Those unfamiliar with lomography might recognize the photographic styles in the popular copy-cat smartphone apps Instagram and Hipstamatic. Lomography—the artistic movement of using low-fidelity, analogue "toy cameras" to produce photos with vintage imperfections—is one of the hottest new hobbies. While smartphone apps provide instant gratification, there is still something romantic about going analogue. Unfortunately, for an amateur photographer (I'm sure DLSR shooters are rolling on the ground laughing), the costs of shooting a toy camera can seem pretty steep!

I am not the greatest photographer, but as an ex-fundraising chair and special events planner, I am really good at scouting out deals when I put my mind to it. Here, I'm sharing how I was able to start shooting a toy camera for approximately 50% of the retail price!

Buying A Camera

**All prices listed are for the camera only, no add-ons!

1. CHOOSING THE RIGHT MODEL

Go the whole nine yards! »

With the proliferation of internet self-publishing, a lot of the time I read articles which are chock full of great ideas but feature fairly lackluster writing. Not so with this down-to-earth guest post by Fraylie Nord on the need to foster "co-independency" in relationships. I wish I could write half as intelligently!

Colbert interviews can be a hit or miss for me, even though I love his show, because he tends to overrun his guests, and many of them can't keep up with his barrage of jokes. I love that Bonnie Raitt lets Colbert run the interview but puts in her own well-timed one liners here and there. I've always listened to her on my parents' radio but I never knew Bonnie Raitt was so cute! And of course, the music is great!

Check out this typography! Even though I'm not in love with the font itself, I can't help but gawk at what they've done with it... Speaking of which, you know what would go well with milk? Red Velvet S'mores Brownies. Aww yeahh....!

And if that's got your creative juices flowing, take a stab at this do-it-yourself guide to building your own terrarium. Supposedly, if you take necessary precautions (good drainage, mold-resistant soil), these terrariums can be almost entirely self sustaining! Pretty cool, huh? The biology major in me gets giddy just thinking about it.

Awhile ago, I started drawing these mini-sketches in order to cheer up a friend who was stressed out over schoolwork. I called it "Panda Therapy." I've decided to share them so everyone can get a bit of panda love! Here are a few of my favorites.

And yes. An all-consuming need to draw pandas is one of the reasons I dropped $80 on a graphics tablet… Let me know what stresses you out! Maybe we'll see more of Therapy Panda in the future!!

Okay, I'm off to bed. Good luck on midterms & such! :)

Most people who attend Bon Iver concerts pay to hear Justin Vernon's deep, grainy croon and woodsy falsetto. But for me, a special place in my heart will always be reserved from background vocalist and supporting guitarist Michael Noyce.

Bon Iver's seminal work, the album For Emma, is one of the most honest and raw pieces of music ever produced. While some music is impressive because of the musicians' technical proficiency, Bon Iver's music became iconic due to its added ability to communicate shades of emotional grey with little more than an acoustic guitar and a microphone.

True to the tone set in For Emma, Mike's unaltered voice is penetrating and evocative. It's no wonder why Justin-as-guitar/songwriting-teacher established such a close relationship with his student Mike. Six years younger than his instructor and soon-to-be bandmate, Mike began working with Justin early on in his musical development (four years starting high school). As a result, the timbre of their work matured together and he blends in so seamlessly that it's often hard to make out Mike in the full band.

Though Mike tends to remain in the background of Bon Iver, it's hard not to feel connected to his story and his music. After being recruited to the then-unknown Bon Iver, Mike dropped out in the middle of his sophomore year in college (serious cahones!) to go on tour with Justin. The fact that he is also absolutely adorable (see dorkiness above) is just an added bonus!

The moments where Mike takes up the lead vocals—rare as it is—are no doubt some of my favorite moments in the history of music. Seriously. I just die.

Below, Mike covers the Graham Nash classic, "Simple Man."

With performances as flawless as this, we will undoubtedly see more of Mike in the future. For now, you can see more of Mike by scouring Bon Iver/GAYNGS lives (his Bon Iver cover of Jayhawke's "Tampa to Tulsa" is one of my favorites), tracking down his Haiti relief track "Arrested," and checking out his feature on the new Poliça album.

At some point in this blog's lifetime, my posts became less and less about my personal life and more about putting up posts that 1) wouldn't embarrass me, and 2) tackled broader intellectual and social issues. While I'm sure both moves are part of the natural maturation of my writing, it also sucked all the fun out of blogging, making it more of a chore than a hobby.

