beanie baby worm blog

The intern on my team is leaving. With the end of summer comes the start of the school semester. So he’ll go back to the college he attends, out of state. He’s a rising senior, a college athlete. Perhaps I’ll see him in the office again next year, since I heard he got a return offer, but it’s too hard to predict. Maybe he’ll get a better offer elsewhere. When asked how his experience in our office this summer was, he chuckles and says he really enjoyed his time here and other canned polite and corporate phrases. He’s slick, I observe, when I watch his final internship presentation. He dodges potential sticky situations when difficult questions are thrown at him by upper management. The sharp planes of his face shift, I watch the barely perceptible scrunch of his eyebrows before they smooth out back to their usual unbothered state. I idly wonder if I could manage to do the same, as I read the logo of his vest that lays atop his pressed dress shirt while he talks at the front of the conf...

I’ve been reflecting lately on the idea that the people who hurt me probably don’t regret it. I probably don’t even cross their minds. It’s funny how we move through the world and our lives, shaped by those who have affected us emotionally. Whether it’s the pain inflicted by a parent growing up, a friend who abandoned you, a breakup or a person who refused to commit to you, a toxic boss, the list goes on. I spend most of my conscious hours subconsciously replaying those moments and justifying my own actions as a result of those experiences. Sometimes I hurt others to emotionally protect myself, or close myself off. No matter how positive one tries to be, we undeniably spend most of our time thinking negative thoughts. I think of the last time I remembered a negative experience someone gave me, a time someone hurt me, gave me the cold shoulder, the last time I wished a person would apologize. It’s all quite recent. Now I try to think of the last time I thought of a person I hurt. It’s ...

I felt immensely depressed on Tuesday. I was sleepy, but I could sense that the gloom could mostly be attributed to my job. Most days pass calmly, I tap away at my keyboard in my corner cubicle, grab coffee with my office admin who’s twice my age, eat lunch at my desk, and continue tapping away until it’s time for another commute. Then I’m home, and I try to ignore the looming cycle ahead. It was one of the rare days where I’m hit by the crisis triggered by realizing I have decades ahead of me. It’s so painfully lonely at work sometimes, especially because I feel on guard constantly and just take orders all day. I don’t even feel human at times. When work is slow, I’m left with these thoughts that even doom-scrolling social media can’t repress. I get consumed by a fit of melancholy so strong, I feel like I could cry at my cubicle. I ended up taking a nap before dinner. It was some quiet emptiness for a bit. I groggily woke up for dinner and retreated back to bed for some reading befo...

I’ve been feeling gloomy as the year wraps up. This reminder of time passing makes me melancholy, more so than my birthday; maybe it’s the fact that it feels more related to the passage of time for everyone rather than exclusively me. To combat this strange blanket of moodiness, I think about the fact that I have much to be grateful for, and there’s not much logical reason for this feeling. When I reflect on the past year, I feel so grateful for ... everything, really. Firstly, I completed my first full year at my big girl job in 2025. I still have opportunities for growth at this job, and I got switched to a better team. I live at home and have a good relationship with my parents, something that takes conscious effort. Although it’s never too much of a chore since I consider them to be some of my best friends. But of course there’s friction at times. When I think about my relationship with my parents growing up, especially my dad, it was tumultuous and fraught with pain and misund...

Thinking about my life since my last birthday, I’ve concluded that if there’s one thing I’ve come to realize about this life and my own morals, it’s that you need to have peace with yourself and the life you are living above all else. Everything else comes after. My priorities have shifted since that period of my life, which was spent stressing about how my life changing radically after graduating college would change me. I fearfully clung to what I knew about myself, trying to stay grounded in those certainties rather than feeling excited about the prospect of discovering new things about myself. I wasn’t at peace because I didn’t know who I wanted to be, and therefore who I would become. My concern now is that I won’t change enough, that I won’t grow, and that I will stay stagnant in this version of myself for eternity, paralyzed and uncertain, allowing the fear of what others think of me or their expectations to control my decisions in this short life. My mom always told me that I h...

