Happy New Year.

Why didn't I think of it before... oh wait, I did.

I'm moving. I can't stay here anymore; and as I've learned the hard way, anonymity is key. (Thank you stradgirl for giving me the extra push.)
If you're still interested and want to follow me, email me at MLEChao@gmail.com.

Requisite end-of-seasonal vacation post.

This has been quite possibly the longest summer ever. There is nothing more to say but that.

So yeah. I'm here.

So I'm in Taiwan right now. And I'm still trying to get myself adjusted (read: still trying to get myself to like it.) Ever since we met up with the relatives in Gaoshiong, it has been nonstop stress and anxiety over the impossibility of social interaction. It was bad enough doing the half-assed Mandarin thing, with the whole unintelligible rapidfire Taiwanese dialect usage that's going on, my sister and I don't stand a chance. I'm considering giving up completely and just reading nonstop for the next two weeks.
The dying afternoon light and the stifling heat and humidity cast a depressing lazy sort of mood over everything. I've spent much of the last 3 or so hours sitting and staring into space, trying to muster up the energy and enthusiasm for speech/movement. I think I'm going to go back to sitting in front of the fan now like the spoiled American brat I am.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OMG MY SISTER'S FACE IS ON THE INNERNET CLICK ON IT WHILE IT'S STILL THERE
Too bad I can't read any of the article.

Read this and tremble. I am a veritable kung-fu fiction MASTER.

Written at and inspired by Astor Court, of the Metropolitan Museum.
Wang Shi-Lo stood in the Garden of the Master of Fishing Nets and stroked his long grey beard. It was dawn—the sun had not yet fully risen, and Cold Spring Pavilion was covered with the haze of a soft spring morning. The only sound was the trickling of the fountain; all was peaceful and serene. But Wang Shi-Lo paced slowly in his dark blue robe, troubled.
His reverie was interrupted by a servant, breathlessly running into the courtyard, stone clicking under his feet. “Master!” he cried. “The white devil is here! He has come to take your daughter to his red pavilion in the mountains!”
Shi-Lo gave a start, but his surprise soon melted into anger, like the Yangtze River at the long-awaited end of a winter—the snow slowly thaws, but soon gives way to the first furious flood of the season, rushing through the lands. “Bring him here!” roared Shi-Lo. “I will fight for my daughter’s honor!”
“There is no need,” came a voice from the lacquered wooden entryway, cold and clear as ice. The unnaturally pale man walked slowly down the granite steps into the courtyard, a dangerous smile on his face, green plants brushing his pristine white robe.
“You impudent demon! How dare you enter my sanctuary uninvited! Prepare to taste the wrath of a father wronged!” Shi-Lo drew his sword; it glinted, silvery and sharp in the dim twilight. Somewhere in the tall grass of the nearby thickets, a solitary bird sang a desperate song.
The intruder merely laughed and drew his own blade. “Not so fast, old man. The thousand year stone can weather the harsh winds of winter, but cannot stand the blows of the iron hammer.” His own sword was black and gleamed with the menacing music of the old barbarian races, bloodthirsty and savage.
The two men lunged at each other. Water continued to drip into the old stone fountain. As their feet flew off the sides of walls, pillars, and roofs, the tender shrubbery shook off its shy morning dew. Metal clashed. The breezes rushed through their flowing robes. Time slowed to a standstill—each of their movements was that of an ancient dance; the dance of death and a thousand bamboo trees, the slow fluid grace of honor, and the sound of plucked qin, eternal and poignant.
“Father!” A young girl’s voice rang out into the courtyard.
They both turned to look. Hua-Ling stood forlornly on the steps in her worn pink nightrobe, her dark hair long, unkempt, swaying in the cold morning breeze. In her face were the beauty and sadness of the first spring peony, fresh and blushing. Her large eyes flashed with hysteria. She spoke again, her voice breaking like small persimmon twigs.
“Stop! You cannot do this!” She flung her slight frame between the two men’s swords, forcing them apart. She faced Wang Shi-Lo with a child’s innocence and pureness of emotion, eyes, downcast, small fragile birdlike hands folded.
“Father… I love him.”
Wang Shi-Lo staggered back in shock, his mind reeling. Suddenly his breath was stolen from him, plucked from his mouth by a golden vengeful phoenix and placed in the hands of his enemy. “You!” he cried angrily, pointing at his foe. “You have poisoned her! And you have poisoned the life force of the Wang family name! I must not let this be!”
He raced again at the enemy, shouting curses to shake the Jade Emperor’s throne in the highest heavens. His daughter rushed to stop him, large tears sliding down her lovely achingly young face. The white man stepped back, a mocking smile playing on the edges of his own chiseled features.
Wang Shi-Lo looked into his daughter’s eyes, wet, dark and deep. In them he saw a blackness and a pain he could not understand—a foreign stone placed there by foreign hands. He saw his enemy’s laughter ringing like bells, derisive, triumphant, unbearable and tortuous. This, he could not face. This, he could not accept. He closed his eyes against his daughter’s eyes, against his fear and shame.
He took his own blade and with a quick gesture, drew it across his throat. As he fell to the floor of the courtyard of Cold Spring Pavilion, he turned, and saw the first petal of the first spring peony fall slowly to the ground with him.

Back again.

Haha, having a serious case of blogger's remorse. So I deleted the old blog, and saved all the posts, but when I open the file, the dates don't show up, only the times. This makes me sad, as I've sort of lost a chronological context for the last two years of my life. Serves me right for being so rash.

I'm done with this one.

It is not worth the effort or the fuss. I don't want this to be used against me anymore. FIN.