Elizac

Menulis itu seperti pup di pagi hari. 

Kadangkala ia sulit keluar (idenya), terkadang keluar dengan begitu alami. Ada hari-hari di mana rasa malas mengalahkan keinginan beranjak menuju tempat berkegiatan (bisa WC bisa depan komputer), tapi ada juga hari di mana hal itu adalah yang pertama ingin dilakukan saat bangun tidur. Sama-sama optimal dilakukan setelah minum kopi di pagi hari, dan sama-sama meningkatkan mood sebagai pengantar hari. 

Rasanya ada saja yang kurang kalau belum melakukannya.

Jadi... uh... apa yang mau kutulis ya.

Anggap saja tulisan ini sebuah eksp(k)resi verbal atas ketidakmampuanku untuk berkomunikasi secara sehat selama beberapa minggu ini, baik kepada orang lain maupun terhadap diriku sendiri. Rasanya aku seperti kembali jatuh ke kehampaan dan kesendirian yang bahkan sulit untuk diceritakan... karena rasanya seperti... bukan hal yang besar, begitu?

Ketika berbicara mengenai dark place, yang terbayang selalu sesuatu seperti... kesedihan mendalam, suasana tonal berwarna gelap, atau hari-hari dimana kesialan menghantui. Tapi seringkali tidak begitu denganku. Aku masih tergerak untuk mencuci bajuku, membeli makan, berbicara dengan orang lain, dan tidak ada kesialan berarti yang terjadi padaku.

Semesta ramah terhadapku, dan orang-orang di sekitarku amatlah baik. Tapi mengapa aku tetap sedih? Tidak masuk akal.

Bukankah hukum fisika klasik menyatakan bahwa ada reaksi untuk setiap aksi? Namun mengapa terkadang aku bereaksi tidak sesuai aksi, sementara di lain waktu aku tidak ingin bereaksi terhadap aksi yang dikenakan padaku? Apakah pada kasus pertama reaksi itu muncul dengan terlambat sebagai akumulasi dari aksi-aksi yang telah berlalu? Apakah pada kasus kedua reaksi itu belum muncul karena memang aku lamban dan akan meledak suatu waktu di masa yang akan datang? Apakah memang ada anomali yang membuatku tidak bereaksi sesuai dengan hukum fisika?

Atau memang aku tidak bisa menggunakan model fisika klasik untuk menjelaskan psikologi diri ini?

Suatu hari, aku pernah berada dalam kehampaan. Sepertinya sudah beberapa hari itu aku menjalani rutinitas dengan acuh, tidak ada semangat, seperti berada dalam gelembung. Aku hendak membuat kopi seperti yang selalu kulakukan setiap pagi. Merebus air di ketel, membuka toples isi bubuk kopi, dan menaruhnya ke dalam mug kesayangan. Bengong, mungkin itu yang aku lakukan, karena tanganku tiba-tiba selip dan mug-ku jatuh ke lantai, pecah berkeping-keping. Dalam proses itu pula, bubuk kopi tumpah, menempel di sela-sela lantai dan sedikit di kaki meja.

Aku tertawa. Bukan tawa kering, atau tawa yang menutupi kesedihan atau shock. Aku tertawa karena aku senang, ada sesuatu yang terjadi dalam hidupku. Mau tidak mau aku harus memungut pecahan mug itu satu persatu, menyapu serpihan-serpihan yang tersisa, serta mengelap lantai dan meja dari sisa-sisa bubuk kopi yang menempel.

Seperti menemukan sebuah purpose. Sebuah goal. Kalau itu video game, mungkin akan muncul jendela yang menyatakan Objective: Clean the mess.

Aneh. Mug pecah kok senang.

Di sisi lain, adanya acara besar dimana aku seharusnya berbahagia (seperti kemarin saat aku wisuda), aku malah... merasa hampa. Sendiri. Kosong. Aku di sana, tapi aku tidak di sana. The whole thing feels like a fever dream. Seolah aku adalah pengamat non-parsial yang tidak ada makna atau kepentingan berada di situ. Ada atau tidak ada aku sama saja. Orang-orang terlihat bangga, bahagia, berfoto-foto dan berbagi momen dengan teman-teman dan keluarga mereka. Tentu saja aku senang membanggakan orangtuaku, tapi apa aku sendiri bangga dengan pencapaian ini?

Hanya tersenyum dan duduk manis, berusaha keras menjadi bagian dari acara sosial ini. Bertepuk tangan di saat yang pantas. Berfoto di booth yang disediakan. Lalu bagaimana? Kenapa aku tidak "gembira"? Apakah aku tidak "bahagia" dengan pencapaianku? Atau mungkin memang aku hanya tidak cocok ditempatkan di acara sosial dengan orang sebanyak itu?

Di satu titik, aku merasa kesal dengan diriku sendiri karena tidak mampu untuk jujur. Kadang aku iri dengan orang-orang yang dapat dengan cepat mengatakan apa yang mereka rasakan. Bisa saja dalam kasus ini aku tidak senang berada di keramaian seperti itu, acara formalitas seperti itu, tapi aku tidak bisa jujur. Aku tidak bisa langsung mengakui, "ah bosan nih". I will try to force myself to like it.

Tapi, siapa sih yang peduli kalau aku bosan atau tidak? Toh aku tetap akan berada di sana dan menjadi pengikut yang baik.

I think I'm gonna need that E today.

Dream A Little Dream of...

Lately I've been having dreams every single night. 

Dreams are always a tad weird. They're realistic enough to make you remember bits of it, but too absurd to actually draw conclusion from. Most times if I were asked to describe my dreams, I can only say "I remember there's [...] and [...]", but I can't ever tell what the dream really *is* about. 