My dad is a huge fan of Animal Farm by George Orwell. After finally convincing him to read 1984 , we’ve been able to have some really cool discussions about both books. I read Animal Farm back in high school, and 1984 just two years ago. Honestly, a lot of the historical context behind Animal Farm flew over my head, but my dad, being a history buff, really loves it. I’m not sure if he knows every single allusion to the Russian Revolution, but he’s drawn to the themes. Good vs. evil is universal, after all. Plus, it’s pretty silly to imagine pigs in power. What I really appreciate about Animal Farm is how short and accessible it is—you don’t need to be a history expert to grasp its discussions on power dynamics, the corrupting power of knowledge, and group behavior. On a totally different note, I also inherited my dad’s nearsightedness, my siblings and I are all cursed with it. Honestly, I think it adds character to our faces, but maybe I’m just coping with the fact that I have to sh...

I rounded out my first week at my first official full-time job out of college. I had just gotten inside and was trying to take my black boots off without undoing the zipper. I was in a hurry, home sweet home. Simultaneously, I tried to hike up the leather strap of my work-appropriate tote bag so it wouldn’t slide off my shoulder. As I finally gave up and leaned down to unzip my boot, my eyes were drawn upwards as I yanked my purse back up with the other hand. They caught on a photo frame of me as a fourth grader on the door. It was in a flimsy white frame, decorated with some foam stickers of assorted colors, in the shape of stars and snowflakes, studded with plastic gemstone stickers. I remember gluing weak magnet strips to the back while making it in class. Then I waited my turn to pose in front of the projected image of a waterfall for my teacher to snap a picture and mutter "next” to the next kid in line. We stuck those photos to the then-dry frames and brought them home. I’ve...

It’s my dad’s birthday today, just a few days after mine. Last year, I wrote a short piece about him, so I’m keeping up with the tradition. My dad is the sole reason for my blog and Instagram empire. He’s the one who brought me and my siblings to max out his library card as kids, encouraged me to start a blog for my writing as a teenager who was afraid of what my classmates thought of me, suggested I apply to a creative writing program when applying for colleges. He still tells me with a straight face to just write a New York Times bestseller and quit my future job. He’s the one who thrifted my siblings and I’s books before we even knew what thrifting was, phoning us to see if we had the so-and-so A-Z Mystery book or a certain copy of The Magic Tree House when we were kids. "Yes, we have  The White Wolf ." Sometimes at the dinner table, he’ll fondly recall his schoolboy days, reminiscing about how he was the chubby kid with glasses who read a lot. There was this one time in ...

 It's my birthday today. Rather than ruminating on this event, I’ve been thinking about what to do with myself after I graduate with my bachelor’s in just a few weeks. Change comes with busy-ness: packing, paperwork, tying up loose ends. The concept of no assignments and midterms to worry about, no more classes to rush to, and no plethora of social events to fill my weekends is alien to me. Instead, there will be meetings with my manager, Microsoft Excel, morning commutes to the office, and long walks after dinner. Maybe movies and books. The horizon of my life stretches, flickering and shifting before my eyes like a mirage. When I read Lord of the Flies two years ago, mirage was a recurring word that continually stuck out to me. I feel like Ralph lately, disillusioned, overwhelmed, confused by the senseless behavior and workings of human beings.  My dad asked me what my dreams are when we were on the phone last month. I was wearing my pajamas and standing in the parking lot n...

"Two words from him, and I had seen my pouting apathy change into I’ll play anything for you till you ask me to stop, till it’s time for lunch, till the skin on my fingers wears off layer after layer, because I like doing things for you, will do anything for you, just say the word, I liked you from day one, and even when you’ll return ice for my renewed offers of friendship, I’ll never forget that this conversation occurred between us and that there are easy ways to bring back summer in the snowstorm." This was the line from Call Me by Your Name that came to mind when I saw a bunch of the yellow flowers I used to call sour grass as a kid growing straight out of the recently redone brick floors of my parents’ backyard. Now I know that they are technically called sorrels (thank you, Google). My third post ever on my Instagram account shared some of my favorite quotes from the book. Spring has barely begun, a few sunny days here and there, and I’m already fantasizing about summ...