In fact, I don't think I've written a real post since I wrote about withdrawing from the Peace Corps. Yikes! So I'm going back to basics and putting myself back into the equation... that means more posts about topics I can't claim any expertise in!

See you tomorrow!

Even though I will resent and blame you for it, it'll be simultaneously both and none of our faults. We will grow apart.

I'm lying on your stomach, a pen in hand. I'm fixing your bizarre tattoo. It begins to wrap around your hip, climb through your ribcage. It holds your body in, keeps you safe for me hugged by these branches, like fingers running over your skin.

Currently cleaning out my room to make space for 4 years worth of college memories.

- - - -

I hate the way he smiles, the way he walks, the way his clothes hang off him like the skin of a decaying elephant. I hate his voice, his left shoe, his posture.

the acting, feeling,

living human individual.a sense of disorientation and confusionfashionablea way to reassert:

the crisis of human existencethough neither used the term

- - - -Reappropriated source.

It's hard to describe the sort of impatience I feel as my college years come to an end. In a way, I am still in denial, trying to ignore the fact that if I had had it any other way I would have stayed. Maybe not forever, but at least to the end of the term.

And maybe it's not the leaving that's hard, but the lack of closure. There isn't going to be a cap and gown (as archaic as I really think that is). But most of all, there isn't going to be a goodbye.

How do you bid an entire lifestyle, an entire identification goodbye?

UCSD has been more than a home. It's been a kind of way-house between two struggling sides of myself. Trying to pull my shit together; trying to be something more than I knew how to be; trying to prepare for a future that I could never have prepared for; feeling lost, feeling found, feeling lost once more; becoming the person I am today and all the changes subtle yet great.

And I have loved the place with such reckless abandon--the kind of reckless abandon you grant the thing you think will save you, set you up for some better future, the sunshine you think you see on the horizon.

So I struggle on. Settling into the abandon and the confusion that comes hand-in-hand with any half-assed farewell. Try to forgive the transgressions it has made against me. Trying to quell the feeling of betrayal. Try to make peace with the things I don't want to miss. Holding on harder to try to make the leaving easier. Bending the impatience to my will, putting it to work and to books and to every new lunch date or sleepover.

I have come to recognize the inevitability of the loose-ends, the goodbyes, the numerous things I will come to miss. Facing that with honesty comes in waves; it comes hard; sometimes it doesn't come at all. And when honesty fails, I trust. A nervous, anxious trust that says not,"It will work out" but, "You will adapt."

And maybe that was the lesson I was meant to learn all along: a lesson in uncertainty and incoherence, a fantastical and senseless way to keep my head above the water--life framed so elegantly by meaning so absurd.

I haven't been posting because I've been spending most of my time wondering why the world isn't in a constant state of existential crisis. At the end of (almost) 4 years at UCSD, I once again find myself faced with the inevitability of having to uproot my life and move it to a place yet to be defined, for a time yet to be defined and only partially of my own choosing.

It's a damn weird feeling. And it would be scary, if that scariness wasn't mostly overtaken by the exhaustion.

I love UCSD. I love my life here. I love the classes I'm taking and the job I'm working and the company I'm keeping. I'm not worried about what will happen when I leave. I'm tired of leaving.

But life keeps moving. And you have to keep moving with it.

I believe that we live very short lives on Earth. I believe that before we go, we have a chance to make things a little better. I believe we choose to do so--choose to be that loaded word “good” in spite of the overwhelming clamor self-interests, simply out of love: love for others and love for the Earth itself. And I believe that when we die, we simply expire like a flame burning out in a puff of smoke, leaving behind an equally short-lived legacy. That’s it. There are no fireworks at the end. The only thing you have to attain is peace of mind. And if you can do horrible things and still find your way there, then there’s nothing to prevent you from doing otherwise. Good for the sake of being good.

I had two of my wisdom teeth pulled last Friday and since then I've been living some sort of intensely unattractive couch-hobo life, so excuse the slightly late post! I figure as long as I finish this before New Year's Day actually ends, whatever deity governs over New Year's resolutions will excuse my procrastination!