For example, last night I remember I dreamt something about smuggling a hamster into a cruise ship, but I was in the body of a male criminal who bribes his way to get good bed in the ship. And the bed was actually medical bed so they had to infuse me with neutral solution as if I was sick. But I can't really say why I was there, why hamster, why I was a criminal, who I was really representing (reflection of real life), or what the dream was ultimately about.

A few nights ago I dreamt about burning a wooden food stall because the owner was a stingy bastard. Hell, I didn't even know *why* my dream decided that he was evil enough to deserve that. In the same dream, there was a lady in the neighborhood who was a know-it-all type. She got out of my house and I locked the front gate, but then my father asked mom why the front gate was locked. (Uhh I was locking it?) I asked why he didn't just ask me since I was there in the yard, but he said he didn't want me to know that he was hunting for demons. He squatted in the corner of the front yard, backs towards me, making sounds to call demons (I guess?) then all of a sudden he turned to me and a demon jumped in front of me. I immediately woke up in that jumpy dream sequence, sitting straight. Wide awake.

They're just... so random that I gave up journaling the dream. Sometimes I don't even know if what I remembered actually happened in the dream, or that my consciousness decided to draw non-existent line just so I could make even just a tad bit sense of what it was about. *Why* did I dream about my father hunting demons? Why did I wake up jumpy?

I really wonder if there is a study regarding how we dream and how it implicates to the individual's real life personality. Is it healthy for me to be dreaming absurd dreams every single night? Why did the dreams start only recently? Why is my dream so damn active when in reality I don't really do much or read many fantasy novels? Does it mean my brain is just looking for output from all that imagination but I can't put it into words? I have so many questions. 

The Notebook

We all get a little specific sometimes in searching for particular things. We have our own standards in deciding something seemingly important like choosing a new phone, choosing where to live, choosing our partner, job, or maybe something as trivial as deciding lunch based on our whim that morning.

Recently I've been looking for a new notebook to replace my old one, because my trusty notebook is getting full of my notes. And what do you know, I apparently have particular specifications for something that seems so trivial. My last notebook was a great companion in which it checks off all the list of requirements I never thought I had in me before.

Notebooks in retrospect seem so trivial. They're just simple notebooks that you write stuffs in. As long as it contains papers, fit in your bag and can be written on (general characteristics that almost all notebooks have), it shouldn't be a problem, right?

Wrong.

The standards that I set for my notebook are crucial that they could be the make-or-break of my next idea, for they affect my muse. 

Upon browsing for new notebook in the bookstore, I found that they didn't really match what I want in a notebook. They are either too large, too tacky, having a cover and binding that's too flimsy, trying too hard with the paper designs, or too expensive, etc etc. I just wanted a small (A6) notebook with simple paper design, with hard cover and ring-binded to fit a pen to write with.

My last notebook was just that. Red hard-cover ring-binded, perfect pocket size and paper design that is neither too tacky or too whitely colored for me to write on. It can also fit a thin pen so they'd come in set as I pulled it out of my purse, ready for me to write my next best idea. And the best thing? It didn't even cost me 20k rupiah. 

Le old trusty notebook

Since I was running out of notebook pages already, I had to settle for the best in between available choices in the bookstore. I had to compromise from my initially (apparently) high standards. So I found this guy Moko-nya. It is kinda larger than I wanted, and the paper design was a bit childish, but it has hard cover and ring bind I could fit my pen in, and didn't cost as much as other alternatives (I just found out notebooks are either too costly or too tacky there was no inbetween). The design *is* a *bit* childish but it was relatively cute and better than other design (either that or Spider-Man or Elsa Frozen).

my new MOKONYA companion

Side comparison

A helluva rant for just a notebook, innit?

I kinda wonder whether my standards are just unmet demands in the niche market of writer's notebook, or whether I was just seeking in the wrong place. I'm sure some of you can relate with the fascination towards a particular type of stationery. I talked about this with a close friend of mine, and even she had a more advanced requirement of the paper color shouldn't be too "white", while recommending pens that are a few mili-milimeter thinner than normal pens. I guess stationery does matter.

Extra-version.

Lately it's been more difficult for me to be alone. Probably due to the pandemic that kept me locked up inside for so long that the agency of being by myself is no longer something that existed. I was forced to stay in, just like we all did. As a wandering introvert who gets her energy from frequenting public places alone, the situation sucked me dry.

I know the pandemic situation has improved in the past years, God bless scientists who came up with the vaccine shots, but I can feel my personality rather changed for the... worse?

There are probably more factors at play regarding my changed self and how I've been coping with loneliness. Probably due to my academic environment that "forced" me to be more "social", probably that I've been moving out to a new place with a roommate that no longer live together so there's a sense of abandonement, probably also the lockdown situation.

Either way, I feel like being alone is not as fun as it used to be for me. Now that we're more free to roam the street, I constantly have the urge to go out everytime I perceive it's going to be a slow day. I want to go on a date. I want to walk down the street again by myself, but not new ones. I want to meet up with my friends, but not new ones. I'm being picky and particular about how I want to spend the day outside. I want it to be exciting, but I don't want it to be too unpredictable. So I keep going out on dates to familiar locations, but since I want to go out so often we begin to run out of places to visit. I keep frequenting the same cafes that I already know is pretty cozy, since I don't want the unpredictability of smokers, rainy weather, and bad toilet.