I needed to do my sheets. I stripped every sheet, blanket, and pillowcase from my twin-size bed, not something I usually do since it’d take two loads, but I figured, what the heck. Exams are coming up, your physical space is a reflection of your mental state, yadda yadda yadda. Fine, I’ll do all the sheets. So I huffed and puffed and brought my laundry down the flight of stairs. Naively, I had thought that maybe, just maybe, I could fit it all into one washer. Extremely loud incorrect buzzer. I took another two trips up and down to grab more stuff, forgetting the laundry room key, then forgetting the Tide Pod for the second load. Out of sheer habit, I grabbed a white knit sweater I wear quite often to add to the second load. It felt like a waste since the red blanket I was washing didn’t fill it up. As you may have guessed, my whites got stained. It was like something out of a cartoon. The red blanket was loaned to me from my partner, and he swore it’s been washed a million times since...

I went home this weekend, not for Lunar New Year, or just New Years, depending on who you ask, but it was a pleasant coincidence. I was glad to see the little things my parents put out to celebrate; we don’t do anything big. The bowl of crunchy snacks, the glutinous cake recipe sitting out, mixed with the familiar sights of home: dishes drying on the stovetop, my mom's attempt to freeze lemon juice while saving the lemon peels to freshen up the fridge — a sign that my uncle's lemon tree was bountiful this year. A hideous paper and cardboard dragon craft that I made as a kid hanging on the new bookshelf my dad made, the sawdust still littering the garage I entered through. My mom handed me my red envelopes for the year, and I said the all-too-familiar New Year's sayings in return. I hope my pronunciations of the language I never completely got a hang of don’t bring her to shame. I walked into my bedroom to find my childhood stuffed animal holding a gift. Was anyone else obse...

I was fondly remembering the trip I took last summer with my sister to visit my brother in New York. The separate flights we took there were disastrous: she got stuck in another state overnight due to storms and weather, and I got harassed on the plane , but we persisted. On the day my sister was stuck, my brother and I wandered the West Village. Between frantically rushing after him in his confident strides through the subway turnstiles and past exploded public garbage cans, we found our way to many bookstores, some iconic, and some smaller. Yes, I begged him to take me, but I hope he had a good time too. As we visited Hmart where we got a calamansi soda and took the arduous trip to Muji to stock up on gel pens, sweat dripped down my leg and my Doc Martens rubbed my calves raw. Luckily, my sister and brother were both present for our trip to MoMA. We went to the Met the last time we came, so we decided we were due for a trip to the MoMA this time. After eating some overpriced Indonesi...

Something I’ve come to realize as I’ve begun to come to terms with the fact that my adolescence is coming to an end soon, and adulthood looms, is that more often than not, there isn’t a clear goal to it all. There is no box to check that will cause it to all make sense, there is no person or accomplishment or event that will cause it all to click. Maybe a bit, but not all of it. Most of all, I suppose that life is about putting one foot in front of the other, enjoying the scenery, and taking the steps to find yourself in spots that are beautiful and worth the trek. We take a few wrong steps sometimes, we halt at times even, but what matters is that another step will absolutely be taken.  What spurred this reflection was scrolling through my old posts and seeing a journal snippet that I posted as part of my mini art/writing series, Life in Moments: Vol. 2 , about six months ago, "I don't even know what I'm working towards." I used to be paralyzed by the unknown, used t...

It’s raining today. I was taking photos of my book haul from yesterday’s library book sale. My partner and I try to go every month when our college town’s library hosts it, but we haven’t been on it as much as we had hoped when the school year started. But yesterday we were free so we drove over, holding hands and chattering about nothing, like usual. When we got there, we searched for old paperbacks of Willa Cather, Emily Dickinson, and Don Quixote . Before the photo shoot, I had just put my laundry in the apartment complex laundry room and was thinking about how nice the sheets will feel when I go to bed tonight. The rain gently pattered as I struggled to haul my flimsy basket down the flight of stairs. The wind threatened to blow my banana-patterned umbrella away, but I clamped it between my neck and my shoulder as I fiddled with putting the key in the laundry room lock. The sunlight was warm on my skin when I trudged back up. I noticed that the lighting was good, so I set my books ...

