We walked to the large room at the end of the hall, and entered the raas dance competition. For some reason we were performing with another team on stage, where one of us would perform with half the stage and then the other would perform. We were second to go, and we performed an awesome routine, but then we finished up by doing stomp without any music. There was only one aunty judge there, and she yelled, "your time is up!!!" really loudly (there were also no audience members and the lights in the room were on). So we finished our second stomp routine and I stood up awkwardly and gave a superfast Japanese bow.

Then the curtains closed and the other team had their mouths agape and said, "Wow, they're going to win." But the judge came through the closed curtains to bring us food because apparently she was literally the aunt of some girl on our team. We were worried that would look weird to the other team, but I woke up soon after that.

The way to work involves a lot of walking through a residential neighborhood in Cambridge. I've noticed that everybody walks faster than I do. It's a strange phenomenon, but for whatever reason, all the other suits and dress shirts pass me constantly. I've always thought my parents walk pretty slowly, and drive pretty slowly for that matter.

We descended from 33,000 feet to find ourselves on a landing strip, only one other landing strip away from the water. "Welcome to Boston, we hope you enjoy your stay in Boston or wherever your final destination may be," cracked the pilot. "Have fun here!" one passenger said to another. A couple that sat behind me was going to Boston College for their daughter's orientation day. A girl that sat across the isle from me was here to surprise her father - for Father's Day.

After walking down the small terminal corridors and arriving at the baggage claim in the basement, I grabbed Di's suitcase and looked around. There was a Mass Transit machine. I went up to it. It was touch screen, and presented three different options. I can't remember what they were, but suffice to say it was much more complicated than the good ol' button pressing mechanisms of the CTA card. It also took credit card, which is what I used. I bought a $10 Charlieticket. I think I'll buy a Charliecard next time.

I walked out of the building, and watched the cars and buses pass by, with a Charlieticket in my hand. Where to go? I saw a sign that said I could get to the Red Line using the Silver Line, but I didn't know how to reach the subway. A bus passed by that said Silver Line. I was confused. I asked a uniformed guard how to get to the Silver Line. He pointed at the bus stopping nearby and said, "You better run if you want to catch that!"

Several passengers with large suitcases got on, and off we went. The bus took off, through the various tunnels and bridges at Logan Airport and towards the city. The sun had set. Large buildings, but not skyscrapers, loomed in the near distance as we made our way through more tunnels. Finally we had arrived at South Station, where I first took an elevator up to "Outbound Red Line", before realizing I had to actually take an elevator down to "Inbound Red Line".

The Red Line had seats that faced each other across the aisle. It felt roomy. I liked it. I think the El in Chicago was testing whether to switch to this setup, because I had sat in one of those a few months ago. I liked it then too.

I forgot to mention, on the Silver Line there was no pull string. At one time the bus driver just yelled, "Anyone getting off!?" And the automatic announcer was male, not female. Crazy. On the Red Line, the conductor announced each stop, and there was no "approaching" warning. That was scary.

Getting off the Davis Square stop, I walked out into the most idyllic, lively, square I have ever seen in my life. It was something out of Gilmore Girls, except there were more people sitting around under the street lights, at various benches, hanging out, having a smoke, eating ice cream, and laughing. The cars and buses drove carefully along the narrow streets, and I tried not to get lost.

Fifteen minutes later, my arms were sore but I had arrived at 163 College Avenue. Taruja opened the door for me, and I got acquainted with my room - a twin bed, a desk, and a closet. The dresser was coming later. Taruja is from Drexel, here interning for an insurance broker. She didn't know anyone else in Boston. We walked back to Davis Square, and ate at a small Mexican place - Anna's Taqueria. I had a Super Burrito, Al Pastor.

I went next door to see the other half of the 10 person house (split into duplex with 5 on each side). 4 guys sat around the immediate living room, chilling, watching the Daily Show. I sat, and watched. I talked to Johnny about my rent and furnishings for the apartment. They seemed like pretty funny, outgoing guys. Calvin said whenever I wanted I could go over and chill. Lloyd was quiet. Meacham was funny, but also seemed nice.

I went back to my half, and Suma was cleaning her floor. She's from University of Vermont. I had asked her, "Vermont - that's like north, right?" First impressions are everything. I don't think she likes me very much.

There no Chase banks in Boston, at all. Good morning, Boston.

Last night when I called, he said he really misses me and thinks about me. That never happens. And when I listened, I thought I heard his voice crack. And it made my heart crack.

I asked him when he'll be back. He said, well, Sherry and your mother are coming this summer to visit. I'll probably come back during the holidays.

And then it hit me how much this really sucks. I can't believe it took me this long.

Today was the last day of Spring Break 2010. What an adventure it was! I hate typing long sentences that lead to nowhere. Internet blogs are generally boring.

These are the notes:

• I got an MRI for my knee from an orthopedic specialist. Possible tear in meniscus (since nearly two years ago)? You betcha! Wait, still no diagnosis? Waiting on phone call from Indian doc whose name has escaped me. Leg still hurts. I need it to stop.
• I made a lot of food: dumplings, stir fry, cheesecake, birthday cake. My mom went to the doctors and as it turns out her hand needs to be in a cast for another two weeks (owing to a torn ligament in hand from self-injury: her reaction from a semi backing up towards her was to quickly jam her hand against the steering wheel)
• Went to see a dance competition (Nachle Express). Got to see familiar faces and my friend Hemal's team UIUC Fizaa win.
• Heard about my choir group conductor's daughter being involved in a horrible accident (which really still is in my mind).