Reactivate my Peace Corps application for departure in February 2013.Get a 35+ on my MCAT and never think about organic chemistry again.Learn to drive well enough to give other people rides.Finish my last quarter at UCSD with a 3.8+ GPA and no regrets.Develop something that vaguely resembles a saving account, and then take an entirely self-funded, no-loans vacation!Form friendships with the people in my club.Reconnect with friends with whom I’ve fallen out of touch.Complete the unopened puzzle sitting in my closet.Keep up with new album releases the way I used to before college happened.Re-read The Great Gatsby, The Things They Carried, and East of Eden.Read For Whom the Bell Tolls, A Farewell to Arms, Catch-22, Slaughterhouse-Five, and Of Human Bondage.Put some paint on the graffiti staircase, while dressed as a ninja.Remind myself that I’m 21 and I’m allowed to live a not-quite-figured-out life.Ditch the personal journal (seriously, writing down miseries that aren’t even significant enough to be blog fodder is not therapeutic… it’s called ‘dwelling’ and it’s not helpful).Participate in NanoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). For anyone else who is gearing up to participate, I recommend reading this (http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/10/04/25-things-you-should-know-about-nanowrimo/).Take advantage of all the academic and career counselors on campus.Re-haul and redecorate my room--and yes, that means finally tossing out my high school papers.Make the extremely complicated and intimidating Ethiopian dish, doro wat (http://www.riceandwheat.com/2010/09/doro-wat-ethiopian-spicy-chicken-stew/).Visit Alishan National Park in Taiwan, the only site I did not knock off my to-see list when during my senior trip.Ask my grandma about her life before I lose the chance.Be more brave, more (for)giving, and more honest... in short, be the bigger person I know is still hiding behind all the things I use to holds myself back.Build a time capsule.Happy New Year's, everyone!

It's always the most unexpected moments that I feel the most insubstantial, like when I'm standing in the waiting line of a restaurant, the man standing next to me has the face of some pop star or model, and I'm forced to remember the weird blanched look on my face I caught just before rushing out of the house. I'm digging in my bag for chapstick and making excuses to go to the bathroom so that maybe this handsome stranger won't see me, but once there I look at myself in the mirror and realize that I look fine. Pretty, even.

It doesn't make sense to me, this need to be and feel beautiful. In my head, I know that I have never looked at a friend and thought, "Damn! She ugly!" and that somehow people must feel the same way about me. In my head, I know that I have bigger things to worry about. It doesn't change that horrible feeling of being ugly.

Here's what does.

I think of the people I love most. I think of how much I love the crinkle in their eyes when the smile, the cut and slant of their cheeks, their chewed down nails, the bulges in their hands. I think of that thing their hair does when they've been sleeping and the way their two front teeth peep out when they smile, or the curve of their stomaches and the dry skin at the bottom of their feet. And I think of the way all that is beautiful. How I can't even describe the beauty in those images. I think of how much my heart wants to burst with love and how badly it would hurt if I could never see those things again. I think of how bad a beating I would give these people if they ever told me that those parts of themselves are ugly.

You guys make me brave. And I think you're beautiful.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.

Neil Gaiman

Notification: "Qi" played 40 minutes ago.

Me: Ohmygosh!! No!! She played the cheater word!

Jennifer: ????

Chat from Vicky:

"Sorry, that was gross, lol."

- - - -

I love having friends that get me.

I stretch my arms around you, bringing

my elbows together around your shoulders.

I feel your hands pressing into my back, compressing

the ache in my heart. I hold my breath.

Count the seconds so I know when to let go.

Blink away the moisture in my eye.

Exhale.

Curse myself silently as I

take that cowardly step

out of your embrace.

I'm sitting on the arm of the couch, winding up a string of Christmas lights when it suddenly occurs to me that maybe the purpose of relationships isn't to complete each other or teach each other anything. Maybe it's just as simple as helping each other out with the things we can't do. You can't roll a yarn ball. I can't remember the names of roads. Alright then, let's be friends.

You're always sorry

You're always grateful

You're always wondering what might have been

Then she walks in

And still you're sorry

And still you're grateful

And still you wonder

And still you doubt

And she goes out

Everything's different

Nothing's changed

Only maybe slightly rearranged

You're sorry-grateful

Regretful-happy

Why look for answers

Where none occur?

You always are

What you always were

Which has nothing to do with

All to do with her

You're always sorry

You're always grateful

You hold her thinking

I'm not alone

You're still alone

You don't live for her

You do live with her

You're scared she's starting

To drift away

And scared she'll stay

Good things get better

Bad get worse

Wait, I think I meant that in reverse

You're sorry-grateful

Regretful-happy

Why look for answers

Where none occur

You'll always be

What you always were

Which has nothing to do with

All to do with her

Nothing to do with

All to do with her

Love is more than blind. Love is blind, deaf, dumb and probably shits itself in its sleep.

