alto, in an apartment complex filled with old memories.

In September, I move amid smoke season. I pack up my life on my own, after several donation runs to reduce the weight. A pen pal visits. I walk the beach at sunset in my new home. The power goes out on the first night, and we eat In-N-Out by candlelight. The sky, everything, is orange. I refresh the air quality website hourly. We discover the joys of homemade hot pot. My air purifier’s filter is filthy.

In October, we enjoy the leftover mooncakes still up for sale. It’s pumpkin patch season, and I make pie dotted with chocolate chips. I arrange a new succulent bed at the homeless center. I order macarons on my birthday, and visit a purple beach in Big Sur. My personal plant business thrives less and attracts fewer customers in my new home, so I stop selling.

A diary of my pandemic experience

Note: I am privileged to not have lost my job, worried about finances, or lost anyone I personally know during the pandemic so far. This post is mostly track each month of the pandemic so that I can remember these times later on. tw // mental health.

In March, we tour campus with the admitted PhD students. I eat brick toast with a friend in SF. He tells me a story of a co-worker taking a work call on a sidewalk, because their apartment is too small for multiple people to take calls at the same time. I try boba cake with friends, indoors in a shop, a few days later. I walk along the beach near Half Moon Bay, and stop by a plant nursery on Highway 92. Classes become fully remote. I adopt a garden snail.

In April, we figure out how to entertain ourselves with entirely outdoor activities. We visit gardens. We take walks. Make pad thai at home. I bake banana bread, but I baked banana bread before the pandemic, too. I see so many different wildflowers on hikes. My mom delivers me some succulents in a box. I learn to make smoothies.

In May, it seems like the whole idea that this will be over soon, over in two weeks, in just a bit, is fading. I take care of my plants and my snail. I try boba popsicles, and grow green onions at home. Social media is my only window into the world, and it is plastered with images of police brutality, protests, and uncertainty.

In June, it’s peach season. I make spring rolls and plant more succulents. I worry about pandemic weight gain. I make salads and workout at home. I renovate the yard of a homeless center, pivoting my energy from my plants at home to something that can be shared. I take progress pictures, studiously watch gardening videos on Youtube, and drive around the Bay to pick up boxes of donations. I’m also a Facebook Marketplace plant dealer from home, selling house plants that I can’t plant outdoors. I struggle to stay focused during work, because the Internet has many rabbit holes for me to channel my anxieties. I revamp my wardrobe, and acquire pen pals. My snail escapes, leading to several hours of worry until they’re finally found in my closet, injured but alive.

In July, my snail dies. I indulge in tea. I purchase new flavors to try, organizing them meticulously in a Google Sheet. The yard renovation is nearly complete. Lobster is cheap due to the pandemic; we buy and enjoy some from an Asian grocery store. Pandemic dining has evolved, with exciting takeout bundles to try. I collect cute enamel pins, and order more plants off the Internet.

This is what book-nerds dream of

current mood

college is like *gets an email* *walks somewhere* *realizes u left ur water bottle at home* *walks somewhere* *walks somewhere* *gets an email* *gets an email*

Relevant question.