Some of my favorite books on love include Call Me By Your Name , Of Human Bondage , East of Eden , The Great Gatsby , and The Song of Achilles . No, not puppy love. No, not the fluffy romance novels I like to read as a coping mechanism on the day to day. No champagne and roses, but soul-wrenching, gutting, ugly, manipulative, obsessive, tragic love. Is it even love at that point? What even is love? I have a penchant for love stories that are awful. It’s just something about them. Philip’s obsession with the ever-horrible Mildred. Young and impressionable Elio’s questionable attraction to the older and worldly Oliver. Patroclus’ and Gatsby’s love that leads them to their ultimate demise. I love these books because I feel that they depict perhaps not a more realistic version of love, but a different side to the coin. They demonstrate that love can be obsessive and consuming, even to its detriment. Yes, we all want to be loved like that or to love like that. Isn’t it romantic, to be lo...

I recently unearthed my beloved Kindle from middle school. Even in middle school, this was an old model, and they don’t even produce these anymore. I think it’s Generation 4? In the color graphite, but I can't verify that term as the official color because I can't find anyone selling these online. But all I know is that it's no Paperwhite for sure. It has no backlight, and you need to click the buttons on the side to turn the page. As one may tell from the rather gross color of the fabric inside of the case, I spent countless hours gripping onto this Kindle; the fastener is all stretched out and the fake leather on the outside is scuffed and peeling. I tried to find a new case upon finding it and deciding to reemploy it in my rotation of reading devices (my phone and physical copies), but much to my chagrin, they don’t even sell them anymore. My dad suggested that I use it without its dreadful case, but I refuse. I can’t stand the thought of it breaking prematurely. Because...

I’ve been enjoying these cozy nights in lately, with rain pattering outside. The bath is a warm solace; I feel constantly cold. The sensation of my feet freezing as I try to tuck them underneath my body or bed covers is all too familiar. I do a chemical exfoliating face mask and resist the urge to wince from the stinging pain. I imagine it sloughing off my dead skin as I wash my face over the sink with my hands thoroughly, and my cheeks emerge baby pink. I scratch some of my pale yellow nail polish off in the shower and think about painting them a deeper color next, to match the season, of course. I brush off my mom’s advice about never leaving a candle unattended, field my brother off as he enters my room and tries to mess with me. He flops on my bed, and my weak attempts to push him off prove to be unfruitful. I settle for laying down on the tiny sliver of mattress left uncovered. I hunch over my laptop as he scrolls on his phone beside me, and I try to sift through emails. Who’s eve...

 My name is Fiona, and I’m a romance junkie. I’ve read upwards of 500+ romance novels in my life—465 formally recorded on Goodreads, and more that I never had the chance to record. Their names are likely forever lost to the spotty memory of my teenage and adult years. I don’t talk about my addiction to romance novels very much on this account, partially because it’s a bit embarrassing (will I ever free myself from the shackles of assuming stereotypically feminine activities are shameful? Time will only tell) and partially because I’ve slowed my pace of romance consumption since I started reading literature a bit more seriously and changed my tastes a bit. Also, because there is not much to say about the mindless romance I used to and currently fill my waking hours with. I still indulge in a few here and there. As a treat. I’ve slowed the breakneck speed because romance has honestly gotten quite boring (it only took me 500 reiterations of the same plot to realize, but alas). It’s al...

I woke up today and the first thought that came to mind was how I should do my hair. I contemplated using a headband as I brushed my teeth, then sprayed my roots with some orange mango scented dry shampoo. After some analysis in the mirror and scrunching it with my fingers, I decided to tie it up. I need to wash it soon.  I did my makeup for the first time in a while after too many days of throwing on whatever clothes were on my desk chair before rushing to the library to study. Midterm season is no joke. I used some white eyeliner and dabbed a bit of light purple eyeshadow on the outer parts of the lid. I had a moment of doubt over my unconventional makeup. Is there a reason people usually use black eyeliner instead of white? Then I remembered that I don't care what other people do and put my socks on.  I met up with my friend for breakfast burritos and coffee. We were lucky enough to snag a table once we paid. The honey I requested in my coffee sat at the bottom of my cup, u...