An uneasy hope guards against the bitter reality. I walk the unsteady line between them. Reality keeps me on the ground; hope takes away the sting.

You know those days where you feel like everything you do is just there to plug in the space between you and the inevitable abyss below you? That even if you cured cancer or walked on the moon, nothing could bridge the distance between you and everything worth giving a damn about?

Oh. That feeling.

No, no! I don't mean it like that. It's just that... well, I feel like that too.

You think it'll get better?

It always does. You know that.

I want you to tell me that you like my hair and I want to know that you like my soul.

I love self-help books. I love self-help books because I'm morbidly fascinated by how full of shit they are.

We pick up a self-help books because we want to know what is wrong with us. We already feel like shit, the books make us feel even more like shit and we think this will help us get out of shit.

Well let me tell you about an old adage: you can't fight shit with shit.

The things with self-help books is that they're always trying to paint a story. Either we're in some sort of spiral of death that requires immediate and drastic self-intervention ("He's just not that into you, stupid bitch," your Sassy Gay Friend says with a swish of his sequined silk scarf), or our miseries are all in our heads and we just need to yoga-think our way out of them ("This truly is the best of all possible worlds!"). That's not the way life works.

The real problem with problems is that we feel the need to overcome them or, at the very least, to not let them get the best of us. We feel the need to take some proactive, damage-controlling steps. I think that if we don't do something, then the problem has won.

Here is what I think:

It's not a contest. You don't need to beat anyone or anything. Some problems are beyond the scope of your physical, mental and emotional limits. It is okay to acknowledge that. It's okay to feel self-pity or rely on a friend or blow snot through a box of tissues.

There is only one thing we are responsible for when we encounter a problem: finding a way to move through it. Moving through it isn't an elegant process. Sometimes it gets messy. Sometimes you drag in people you shouldn't have involved. This is normal.

I believe that deep down inside, even underneath our own false hopes and biases and insecurities, we know what is wrong or not wrong with our relationships and our motivation and our careers. But we stop trusting those intuitions because there's so much information out there telling us what other people think.

Maturity isn't handling a situation in any one way. It's trusting yourself to know the way.

So put down the goddamn books.

From the moment I met you, my entire life began to unravel like a teenage love letter—bumbling, confused, indignant and wretched with hope.

Getting home always feels like stepping into a dream. The streets feel alien, morphed by the night air and the vagueness of my memories. The stacked up boxes in the garage grow and shrink when I am not there, living a life very much separate from mine. The doors creak a little louder than I remember; the carpet is a little softer; my bed a little bigger. The space of my room always seems to hold an air of dormancy in my absence, the sheets are patiently folded for me, the wide expanse of floor opens before me in the glow of the hall.But leaving it seems hyper real. The gleam of the polished airport floors and security machines seems brighter than possible, the walls reach up to peak above me, the clammer is dramatized by the building’s acoustics. The plane is climate-controlled to be perfectly too cold, juxtaposed against the warm, uncomfortable press of other people’s elbows. Behind me, a student laughs too loudly into his phone. Next to me, a man noisily shuffles into the crinkling plastic seats. I am all too aware that I am an inch away from sleeping on his shoulder, but there is nothing I can do to get away. The air hostesses lipstick is too bright, her stretched smile looms over me as she hands me a glossy package of peanuts. The sun in the window gives me a harsh, burning stare; the ground below it, unnatural and enslaved to its symmetric grids of color.

That night, I realized that everything I needed to justify the way I felt about you was there in your voice, and in my voice, and the millions of miles it took for our phone signals to reach each other in space.

I have been thinking about this topic for a long time. I wasn't sure how to start talking about it. I wondered if what I had to say even mattered, or if I had a right to talk about it. Wondered if it was too trivial. Wondered if I would incriminate or alienate or worry someone. Finally, after a week or so, I decided to simply to say nothing. It was easiest. I told myself that it didn't matter what I said or didn't say. That some stories can be buried, should be buried, are better buried.

It's so strange how telling a story can be so difficult.

Today in class we watched I Came to Testify. It is a documentary about the systematic sexual torture of Muslim women during the 1992-1995 Bosnian genocide, and how--for the first time in history--sexual violence because explicitly illegal in international law. Mostly it was about how the survivors of the war finally told their stories: the courage it took to face an international audience, the experiences they survived to tell, and the justice found in telling their story.

