Cynic: \ˈsi-nik\ (noun): a person who believes that people are motivated purely by self-interest rather than acting for honorable or unselfish reasons.

I posted that definition in one of my first entries. For now, think of it as a topic or subject to remember.

Christ, for someone who takes pride in not falling apart, I'm doing a pretty terrible job of it. To me, nothing is more annoying than a person who hates themselves, is aware of it, and does nothing to change. Now, I wouldn't go as far as saying I hate myself (on the contrary, I think I'm rather amazing), but it would be hypocritical to say I've been pleased with my own behavior. I received a few comments and a bunch of notes after posting my last journal entry, most of them being in the tone you would think to receive after just being hospitalized. For that, thank you, everyone, for all of your concern and support. There was however, one comment I attribute the writing of this entry to. "That's a very good way to think about it. You know? I don't think I've ever met someone who thinks about the things that happen the way you do." they said, in reference to what I suppose would be my resilience. With that, I want to share a small, yet important, memory of mine.

It's strange to say, but when I was eight years old, I really wasn't to different than I am now. It may even be wishful thinking to say I've grown as a writer, but let's not dwell on the little things. With only one hand to type with, I'd really like to keep this short. So we have an eight year old Suki, a third grade writing assignment, and a semi-stereotypical bitchy teacher. Late in the year, we were charged with the task to write our own creative stories on the topic of our choosing. Having been taking my writing seriously for a year or so, I thought of the project as my glorious debut, a display of my remarkable penmanship in the void of mediocrity. Needless to say, I was so excited, I ignored the direction whilst brainstorming in class. When the due date came by, I strolled into class in a way I can only classify as annoyingly gleeful. Looking over my four page masterpiece, freshly printed and cleanly stapled, our teacher, being the lazy bitch she was, prompted us to trade papers with our neighbors for a short peer critique. Reading over a poorly executed paragraph of what I assume was the English language, I turned to find my instructor standing over me. To be brief, I ran out of the room in tears, having been told I failed the assignment for disregarding two rules: writing in the first person and exceeding the word limit by 6 or 7 times. I couldn't understand her reasoning, it simply didn't make sense to me. My work was well entertaining, well written (Hell, it was even a little witty). I was actually chased down and dragged back to class from the bathroom, ridiculed and shamed in front of the rest of my classmates. It was one of the worst days of my life. With my parents out of town, I had been staying with my cousin's family (The same cousin as mentioned in my previous entries). Out of farther embarrassment, I refused to tell anyone what happened, locking myself in the guest room. Using her nine year old powers of deduction, my cousin, Alex, knocked on the door to bring me some sweets. Quite clearly, she knew my weakness. Upon revealing my plight and receiving her console, she told me that I had already done enough crying for the day. When I asked her what she meant, she told me that it's okay to cry, but continuing anymore would only be a waste of time. That night, we both stayed up several hours later than normal to write a letter to my teacher, an argument in my defense, really. It's amazing how much more mature she was back then.

What happened next? If you really want to know, I'll need some journal comments, but I'm sure you can pick out the meaning of this story. It's the reason why I refuse to sulk about the same thing for any more than a day. Even writing that story has helped to improve my mood to an extent since the beginning of this entry. For now, I'll take my leave, as it's 6am and I'm yet to sleep.