And when I do have the absolute need to stay inside, being with myself isn't as exciting as it used to be. I resort to the bad habit of mindlessly scrolling vapid social media, catching up with the volatile drama by people who barely touches grass, switching between apps and wondering what's new while avoiding entirely novel things to consume, and overall just denying the chance of meeting my actual self.

Probably it's because I've been situated in a pretty hectic academic environment that I feel like every minute being by myself is a minute wasted. "It's a sunny Saturday with no homework! We should go outside. Who knows if we'd ever get another empty sunny weekend like this again!" Said the voice in my head. After struggling with thesis work and side project for almost a week, I perceived that being locked up alone in my room is almost a pity. Sure, there is time for me to do a creative side project, or writing, but those process usually aren't as short and I would be pissed at the possibility of wasting a sunny weekend staring at empty blank word file or ending the day with a mediocre piece. 

I know, that's just an upward curve that I have to pass to eventually come up with a great creation, but for someone with a relatively limited time and energy, the small chance isn't exactly motivating. But right now I'm not going to talk about my problem with writing. It's about my difficulty in being alone.

Now that I've finished my thesis defense (been a month, I figure), I'm yet again an unemployed, free-range creative writer who disguises her "rants" as "poetic expression" in the form of blog posts. I've noticed that I've been falling victim to my old habit of perceiving my time as either "too limited to try out things I want to do" and "too valuable to be spent writing nonsense". As I finished my post-grad study, "I should be doing more productive things", and "I should be looking for more functional jobs", I tell myself.

But somehow there's a discrepancy between "being at peace with myself" and "being at peace with the rest of the world". Now that I've got a taste in being a functional member of the society through my role as researcher, published several articles and worked part-time on a research project, I've become rather busy. I've seemingly found my place in the community. I'm a researcher, I further enticed my role. But most times during the functioning of that role, I forgot that I'm also my own person with a passion outside my work. 

Of course I take a liking to what I do as a researcher, learning new things and such, but at times it can be too rigid for its own good. Sometimes I just want to let my mind wander around without having to fuss about the citation of my own thinking. Because ultimately research is basically aimed at solving a problem, helping related parties, and coming up with innovative ideas that are related to other people. And being busy "helping" other people and contributing to the literature can somehow take you away from the child in you, because you're too busy being an adult.

As I formed by bond with the rest of the world by taking a specific role, I forgot how it is to be at peace with myself. Probably because it's not exactly what my "self" wants, being an adult like this with all the busy-ness that's keeping me from being curious by nature. There's probably discrepancy between what I say I want and what I actually do, at the very core of this case.

Few dates ago, we strolled around Gramedia looking at books and comics, and whether something catches our eyes. Long story short, the answer is yes, at least for me. I saw this book titled The Art of Solitude by a renowned journalist Desi Anwar (which my mum is a fan of), and it immediately clicked to me. I want it. I want to read the book. So I bought it just yesterday and it quickly becomes my muse. 

I begin contemplating my own solitude. How long has it been since I'm actually *alone* with my thoughts? No social media, no distracting music, no phone notifications, no work. Just me and my brain. What am I thinking when I'm ultimately alone?

If you asked me yesterday the first question, I wouldn't probably remember exactly when, but as the situation unfolds, if you ask me now, the answer is... two hours ago.

I began reading the book last night. It's like my blog posts, but (of course) better (and more structured). I managed to read few chapters before I succumbed to my own solitude, nostalgic mix of lo-fi hiphop blasting on my speaker. I took deep breaths. I was communicating with myself. I was rebuilding the bridge to the island of solitude that I no longer visit. I began thinking about my writing, my dreams, my long-term goal, my journey to get this far, what changed within me and what I wanted back, and ultimately it led me to wanting to write this post.

I was on my way to "the cafe" to write this, but as Fate would have it, they wanted me to daydream a bit more. It rained hard immediately on the way, so me and my bike had to take shelter for half an hour before the pouring water died down. As I stood there watching the rain, thoughts began to take form in my head. Trivial thoughts, but thoughts nonetheless.

I was at peace with my thoughts at that time. At first I cursed at the sudden pour of heavy rain that prevented me from reaching my destination. Then I thought about the delicious chocolate lava cake that I would order if I were in the cafe. Then I watched the rain changed its trajectory and intensity, from thick heavy drips to thinner but more intense layer of droplets. I looked at the sky and the looming clouds, in awe with the occasional visible lightnings. I began wondering how long has it been since I was just... like that. Kicking back and just daydream about the most mundane things. I looked at others who also took shelter in the same place with me, wondering what schedule they have probably missed due to the rain. I cursed at myself for not bringing umbrella and sandals, or for even wearing my best shoes today. But in the end I felt sympathy towards all the ride-hailing drivers who had to send foods and people in this weather, getting their work halted while being able to do nothing about it.

I was actually rather surprised at how cool I was with being alone with my thoughts at that moment. I wonder why I didn't just pull out my phone and scrolling social media like I always do at home. Is it the power of the book that I just read? Do I really miss daydreaming that much? Or maybe, have I learned to reconnect with myself and remastered the art of my own solitude?

Either way, I guess I would add daydreaming to the list of my daily routines. Thirty minutes with my own thoughts is actually very refreshing compared to mindless, endless doomscrolling.

Dear Fate, thank you for the sudden rain. The experience could be better without the dirt on my new pants and shoes, but I guess I'd prepare better next time.

Cheers,

T.

Change (in the House of Boredom Inc.)

Change does not come easily. Even so, sometimes you nonchalantly found that you've changed towards something you did not expect in the first place because of small habits you've built up along the years without realizing it. It seems like the more you're *trying* to change, the more difficult it is to do. Just like how you've gained weight during the pandemic without being aware that you've been ordering more takeouts, while the journey towards weight loss seems like a Herculean challenge to keep up.