The first time rape was prosecuted in an international court.

One of the lawyers who had lead the trial on sexual violence said this:

Rape has always been an undercurrent of war. People talk about "raping and pillaging," and it just becomes a phrase that people don't think about. They just think it's an attack on the civilian population, raping and pillaging. I had heard that in Nuremberg, there was a discussion about whether to bring up the subject of rape because a lot of rape had occurred during and after the war, and someone made a comment: "We don't want a bunch of crying women in the courtroom." If you look at the pictures of Nuremberg, it's mostly men: the defendants, the judges, the prosecutors, the defense lawyers. In that kind of environment, women aren't given a place at the table, even as a witness in many cases.A landmark case. Yet if you look at the Wikipedia page on the Bosnian genocide, there is still only a one word mention of the mass raping of women during the war.

Sex is always a difficult subject to talk about. It's something private, something left for the bedroom. Something taboo. Add in the horror, denial, and shame of sexual violence. The mothers who don't want to tarnish the reputations of their daughters. The husbands who don't want to admit that they could do nothing to help. The victims who have tried so hard to forget.

It isn't surprising that rape is so hard to talk about.

In everyday conversation, we treat it with a certain flippancy. "The exam raped me." "I raped that noob." As if turning it into a joke can make it any less grim. As if making it casual can take away the terror.

I have never been raped. I have never been the victim of a violent crime. To me, violence and terror is an alien concept. Something that I simply do not know, and God willing, may never know.

- - - -

It was snowing that day. The first time I had ever seen snow. It took my breath away. I couldn't stop trying to catch the snowflakes on my overcoat, the only way to hold them without having them melt immediately. I wanted to see what they looked like. They were nothing like the geometric caricatures I cut out on paper.

A friend, a mentor said he would walk with me. He wanted to enjoy the snow too. Besides he said, he needed to get something for his car. It was along the way.

All the while, the snow was falling. Airy little wafers, tumbling down from the night sky. They landed on the brim of my hat, the folds of my scarf. My outstretched hands. But they always melted. Melted when the hit the road, a sleek wet black.

But the cars! The cold metal kept the snow from melting. And there the snow was piled softly. I picked up a handful. I crushed it with my fingers. A snowball. My first one. I lobbed it at my friend. Aiming for his jacket. It crumbled on impact. He hopped back, yelled a HEY! Grabbed fistful of snow and aimed for my head.

We were yelling and screaming and laughing, running in circles around his car while dodging the missiles being launched by the other person. Running, and running, and running. Gasping in the cold air. Stop, I said. I can't breathe. Let's stop. Truce.

Alright, he says. I step away from my hiding spot. I walk over to his side.

Let's go back.

Before I know it, he's on top of me, pushing me into the car, snow shoved in my face. I can't talk. I can't breathe. I'm pinned between a 300 pound, grown man much older than me and the unforgiving, cold frame of his car. This is still snow in my right hand, so I shove it in his face. But I can't see and I can't move any of my other limbs. And I don't know how to tell him to get off me.

All I feel is the terror. The sheer, mind-numbing terror of knowing that I cannot make him let me go. That I have no power. Not even a voice. In this moment, I am completely under his control. I know that even my meager attempt to make him let me go--the snow I'm pushing desperately into his face--is going to fail. My arm is losing strength already. My ribs can't take in air with him on top of me. I can't hear him laughing through the snow and the pounding blood in my veins.

Let me go, my arm says. The only part of my body that can speak for me. But he doesn't hear its message. He thinks this is a game. He thinks this is fun.

I just keep hoping that he will stop. That he will realize that I don't want to be here. That somehow he will feel my fear and let me go.

I don't know how long this lasts. Finally, he lets me go. He is laughing. He is stepping away. Come on, he says. Let's go. I don't look him in the eye. Instead I look at the ground. I feel an obligatory laugh move out of my chest. It says to me, don't make this a big deal. It was just a game. Laugh, it says. Laugh and it will be okay. Laugh and forget that you were afraid. He is your friend. More than that, he is your mentor. You are not afraid of him. How could you be afraid of him? He is a friend. He is still a friend.

But I can't help it. I am so scared.

What happened?

- - - -

Paul Farmer says that it is important to bear witness to the violence of the world.

Paul Farmer is a Harvard anthropologist, an infectious disease specialist, a professor, a clinician and an activist. His work in Haiti has given him more than his fair share of testimonies. Through the deaths of friends and patients, through the military coups and the widespread human rights violations, he has been a voice for the people of Haiti, bearing witness to audiences such as Bill Clinton and the World Health Organization. When he speaks, he tells the stories of the Haitian people. He knows how easily a story is lost. How hard it is for a story to be heard.

