I remember the time I made fun of you in AP Psych in front of the whole class and made you mad. I remember calling you when I was on the way to Griffith Observatory with the Science Club (oh, the irony) and you told me you got into Stanford. I remember the letters we used to exchange all throughout sophomore year, the scribbles on my Trig book, the way we used to blot out the names of our crushes in fear our secrets would be discovered. I remember when you told me to ask Jon Ou to Sadies and how that subsequently led to one of the best times I’ve ever had at a high school dance. I remember when you came with Angela to visit Annie, Christine, and me at UCLA that one summer. I remember how you gave me that picture you took of John Stoops and how it made me so incredibly happy. I remember how I used to swear under my breath after seeing your name at the top of ACI’s Highest SAT scores list week after week and how I couldn’t even place 12th.
I remember the little things. The birthday card you sent me sophomore year of college. The time you comforted me in the depths of the night and you didn’t even know it. The white rabbit you got me for my birthday the year my rabbit died. The Eeyore stocking I still hang on my bedroom door every Christmas. The time you told me you were proud of me for getting into Berkeley.
I remember the ease in which you dissected the disgusting earthworm in AP Bio and how I refused to stand 15 ft near it and how I wanted to scream with each cut you made. I remember how we’d always compete in the music video competition in Calc II and how I wanted to beat you every time. I remember the emails we sent each other everyday when you were in New Jersey that summer after freshmen year. I remember the 4th of July last summer at Newport. I remember Spring Break in “Palm Springs”. I remember Winter Formal and how you saved me from Zahir’s salsa dancing. I remember the first time you drove me in your new car when we went to Puente Hills to buy hair dye. I remember forever gay clubbing (holy shit hot men). I remember how I used to roll my eyes at you in AP Econ whenever Mr. Stone would ask you for the right answer. I remember summer movies in high school at your house. I remember our “innocent” choice of movies – Cruel Intentions and Chasing Amy just to name a few. I remember taking our Sadies picture together and trying to make Jon Ou pay for it. Two words: Frank Teng. I remember the nights we used to lie in your room and talk about the future, and how I was always grateful the lights were off so I wouldn’t have to stare at Nick Carter and the rest of the Backstreet Boys.
I remember how you always had to do everything ten times better than all of us. How much I hated you for it, and how much I admire you because of it. I remember when you told me you got into Stanford (again) for your Masters and how proud of you I felt. I remember when you told me you don’t drink, and how in the midst of this past year you proved yourself all wrong. I remember how you used to squirm away from Helen, Candice, and me whenever we tried to make a move on you, and how now you talk about “nights of lesbian debauchery” for our upcoming trip to New York.
I remember wishing I had an ounce of your determination and diligence, just so my mom would stop, just for one minute, to tell me to be more like you. I remember jokingly wishing you’d fail just one test, so I’d know that even you were human. I remember how young we were, eight years ago when I first met you, and how young we still are, eight years later. I remember our naivety, our hopes and dreams, our hypothetical conversations about what’s in store for us in five years. And I even remember the time you offered me a job in your future company as the head of your janitorial staff, claiming that my Communications degree would effectively aid in my “communicating” with the mop.
For everything we’ve been through, for all the memories we’ve amounted in the past eight years, for everything I’ve just recalled and everything I haven’t jotted down, I am so glad we’ve remained friends despite our distances, and our busy lives that we only see each other once each school year even through we’re only just across the bay from one another.
I told you this day would finally come. Jennifer Shen, you are my role model, my biggest enemy, and one of my dearest friends. I will, one day, surpass you in something (and yes, something that does not require brawns over brains). Happy Birthday sweetie, I can’t wait till NYC when we can start counting off our sins.
I remember the little things. The birthday card you sent me sophomore year of college. The time you comforted me in the depths of the night and you didn’t even know it. The white rabbit you got me for my birthday the year my rabbit died. The Eeyore stocking I still hang on my bedroom door every Christmas. The time you told me you were proud of me for getting into Berkeley.
I remember the ease in which you dissected the disgusting earthworm in AP Bio and how I refused to stand 15 ft near it and how I wanted to scream with each cut you made. I remember how we’d always compete in the music video competition in Calc II and how I wanted to beat you every time. I remember the emails we sent each other everyday when you were in New Jersey that summer after freshmen year. I remember the 4th of July last summer at Newport. I remember Spring Break in “Palm Springs”. I remember Winter Formal and how you saved me from Zahir’s salsa dancing. I remember the first time you drove me in your new car when we went to Puente Hills to buy hair dye. I remember forever gay clubbing (holy shit hot men). I remember how I used to roll my eyes at you in AP Econ whenever Mr. Stone would ask you for the right answer. I remember summer movies in high school at your house. I remember our “innocent” choice of movies – Cruel Intentions and Chasing Amy just to name a few. I remember taking our Sadies picture together and trying to make Jon Ou pay for it. Two words: Frank Teng. I remember the nights we used to lie in your room and talk about the future, and how I was always grateful the lights were off so I wouldn’t have to stare at Nick Carter and the rest of the Backstreet Boys.
I remember how you always had to do everything ten times better than all of us. How much I hated you for it, and how much I admire you because of it. I remember when you told me you got into Stanford (again) for your Masters and how proud of you I felt. I remember when you told me you don’t drink, and how in the midst of this past year you proved yourself all wrong. I remember how you used to squirm away from Helen, Candice, and me whenever we tried to make a move on you, and how now you talk about “nights of lesbian debauchery” for our upcoming trip to New York.
I remember wishing I had an ounce of your determination and diligence, just so my mom would stop, just for one minute, to tell me to be more like you. I remember jokingly wishing you’d fail just one test, so I’d know that even you were human. I remember how young we were, eight years ago when I first met you, and how young we still are, eight years later. I remember our naivety, our hopes and dreams, our hypothetical conversations about what’s in store for us in five years. And I even remember the time you offered me a job in your future company as the head of your janitorial staff, claiming that my Communications degree would effectively aid in my “communicating” with the mop.
For everything we’ve been through, for all the memories we’ve amounted in the past eight years, for everything I’ve just recalled and everything I haven’t jotted down, I am so glad we’ve remained friends despite our distances, and our busy lives that we only see each other once each school year even through we’re only just across the bay from one another.
I told you this day would finally come. Jennifer Shen, you are my role model, my biggest enemy, and one of my dearest friends. I will, one day, surpass you in something (and yes, something that does not require brawns over brains). Happy Birthday sweetie, I can’t wait till NYC when we can start counting off our sins.
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