I've been taking a look at my blog posts along the year. I expressed my concern regarding the decision to create one blog post per day in some previous posts, wondering if the quantity of my writing will actually help me to become a good writer, after all. My partner advised for me to just keep writing, and told me to take a look at my past pieces, and I would see how much I have improved.

The verdict? I missed the way I could write.

I feel like along the years my brain has changed its way without me realizing it. I've become somehow more... normal, more sane, and I lost my touch of melancholy. I feel like I can no longer write in ambiguous metaphor and puzzling remarks. No more emo made-up conversations between me and a fictional significant other, no more insane subplot about prescribed a crazy medicine, no more bloody implied murder through passage of regrets.

I've become boring that I can no longer carry a narrative. My sentences do not hold the same power it used to back then.

After a brief moment of sorrow and heavy heart, it sinks to me that I might have changed. Along the years, I've been a different person without me realizing it. And as a changed person, I don't know if this blog is still relevant to my development. [Hold up. I'm not saying that I'm going to abandon this blog]

What I'm saying is, past Tay might have used this blog to express the unsaid, to release the pent-up anger and imagination, to use this blog as a catharsis towards sanity. But present Tay isn't past Tay, and what previously worked might not doing it the same way now. Now that present Tay has resorted to other means of coping mechanism that past Tay did not give way to, she is aware that she might not have written as beautifully as she previously could.

This blog is reduced to just a honest rant without the roundabout metaphorical journey. You now know that I hate QR code menus without me making a dramatic fuss about its black-and-white grid, without comparing it to gliding your finger through spiky concrete. It's just opinion piece now, ready to be submitted to mediakonsumen.com. It's new, it's honest, but it's not what past Tay would have wanted, and neither it's something present Tay is awfully proud of.

So the question still remains: Does writing everyday guarantee my improvement or it would just hinder it due to the "quantity-over-quality" pitfall? Is this blog still relevant, considering my current state?

I'm sure there is no clear-cut answer for that, since it's a journey I have to undergo to internalize.

But I think the fact that I'm beginning to question it, in itself, is already a step forward. That thought in itself is already a byproduct of me attempting to write every single day, so perhaps my piece on Tuesday is an ugly boot for me to leap towards a masterpiece Thursday. Perhaps I'm just getting accustomed again after a long while of blog hiatus.

If I do wonder how relevant my blog is towards my present self, maybe I do need to break down what part of it makes me hesitate, and I can use it for another material. Maybe the relevancy isn't so much about the writing itself, but how much the idea fit into a writing. If I have an honest piece that I'm not particularly too fond of, perhaps I can use it as a video review script or something. Doesn't mean that I have to stop writing, but maybe some of my ideas are better fit for stuff other than writing.

I wrote this at 10 AM, first thing in the morning as soon as I woke up. Brimming with ideas and fuzzy with extra caffeine I took yesterday. So perhaps the writing-everyday prompt is not such a bad idea after all.

Death to QR Code Menus

Imagine. You're just finished walking around the mall after looking at new shoes and accessories. You feel hungry. You and your family pointed at a nearby restaurant, reminding it's lunch time. You all walked in, sat on a table, and the waiter approached the table to give you menus. The images look appetizing, and you feel you're torn between choosing the steamy noodle meal or BBQ beef slices. You called the waiter and asked for his opinion between those two. He informed you of the two menus and you chose BBQ after a moment of consideration. He took your orders, confirmed them and said they would be ready in fifteen minutes. You thanked him and he bowed as he left your table.

If only, right? Instead of holding a menu book with its immersive pictures, the waiter handed you a piece of paper with the ever-increasingly familiar black-and-white grids. The darn QR code menus.

It was bothersome enough for me who spends everyday using my smartphone. Since the menu was in form of a .pdf file automatically saved to the device, my father had difficulty in locating the file in his smartphone. I had to try assisting him without being too invasive towards his phone. I re-downloaded the menu two times before we could open it, and even then it was too small for my father to see the whole menu clearly. Even I was getting disinterested to order anything.

Has this ever happened to you? What happened to the ultimate dining experience?

I don't want to sit here scrolling my phone straining my eyes to look at the small pictures in the digital menu, the file cluttered in my google drive for who knows how long. I want to be immersed in my dining experience. Just the foods and me (and whoever was eating with me).

Since the infamous Covid-19 pandemic period, restaurants seem to resort to switching their physical menu with QR code menu. I still like eating out, and I noticed in the many restaurants that I visit post-pandemic, those opting for QR code menus are divided into two types. First one is where the QR code only gives you the menu. This type of QR code only directs you to download a .pdf file of their menu, but you still have to call the waiters to order. The second type is where the QR code directs you to a website dedicated to their digital menu and you need to input the order directly through your phone, much like when you order UberEats or any type of food delivery service.

Now, I don't have any preference between the two. I would like both of them to just go extinct at this point, but they do come in different types of annoyance. Whichever kind the QR code menu we're talking about, ultimately the reason that I hate them is the inconvenience. Allow me to present several points of my argument here.

1. The menus aren't really optimized to phone viewing, and those that are, aren't as appetizing.

I've mentioned the two types of QR code menus. In restaurants like *some* sushi place I like to visit, they basically give us the un-printed version of their usually-physical menu. So instead of having the grand, big 'ol menu book with colored pages you can flip around to view the mouthwatering pictures, you have a lousy teeny tiny screen that you need to zoom in one by one to look at the topping.  