Most of all, he knows that a story can change the world. That stories are the only things that can bring together people from all walks of life, and for a moment, help them understand the plight of others far away from them. Stories rise above the barriers of race and language, time and distance. Stories become greater than their speakers. They transmit lived experiences from human to human, shattering the illusions of safety and indifference we build.

This is why media is censored. This is why victims are paid exorbitant out-of-court settlements with gag orders. This is why no politician wanted to see published pictures of soldiers' coffins from Iraq.

Silence can ruin peoples' lives. If the Holocaust taught us anything, it was this.

Silence is more than a legal order. A law the prohibits a book or an image. Silence is in our everyday lives, in the social structures that make certain things okay to talk about and certain things inappropriate. Silence is the viewer on the couch picking a sitcom over the Oxfam ad. Silence is in the way we joke about homosexuality. Silence is wanting to believe something doesn't exist.

- - - -

I'm out of the snow. I'm in the foyer perched on the arm of a couch. Music is blaring in the room behind me. I push away the thoughts about the snow fight. Come dance with me, my friend says. A different friend. His hand is on my waist. Come on, he says, let's dance. I feel his palm in the small of my back, pushing me towards the music. Ever since he broke up with his girlfriend, his hands...

I try to be supportive. I don't want to hurt his feelings or make him feel unattractive. I skirt around the issue. No, I say, maybe later. I don't feel like dancing. An excuse, but mostly I just don't want his hands on me. He leaves me on the couch and goes back onto the dance floor. I stay where I am on the couch, talking to the friends and watching a game of Monopoly. I feel a hand go from the base of my neck, all the down the curve of my spine. He's standing behind me, grinning, making a joke about the way I'm sitting. Acting like I asked for it.

I'm looking at him with no expression of my face. No words in my mouth. Maybe I am channeling emotions from the snow fight, but I feel violated--like an important aspect of our friendship has been breached, but I don't know how to tell him that this is not okay. I don't know how to talk about it without making it a Big Deal.

Don't do that again, says the guy standing next to me. He's looking my friend dead in the face. His voice says, this is not a plea. It is not a request or a favor or a judgment or a warning or a threat.

I hardly know him. But his voice is my voice. It was exactly what I meant to say.

My voice. My body. My safety.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Nothing makes me happier than cooking for people I love and tucking away a good meal, sans TV. Since this year I have the rare privilege of going home to cook for my family, I can hardly hold back my excitement!

For a lot of people, college means Easy Mac and instant noodles, so the fact that I cook from scratch has been a source of bewilderment for many of my acquaintances. I've been called everything from "fancy-pants" to "prairie/pioneer woman" to "just-too-damn-bored," but the truth is, cooking from scratch is a lot simpler than most people think.

To prove it to you, ta-da! I give you "5 Ingredient Thanksgiving." My favorite holiday recipes, all using 5 ingredients or less! (No, I'm not cheating by cutting stuff out! I really don't use more than 5 ingredients!) If you're not going home for the holidays, if you need to cut down on processed foods or if you simply want to learn some quick-and-easy recipes, enjoy!- - - -

Holiday Spice Cranberry Sauce

Prep time: Less than 5 minutesCook time: Less than 10 minutes

This recipe is a combination of my two favorite holiday treats: mulling spices (the blend of cinnamon, cloves, allspice, orange peel that creates "Christmas smell") and cranberry sauce! Since cranberries have such a strong flavor, it really isn't necessary to haul out your whole spice cabinet. A hint of cinnamon is more than enough. I also add some ginger to give it some extra kick and warmth, kind of like how people add cayenne chili powder to hot chocolate!

1 12 oz. package of fresh cranberries1 cup brown sugar (white sugar is ok!)1 cup water (or orange juice)1 tbsp. cinnamon1 tbsp. ground ginger

Directions:Heat water to a gentle boil (small bubbles rising to the top).Add sugar and stir to dissolve.Wash cranberries, removing any that have gone soft.Add cranberries to boiling water.Turn heat down to low-medium and cover with a lid.The cranberries will begin to pop, showing their white insides. Wait until they cook down to a dark, red mush. Stir occasionally.Add cinnamon and ginger to your own taste. You can also add more sugar if you'd like.Take off heat. The sauce will thicken as it cools so don't worry if yours looks a little runny. Pour into a glass jar (I use old tomato sauce cans). Allow the sauce to cool to room temperature before screwing on the lid, or else it will seal on tight!Store in the fridge.Yields approximately 20 oz.

