Thank you for reaching out

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The most surreal thing happened. A person read my post on the treachery I suffered last year before getting accepted into the program. Now in the same shitty situation, he wrote me an email and apologized for it.

To begin with, no apologies are needed. It’s been a while since I received such a thoughtful ‘reach-out’ note. I wrote back immediately.

I think what most people lack these days is that kind of moxie. They are psychologically obese sitting on their asses tweeting #MiraclesCouldHappen. No one gives a damn about your future if you don’t fight for yourself. Just look at any memorable popular films, heroes give their best punches after Midpoint into the movie.

I wish him the best of luck. Or does he need ‘luck’?

With that kind of attitude, it’s hard not to succeed. Success, in their cases, is a matter of time.

In hindsight, it’s to our advantage to have a rough start. (*I will remember to thank the school for putting me on the Waitlist when I accept my Oscars.) When you are actually living the worse-case scenario, you find yourself still functioning — quite the opposite to what you assumed (that you’d be dead already). You then have an Aha-Moment, “Well, show me, what worse can happen next?”

I thought waitlist was nuts then. I got accepted. I thought finding a place to live in LA was almost a mission impossible after sending out hundreds of emails which all tanked without a trace. I ended up moving four times in the first month in LA. The Fall Quarter started before my third move. While my cohorts started to befriend with each other, I was still wandering, literally. “Almost there. Almost there.” was what I told myself each day juggling with school and logistics. But guess what, I survived and found the most lovely place at a most affordable price close to campus.

The day I moved into my fourth place — 10 October 2015. I was in heaven. Finally.

With the insignificant wins every day, you become a tough fighter. Hard to see it in the short run, but over time, you suddenly notice how far you’ve gone, how much muscle you’ve put on.

Now I can lift my chin up, and light up a cigarette* and puff, “Bring it on, darling.”

*Truth is, I don’t smoke (or drink, or do drugs, ever) and I have failed preaching my father to quit smoking. So kids out there, if you are reading this, don’t smoke. Capisce?