I would say this is a pretty time-consuming process, and not an exciting one at that. Unless you own an iPad, most times the items are too small to see clearly. Perhaps it's not too big of a deal if it's a place you like to frequent and you're already accustomed to the menu, and you have a regular order. Like in a *certain* sushi place, they recently shifted to the first type of QR code menu, but since I already know what I usually order, it's not as annoying. But the problem with this is then I'm doomed to repeat my usual orders, and there's no sense to explore other food because I'm already too lazy to scroll and zoom in on potential new favorites. 

There is also the second type of QR menu, which is akin to something you see in GoFood or UberEats. The menu is optimized for phone, because you order directly from your device. But I personally think this diminishes the experience of eating out. With this kind of menu it just feels like you're not dining outside your apartment. You don't really talk to the waiter, and it feels like you're not really expected to do so. Perhaps some people are okay with this change of not having to interact, but I feel like it's part of the charm of going out to eat.

2. "No-contact" safety? But you're already there!

One argument in favor for these QR code menus is the pandemic situation we all know have faced. Business owners are increasingly trying to appeal to more hygenic measures, such as cashless payment and contactless delivery. And now the QR code menu. Because they probably don't want our filthy hands on their physical, printed-out menu.

I don't know how to tell you this, but if you are eating out, you already risk yourself by going out, sitting on the assigned seat, out in the public. Looking back, I figured Covid-19 is transmitted airborne, so having removing your mask to eat out is far more risky. And if you're really a person who's concerned about hygiene, you would already accustomed to bring your own hand sanitizer, or own little bottle of soap to wash your hands?

3. Errors by customer's side.

Personal experience. I've once ordered via QR code where it directed me to the website to order on my smartphone. I was already tired enough that I didn't want to look at my tiny phone (I prefer one I can put in my pocket), but my family's lunch fate depended on me. I wouldn't possibly get my father or my mother to be the one ordering, right? So I explained what's on the (teeny tiny) menu, described the menu one by one, took their orders, and when I try to click the "submit" button, it just did nothing. I clicked and clicked. Nada. After several attempts and resetting my mobile data, I finally walked to the cashier and they inputted our orders manually. So much for automation, right.

Now, I could be just being an old grumpy hag in this case, but what if other errors happened? What if we ran out of mobile data? What if the menu refreshed itself and we had to re-input the orders? What if my parents wanted to eat there but their daughter wasn't there to help with order? What if their phone doesn't have a built-in QR code scanner? Would they still want to eat there, then?

What they have established by shifting the labor towards customer's side is basically adding more possibility to errors. For digitally inclined customers, perhaps this wouldn't be much of an issue. But they're saying to us that if we're not on our phone, they don't want our business.

4. Straight to system?

Perhaps another argument in favor is how the QR code menu adds convenience on behalf of the restaurant, particularly with the second type of QR menu. Because it inputs your order straight to their system. Possibly it's also to avoid human error in ordering, but personally I prefer the "repeating order" sequence from the waiter, as it feels more effective in confirming the order from both sides.

---

I would add an example of a restaurant that I like to visit that had shifted to electronic ordering system but still not a hassle. Pizza Hut.

I've eaten at Pizza Hut many times post-pandemic, and I see they've implemented a decent mix of automation while not compromising the experience of eating out. They still give us physical menu, a couple pages of binded paper, still with yummy-looking images, clearly informed price included tax. We still had to call the waiter to order, but instead of paper and pen, they now input our orders in an assigned non-assuming smartphone. So the labor of "inputting order" is still ultimately by their side, and not ours. And there's still room for order modification, menu recommendation interaction, and repeating-order confirmation.

I think that's a good example, because if there's change in the ordering system, the trained waiters would be the most qualified to bridge between us customers and the management.

I would like to see opinions regarding why the QR code menu should persist. Sure, I am no restaurant owner, but as a customer who loves casual dining every once in a while, I would like to keep my experiences valuable, unbothered by the hindrance of smartphone-induced inconvenience. Sometimes you just don't buy a lot of mobile data package, you know. Sometimes you just want to enjoy your leisure time by eating out without getting distracted by your mobile phone. Sometimes you just want to disconnect for a bit.

I'm just wondering with the unpopularity of QR code menus, why are they still prevalent? Is it because we don't directly complain about it to the restaurant?

In the meantime, please bring physical menu back with all those mouthwatering images that make me want to buy them all. Make dining out great again.

Accountability

The narrative of writing one blog post per day is plenty exciting, but the execution isn't always so. The main problem would be that there is no accountability. Say that I accomplished one blog post per day for a week, then what? What difference does it make compared to, say, if I constantly post for a month?

In my ideal self there is the argument that writing everyday would help hone my skill as a writer, but there is no real proof as to how my skill improves. There is no standard set other than the amount of posts I create, and I might fall victim to the "quantity-over-quality" criterion. I can be putting out very boring posts but I wouldn't notice how boring it is because the standard is ultimately coming from myself - and who am I writing for? Precisely.

A few months back one of my friend and I embarked upon a mutual "accountability notes" journey. It's basically a shared diary in the form of a collaborative Google Docs file, where we both can write not just what happens on that day, but also whatever comes to mind. It was great for a while to kickstart the mood for writing, because there's the feeling that you're not alone or something akin to talking to a wall, but also there's variety in the pages as you're not the only contributor to the document.

Mostly I wrote about what happened in the day, or week, if I was too busy to write daily. There are also moments where I took class notes there, paraphrasing the business-language into my own rant-induced sentences. There wasn't any strings attached or agreement that we *have* to write there every day, or every week, or every month, but the existence of such document reminded me that I do have a place to write my rants other than this blog (If my blog looks like ramblefest already, just imagine what I write there).