I actually have no idea how long this keeps in the fridge because I always finish it! I add it to chicken, mix it into gravy, have it on breakfast toast, eat it out of the jar...

Go through ModCloth's entire catalogue, add a lot of stuff to my cart and then exit the window before I spend all my money on funny bandaids and designer shoesStress eat until I feel sick, in this order of preference:Chocolate-covered nutsChocolate-covered fruitsChocolate bars with nuts or fruits or toffee or saltApple slicesKettle cornPopcornChips and Pico de GalloFrozen blueberriesFrozen ravioliContinuously sip water with my crazy straw cupPaint my fingernails, repaint them because they don't look good enough or because I screwed them up fidgetingFake-clean my room by shuffling my piles of stuff to different areas of my roomHover around the kitchen, opening the refrigerator periodicallyWrite a lot of half-completed journal entries and blog posts that I have no intention of postingBrainstorm status updates that capture my angst with the perfect mix of self-ridicule and humorWash my face 5-6 times a day (approximately once every two waking hours)Pick at my cuticlesPick at my chapped lipsTwirl my bangsPull out all those weird super curly hairs on my headListen to depressing songs or hyperactive CDs on repeat (Partie Traumatic is a favorite, it's got a very appropriate whininess and desperation)Swear a lot at very inappropriate moments in front of many strangersUse CAPSForget what I'm doing in the middle of a taskGet sickEat the same meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner for many days in a rowSleep inSleep poorlyHave guilt nightmaresDevelop people-hate-me paranoiaIgnore my dirty laundryFeed the paper piles on my desk/under my desk/on other peoples' desksEngage in mindless repetitive motions (right now I'm using my thumbnail to make evenly spaced grooves in my chocolate almonds before eating them)Ride the school shuttles instead of walking, even if walking is much fasterStare into space as if space has the answer to all my problemsRe-watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless MindWrite long, tortuous (love?) letters, stamp them and then shove them into the "forget-to-send" portion my brainFantasize about how not stressed I will be in the future Ignore the fact that I'm never not stressed in the future

Usually I only get in bed to sleep, but something about catching colds makes me extraordinarily fond of my bedsheets. So tonight, when my flatmate nonchalantly lent me the book One Day, I felt compelled to read it out of a combination of guilt (I've read so little since college started) and laziness (too little willpower to do real work).

Perhaps I should just say, first off, that no one should read this book out of some aching need for romance. It's not that kind of book.

Reading One Day is akin to a long bout of people-watching (think Blue Valentine). It's a voyeurism into the lives of two friends, Em and Dex. Their lives are banal, frustrating and ordinary. Any potentially cheesy moments are undercut by the self-doubt in the characters' personal thoughts. But its pertinence comes from exactly these qualities, and the wary calm they find as they grow older.

One Day is a stripped-down narrative of life after graduation, capturing what some social scientists have called the second adolescence. The story is a modern bildungsroman that describes the coming of age that occurs after--long after--teenage years: the struggle and shock of finding a place in society after a life of booze and academia; coping with but trying to leave jobs one comes to hate; and falling in various degrees of love fueled by some combination of jealousy, obligation and loneliness.

The novel leaves you feeling lost and indecisive and somewhat anxious. But in spite of that--in spite of all the aimlessness and the futility and the half-realized hopes--I can't help but hope that my life plays out with half the bumbling affection that Em and Dex are able to retain, that one day I will share the same sort of fragile safety that comes with meeting the person you love.

- - - -Thank you Katie for the CD and the card reminding me to get back on track with my 21 things. At first I didn't get your present, but after I read the card I felt really touched. It's weird how I think of most of my to-do lists as solitary endeavors. Getting your present reminded me that personal growth doesn't necessarily need to come out of acting alone. Growing up is always better with friends!

Thank you for informing the Placement and Assessment Office that you have decided to withdraw your Peace Corps application. Should your interests change within the next year, I have included the instructions for reactivating your application. You must request reactivation of your application within one year of today; otherwise your file will be shredded.

Please keep in mind that reactivation is never a guarantee and is assessed on a case-by-case basis.

To request reactivation, please contact the Education Placement Desk by emailing educationplacement@peacecorps.gov. You will then be prompted to provide the Placement Office with some additional documents.