This upcoming week is show week for SASA, and first week of spring quarter -- hurray!

My mom took me to Toys 'R Us and told me that I could pick any toy that I wanted. I don't remember the exact thought process that brought me there, but I ended up in the aisle with all types of colorful watches for children. I probably wanted a watch when I was young, I remember associating watch-wearing with adulthood.

And after we had bought it, I remember her remarking to my dad how surprised she was that it was all that I wanted. And it was. I was absolutely in love with the watch, and played with it any opportunity that I had. I wore it to school all the time, and had it on when I played outside. One afternoon, while playing on my neighbor Jeff's swing set, the Mighty Max figure fell out onto the grass, and was forever lost. That was quite the traumatic experience for me, since I adored that thing.

Not surprisingly, the watch was not the same without Max. It was 1996, at the start of my second year in the United States. Not very often nowadays do I treasure objects as much as I did toward that watch. Rosebud.

They're funny because everything seems to make sense in the heat of the moment, and the next moment when all is settled, we find little rationality for quarreling itself. Certainly, the cause for dispute can be life-or-death, but when two people get into a quarrel, it takes a life of its own that almost seems disconnected with the original cause in the first place.

A quarrel between siblings is a prime example. Last year, Sherry and I got into a quarrel regarding who left the door open to my room. My room happens to be the most well insulated room in the entire house, for whatever reason, and I love to leave the door closed so that it's nice and toasty. Well, this argument quickly got out of hand (picture in your mind a 20 year old guy and a 15 year old girl screaming at each others' faces) and resulted in us not talking for the next half hour. Now, I'm not one to hold onto grudges (some would disagree), so I didn't remember this instance, but Sherry told me about it.

And she said something that we all universally feel about quarrels after the fact: "It was stupid."

But the thing that bothers me about quarrels is the need to not only vindicate one's position, but come out on top. For when we get into truly emotional and irrational disagreement, we develop an unquenchable desire to prove the righteousness of our own position, all the while attempting to impose our version of reality and truth unto someone else.

And while the wise will destroy the budding weed of pride, most often we unconsciously allow ourselves to falter to this sinister nature of man, this sin. And when all is lost, there is nothing to win. Nobody wins.

I've been taking the train home and back on a regular basis every few months for over five years now. Every time, the trip is a little different.

The nicest train rides are when I get to have two neighboring seats to myself. Honestly, who likes to sit next to a stranger for a 7+ hour train ride? When I have two seats to myself, if I felt like sprawling out and taking a nap, I have that option. Other times, it's nice to be able to just enjoy watching a movie or reading a book by myself for the entire time.

Of course, there's no denying that sitting in one position for such a long time is also a tragic experience. There's no alternative for cramps or restlessness other than to walk up and down the isles of the train, pretending to have some serious matters that needs attending. Likewise, other passengers on the car watch you as you stroll by, praying for the most interesting thing to occur, for you to trip or lose your balance. The mind numbs, the body wastes!

When someone does sit down next to me, they have a choice of whether to initiate conversation. The opportunity is quite interesting, because upon sitting down, the two parties are inescapably held next to one another for the next several hours, at a distance within the typical comfort zone of most North American males, especially me.

I've always felt that the other individual has held that choice of conversation -- I sure as heck avoid all chances to put at risk my emotional and mental well-being for the next several hours. And when they choose to talk, I always encounter some interesting individuals. In one home-bound trip my senior year of high school, a young woman spoke to me incessantly about her boyfriend, her job problems, and her family life. Another time, a senior business executive on his commute home from work spoke non-stop about his opinions of the government of China, his feelings about politics and health reform, and his love of Sarah Palin.

On Friday, the train was delayed two hours, and I got home at around 2:30 in the morning. I typically get home before midnight. Halfway through the trip, an old woman asked kindly to sit next to me, to whom I of course obliged. Her restless body shifted and jerked next to me for the entirety of the three hours of her leg of the trip. She asked about me, whether I went to school, if I was going home for the holidays. I spoke to her, and found out that she was a retired saleswoman for a paper company -- The Office came to mind. She was visiting her son's family for a week for the holidays. She lives alone -- with a caretaker who comes by occasionally because she has Huntington's disease. I helped her open her can of root beer, because her hands couldn't sit steady for long enough to open it. I helped her get up, because her frail legs would not push for long enough to support her body. And she confessed to being lonely. And despite all of this, I struggled at finding the right words to keep a conversation with her, to be a kind human being and engage in a warm conversation that would last a little bit longer than the first five artificial minutes.

And now I wonder if it's best for me to sit alone on the train.

Well, I decided to bend over for my narcissistic impulses and registered a domain under my own name (including my middle initial, since apparently some Asian man in Naperville has the same name as me; however at the time of this writing the domain is not being utilized to its full potential). If my history in blogging is any indication for how this new site will turn out, then I might as well give up already. But if there is some hope that I can write consistently and write well, then perhaps this deserves - nay - demands greater attention.