The same cannot be said about this blog. So far I've been wondering who else is reading my blog other than my future self. Some friends here and there sometimes chat me up to let me know that they read my stuff (God bless y'all) and added their comments and discussion, and that's nice. But they don't come constantly, just like the stream of my writing. Maybe I do need to brush up on my writing discipline first before talking big about accountability, feedback, and such.

I've been thinking that I might need another thing like the "accountability notes" for my blog. I want to know whether there is a particular direction this blog is moving towards, or ideas of how I can improve my writing from an experienced mentor, or perhaps just something like a community that I can join. But you know me, I would still be selfish and write whatever I want to write, because that's ultimately the true nature of this blog. It's my own ramblefest. But maybe, just maybe, there is a platform where I can get ideas from here and there without being in a tight-knit commitment.

The Impostor

"Impostor syndrome is a psychological occurrence in which an individual doubts their skills, talents, or accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud."

Impostor syndrome emphasized the definition upon skills, talents, and accomplishments, but I personally feel like my sense of impostor-ness (?) heavily resided on my identity.

I once had a job interview where the interviewer asked me "what do you think the ideal teacher is like?" (I was applying for a teaching job)  and "do you think you are that kind of teacher?". I responded accordingly and basically said no, I wasn't at all the ideal type of teacher that my standard set upon. Suffice to say I didn't get the job, but since then I kept asking myself about the ideal "me".

Who am I? What am I aiming for? Did I even want to teach for the rest of my life?

My first impression almost always subconsciously thought that everyone else knows what they're doing, and I'm the clueless sheep in this jungle of adulthood.

I met one cool person and I immediately put them on a pedestal. They mess up and that whole image is crumbling, in turn I no longer am fond of them. 

I always have this ideal image of someone else based on their identity role. Met a professor? Immediately my brain goes "whoa, what a genius!", which, of course not saying that it's wrong. But most times just because they're a genius doesn't mean they're perfect, you know. I learned rather recently that someone can be situated on a relatively high position, whether it's job or academia, and they're not always perfect.

We're only human, you know.

But there was a time when I was naive enough to divide the world between those "who knows what they're doing" adults and "who has zero clue of the world" misfits. And I used to lock myself in the latter box, finding solace in the echo chamber of emo jams. I used to think of those music as my friends, the sad lyrics and the words expressing their hollowness, since they resonate with me so much. "We don't belong" they chimed inbetween those pounding drums and guitar riffs.

I listened to those music on my Walkman during school lunch breaks. The white hijab covering the earphone wires from my ears to the phone on my chest pocket, world out, music in. If you asked me then what the ideal student is like, I would say it's totally someone like me. Achieving high grades, lots of friends, and... well, to me the ideal student just needs to get high grades. Overall that bar didn't cover more aspects like organizational skills, charisma and sports, but I did set high standard for one particular thing: grade. And I fulfilled that criteria without seemed like trying too much.

There are two takeaways from that moment: first, the standard itself is subjective and second, I was a very happy student.

I didn't even intend to be the achieving student from the start, but once I obtained straight As in my elementary school year, the momentum was established to keep moving towards that direction. And boy did I sprint without looking left and right. I was happy with myself particularly because I didn't see how I would be unhappy.

Looking back, I knew I did miss moments that make elementary school, middle school, and high school worthwhile. But I wasn't aware of those, so I was content. I remember that I got bullied by a particular boy during my elementary year, but I was so oblivious that I didn't even *know* I was bullied. I remember I missed out on the middle school after-graduation prom party (and basically my whole senior year) to attend a long quarantine for science olympiad, but I had good friends and academically achieving so it wasn't a big deal. Ignorance is bliss, ey?

High school times weren't even that memorable, only bits and pieces of memories and regret that I didn't pursue something other than academic. I figured that college times is where my sprint seemed to have passed the finish line and I had the moment of revelation as I take in what's surrounding me. The standards began to get higher - or should I say, broader?

What previously did not get under my radar began to manifest itself in front of me. Friendship. Romance. Communication. Interpersonal affairs that I wouldn't usually comprehend becoming hard to ignore. Hardships. Heartbreak. Feelings of insecurity and inadequacy.

I still had my weapon of high-grade exam score plutonium, but there was a sense of lost-ness. I no longer knew what I had to do, now that I'm at that stage. The accomplishments seemed futile (not trying to be ungrateful). Impostors' syndrome, now that I'm in the so-called nest of acadmic excellency.

Everyone seems to know what they're doing. Everyone seems to be doing great. Even if they're not, they still seem to have a sense of purpose, unlike me.

But little did I know that academic excellency does not equate perfection. Just because your classmate is a quantum mechanics prodigy, doesn't mean he can hold a conversation with you. Just because one of your colleagues is a great coder, doesn't mean he's not an asshole who wouldn't break your heart. Life began to take form in its imperfection, flawless foundation being wiped away.

During my post-grad study I've been encountering actual projects that make me realize that we're all ultimately humans. Professors also make mistakes. The important thing is how we learn from them. One of my friends told me that he found solace at the fact that even our supervisors (the PhD ones) are kinda winging it in their jobs. Projects are plenty and we only have 24 hours a day. Our brain needs energy and nourishment and refreshments. Helps are obviously needed.

It was recently that I learned to become human, to learn that others are human too. I found a... uh.... let's say, weakness of my own that is a struggle to treat, and my therapist told me to be more appreciative of myself. At first I was like, "what's there to appreciate?" since I wasn't as academically excellent as my past self. And that's exactly the problem. Do I have to be straight A student to love myself? The initial answer was "yes", but as I ponder the logic behind that answer, I knew that ultimately it's not right.