Upon receiving this information, a Placement Specialist will review it along with your application and let you know whether or not reactivation can be granted. If so, your file will be transferred into an upcoming program. If not, your file will maintain in inactive status, and should you still be interested in Peace Corps, you can reapply again at the recruitment level by submitting an application on peacecorps.gov.

Thank you for your interest in Peace Corps.

- - - -

You never really get to know what life will decide to throw at you. A couple of weeks ago my grandmother fell. Since then she has been incontinent and unable to walk unassisted. My mom is her only child and because I am the only grandchild in a position to take time off, I have been asked to go to Taiwan. I will be there for about a year, immediately following my Winter Quarter graduation.

No one can really teach you how to prioritize all the conflicting family and personal obligations. It's been rough making plans to leave UCSD, to defer my Peace Corps application and to delay entrance to medical school. For now the idea is to go to Taiwan until December of next year, to return to take the January MCAT and then depart for Peace Corps in February. My sister will be taking my place in Taiwan, where she will be studying abroad for a semester. By the end of that time, our youngest sibling will have graduated from high school and my parents will have more freedom to move to Taiwan, if they choose to. Of course, that will be an even more complicated decision, not in the least due to Jennifer's medical condition.

Nonetheless, I have been extremely lucky to have my sister here at UCSD to support me. But most of all, I am extremely lucky to have my grandmother. The fact that she has lived alone for some many years is a testament to her strength. This past month has been a huge wake up call, and I am so fortunate to have gotten that call while I am still in a position to do something about it.

I look forward to getting to know my grandmother more, to being a better daughter and granddaughter, and to the rest of the time I have in San Diego.

My grandmother is finally out of the hospital. I feel like a huge chunk of my life has finally settled down, even though I'm sure if I sat down to think about it, I would still be swarmed with questions.

("Should I buy my philosophy textbook or try to save money by paying attention in lecture?" "Who will write my letters of recommendation?" "Am I going to get in trouble with the teaching union for holding too many office hours?" "Why haven't I found love?" "Am I going to get CVD if I keep eating like this?" "Where am I going to get money to pay my credit card bill?" "Can I keep my job and take care of my grandma at the same time?" "How am I going to tell my dad that going to Peace Corps will require canceling my MCAT and losing $120?" "Why am I not asleep?" "If I leave the window open tonight, will it make me cold and sluggish tomorrow?")

Yes, but still. I feel like I've been up in the air for some time and it's nice to feel like I've finally touched on some solid ground. That's a good feeling. Now let's keep that rolling...

Happy belated Halloween and happy November! I'm almost 21!

Tired, stuck with a soul that's been pulled like taffy. Little bits of me dyed into blue and white swirls, parceled out on wax paper. Sold, shipped, swallowed. A little sugar on the tongue; sweetness and a strangers' saliva. Then, gone. Never again a part of a whole. A sorry significance.

But you saw. Saw where I had come from; held me in love; gave me back my heft, my voice; put me here shattered but reborn.

My friend, FGT.

Notes from a Dragon Mom: "This is a love story, and like all great love stories, it is a story of loss."

Gorgeously narrated NYT opinion piece on caring for a child with a terminal illness.

"Ronan has given us a terrible freedom from expectations, a magical world where there are no goals, no prizes to win, no outcomes to monitor, discuss, compare... We are dragon parents: fierce and loyal and loving as hell... Our grief is primal and unwieldy and embarrassing."

- - - -

NYT on Haruki Murakami, one of the greatest writers of our time.

I don't really know why I've become so sensitive. All I know is that the weirdest things suddenly seem to set me off. For now I only want to keep things simple. Bland, like porridge. Makes getting through the day just that much easier.

Lets me hush the din in my head that says, "I don't know what to do."

I finally got my Peace Corps medical forms in the mail earlier this week. I took a look at them when I first got the package but have sort of set them aside until now. Phew, there are so many! They seem really intent on going through every minor detail of my health record and I have to get my first super exciting PAP smear (us ladies are supposed to start getting them after 21 anyway).

Because I'm a poor college student and because my parents are already not so thrilled about my decision to go to the Peace Corps, I'm really determined to get all my medical and dental exams done for close to zero dollars. That is going to mean a lot of calling around and bumming rides off friends. Especially with my overloaded school schedule, it's just not going to be an easy time...

On the plus side, I get my free flu shot this Tuesday! One of the perks of being a hospital volunteer, I guess. :)