If you have to be a straight A student to love yourself, when is it going to end? What if I graduate and there is no longer straight As to gain? Would you stop loving yourself then? Or would you set yourself another high standard as a means to love yourself? The former happened to me. I stopped loving myself and it almost cost me my life. It was by surviving and moving forward that I found life only makes sense if you are kind to yourself, just like you would to others.

I learned that by allowing myself to sometimes get a C or B is how I can be truly free from the confine that my past self set for me. There was relief in knowing that the world does not end even if I failed one semester. And a little hint of sadness because I'm not the main protagonist of this life.

Maybe I can get a brighter glimpse of the future if I can keep being kind to myself. Reminding myself that just because I'm human and I'm prone to mistakes, doesn't mean that I don't deserve a job. Doesn't mean that I don't deserve a decent pay. Doesn't mean that I deserve to be a subject of abuse.

I must admit that my impostor syndrome is kicking in because I'm recently finished with my post-grad and now I'm looking for jobs. That one job interview would always ring inside me, "do you think you are the ideal kind of [human job]?"

I would have the answer ready by then.

Now What?

So. Uh. Long time no see.

It's been a while since I write here (deja vu right, I know). Things have been happening to me, and I've been happening to things. Some days are busier than others, and long story short, this blog hasn't really crossed my mind for quite a while.

It only occurs to me when everything cooled down. When the thesis defense ended. When the breathe of relief was sighed outside the fourth floor meeting room in Labtek XIX. When the last revision was sent. When the grade appeared on my academic transcript.

Now what?

It was supposed to be a breath of relief, but... in reality, there was numbness. To be frank, the numbness lasted longer than the joy. I was supposed to rejoice. Happy that it passed. But... not really. I mean, surely I was glad, but not *that* glad, you know?

It seemed like it happened too sudden. I felt like I could do better.

But that's just always my problem, isn't it? That feeling of constant inadequacy disguised as "perfectionism" or "idealism". Or perhaps those are also real, mixed and jumbled inside me to form a bundle of emotion I can't quite pinpoint.

Now what?

I don't really know what kind of answer I'm looking for right now. Is it the "what-is-next-for-me" type of "now-what" or "what-does-my-research-contribute-to" type? I suppose it's the former, because after all I am now emerging to the outside world, beyond the boundary of systematic academia world. Perhaps I could pursue more of those, but is it what I really need right now?

It's been almost two weeks since I began waking up wondering in the morning. It's a whiplash from the usual busy routine. Waking up without a sense of purpose is... familiar. It's what my past self had encountered for months, before the second academia phase kicked in. It's... not great. I mean, stressed out every day working on your thesis is unhealthy too, but it's a different ballpark when we talk about sense of purpose.

I have a lot of interests. A lot of things I want to do. But they're not specifically long-term. Only bits and pieces of activities that can be done in spare time. Or even, things that can occupy my spare time nicely. Such as writing a blog post like this.

I have ideas of what I want to write. To create. I think it's always been my calling. Whenever I'm left on my own, it always pops up on my mind. To write. To document the present so the future knows what's in the past. I just wish I can expand that intention towards something bigger than myself. So I'm not only writing for my selfish self. So that it contributes to something to someone else.

But I'm a simple girl. As long as there is one person appreciating my writing, I think I'll be content. I think that's the main reason I never intend to capitalize on my writing, because I never want to try to appease the market. I just want to write according to my selfish intention.

I want to write about A Thing purely because I'm interested in The Thing. If there is one other person who also likes The Thing and we can connect because of that, then that's cool! But otherwise, I would be making a billboard for myself. Advertising my past ideas to my future self.

So to answer the question "Now what?" I think I might say.... it's writing. It always has been.

But First, Writing

I just got out of a tormenting approximately three-days illness. My stomach hurt so bad that it gave me fever, vomits, stings, and acute diarrhea. I never properly got diagnosed, but through home medicine I managed to crawl out of the rut. I was in a pretty bad shape during that time, that I didn't get anything remotely productive done. And when you're even too weak to muster your strength to do the usual daily time-waster of mindlessly scrolling through your phone, yet too awake to be resting, you resort to something horrible.

You begin to think. You are, then, alone with your thoughts only.

For me, that's the case. Of course it's not something real original or groundbreaking or anything. It's just... I begin to contemplate? When sickness strips you out of your strengths and daily routine, what's the first thing on your mind? What do you regret leaving when you're laying on your bed? What if that acid reflux is your final boon? Will you be able to go peacefully? Dramatic, I know. Can't help myself.

With that kind of sickness, my body practically refused to *desire* any kind of delicacy that I generally would crave. Not donuts, not sushi, not pizza, not baked alaska, not lasagna. Nothing. I wouldn't want *anything* to eat. Even the thought of eating hurt. So with such a basic, worldly hungering out of the picture, I begin to wonder, what matters then?

I think I spend my daily life around the routine of "eating", which is totally fine, of course, we need nutrition, right. But to me, personally, I find it rather... bothersome, I must say. Sure, there are plenty of foods that are great, but they are rather expensive to cost daily. I can't cook, and my mediocre attempts would result in at least mildly edible that took me an hour to make, 10 minutes to eat, and at least extra 15 minutes to wash the dishes. Alternatively, if I were to order food delivery, there's still the matter of picking what to eat, compromising what I want with my budget, choosing mixes of wanting this beverage with that dish, hunting merchants with promotion codes, etc etc. Summed up, mostly they take more time and chances are I got even more frustrated. My optimism in cooking is that I would gradually learn how to do things properly and my skill can improve to cook things more efficiently.

Anyway, as I was laying on my bed, weak and disempowered, stripped out of my worldly distractions (food and internet basically), I began to miss... writing, oddly enough?

I wanted to etch another one or two sentences to prove my existence. To convey what I was going through. What's in my head as I lie there with no other medium of entertainment. What inspiration that particular Wednesday brought upon my mind. Anything. I didn't even thought of the petty idea of "who's going to read it", or whom is this going to prove to. I just felt like I *need* to do it. Even something as horrifically ramblish like this, like I always did, I miss it.

Where did it go wrong, anyway? When did writing become something that I just *not* do?

What's stopping me from typing out another pointless observation in my blog? Is it fear? Is it procrastination? Is it distraction? Is it contentment? Feeling of obsolete and meaninglessnes? No time? Not a priority? No inspiration? Too busy? Too happy to contemplate?

Am I just asking the wrong questions, or seeking the wrong answers?

I'm just wondering where precisely the table turned, when exactly I lost my enthusiasm to communicate my layers of thought to.. well, to anyone who cares, actually. But I mostly write for myself, just so I can re-read the pieces and laugh at my younger self's naivety or something.

But of course I realize now, I need to find the answer. The underlying truth. So things can change for the better. Otherwise this will just be another cycle of "write-one-post-then-hiatus-one-year" and the essence of my writings will never evolve out of deep-ramblings.

I've been making an "aspiring writer" my internal identity for several years now, yet the "aspiring" part never truly peels off. Because no actual, strategical efforts have been made to pursue this track. Passion is admirable, surely, but it isn't really enough. Ideas without execution are subjects to be lost in the void. I can admit to everyone that I'm a "writer", but where's the proof? This lousy blog where I channel the energy of a middle-aged woman who regrets the loss of her lifelong dream due to an arranged marriage?

There's also the problem of the word "writer" being too broad. What I am aspiring to write as? Journalism? Script writer? Copywriter? Novel author? Fanfiction author? Lyricist? Poet? Academic literature? Webcomic plot writer? ..Blogger?

Would I be content with being a personal-stuff blogger for the rest of my life?

The short answer is probably no. That's why I'm having all this thought.

One hypothesis I have as to why I've been... obstructed in my writing is that I'm never held accountable for my writings. I'm not in a 'system' where I have to submit any form of progress, no deadlines to meet nor requirements to fulfill. Nobody's pointing a gun at me and demands "you have to write a whole damn novel draft by tomorrow or else". Nobody's going to get angry if I don't write. Nobody really expects anything much from me as a 'writer' (except for a few people who still read my blog and wait for my first novel break, I love you!!). That's kind of the problem. I lack the self-discipline and persistence by my own. 

I feel like I always need to be in a system that puts me to work. Yet, at the same time, I know I need the freedom and flexibility to make the creation 'my own'. This isn't a special case, I know, most of us have to deal with this contradiction.

Writing is hard, especially without the proper trigger. I could just follow the 10,000-hour rule. I could try and set a project goal of, say, write a romance fiction, and set daily task of writing 2 pages or write 2 hours each day. But I'm not necessarily a romance writer, so I would probably already burned out by my main job, inspiration doesn't pour easily, then I get frustrated because I end up writing nothing that day, then the next day I got discouraged because the previous day I didn't write anything. Then I would think "eh, what's the point" and the project got discarded altogether.

I know I said previously that "passion is admirable but not enough", but frankly, I found the energy-spike moments where I could write for 5 hours straight are better for my morale than setting myself up for 2-hours-per-day scheduled routine. Like now. Because there's nothing really at stake. If I suddenly get this burst of inspiration to write out of nowhere and finally come out with a piece, no matter how weird or pointless, it became a pleasant surprise. But if I spare 2 hours each day to write with the possibility of leaving that time slot discouraged, I feel like I would end up hating writing, so I'd... rather not do it. Is it fear or am I just a bad gambler?

The initial objective of this rant is actually to come up with something useful for me to actually start making writing my habit again. Be it through scheduled writing, entering a 'writing system', or setting up a distinct writing goal first. I realize this is not a systematic writing, just a rant to hopefully clear my head and inspire me to come up with something more specific and systematic outside the realm of this blogpost.

Sometimes I really envy people who can just... do it, you know. Do what they want to. Do what they need to. Don't have to ramble pages over pages of self-doubts and try to sell it as authentic "writing".

Signing off...

Boredom Devil

 I'd like to imagine that there's a demon living inside my room right now. Just because coming up with any external factor to blame is far easier than confronting the possibility that an internal struggle might be at play.

I call them the Boredom Demon.

For whatever reason, living inside the room feels very inertial. Seems like I would never have the energy to do anything, to come up with any ideas whatsoever. Back then, cooped up inside my dorm room, I could make the place mine. I was happy, I was content. But not anymore, not here.

Being alone here feels like a prison of mind. It's a difficult situation to describe, but despite all the comfortable features of the room, I could never make it my 'home'. My brain doesn't work, and it keeps screaming for me to get out of there, even though my body and all my senses are real content there.

It seems like a bad Feng Shui is at play there. 

Ridiculous, I know.

But I really need to blame my new room for everything. For the reason I'm constantly unsatisfied, uninspired, un-energized, unwilling, unhappy. Weird, I know. 

I feel like I have to make a total change of the room for it to make sense for my brain.

Right now I don't even have the strength to form a coherent passage, or even care whether this narrative make any sense whatsoever. I'm sorry.