This story is presented as written at the time, with giant paragraphs. An edited version may be presented in the future.

October 27th, 1996

I am writing this so that I have a note as to what happens during this time period. Maybe later I will write a formal story or essay or whatever, but right now I just want to take notes. If you don’t know what’s going on, then let me tell you. My father was seriously injured in an automobile accident (I still am unclear as to how it happened) and now he is in a hospital, barely clinging to life. I suppose I’ll go about this in a chronological order. It was Thursday morning, about 7 am when the phone of my dorm room rang and awakened me. I didn’t want to pick up the phone, so I just stayed in bed. The answering machine picked up the phone, and I listened to the message being left. My mother said that it was an emergency, that my father got into an accident. I got up immediately and called my mother. She explained to me what happened. “He was hit and thrown 30 feet”. I felt so pissed that I punched the wall as hard as I could. Actually I’m trying to remember exactly what happened after that. I remember getting pissed off at whoever had done this to my dad. The severity of what happened didn’t sink in as much as it’s in now, but still I was shocked. I just talked to my mom about it and she told me he was in a hospital, that my aunt had called and let her know about the whole thing. I was so out of it that when my mom said bye to my sister (who was leaving for school) I thought that it was me who was being told bye and so I hung up the phone and crawled back into bed. I tried going back to sleep, but the thought of my innocent father being thrown thirty feet by a truck’s rear-view mirror wouldn’t let me. After what seemed like an eternity, however, fatigue finally took over and I fell back to sleep. When I woke up at 9, I tried not to imagine things too much, and knowing that I should get to school, went and took a shower. Half way through the shower, my mom calls and my roommate yells into the shower letting me know that she called. I finished my shower as quickly as I could, and then got out and called her back. She told me we’d be returning to Hong Kong on that night (Thursday, October 24th, 1996) and that I had to return to San Francisco to obtain my passport. I talked with my roommate and told him the situation and left my Phantom tickets with him. He offered me his bag which I thought was hella cool. So I packed some things with me, made sure everything would be cool while I was gone, wrote some people from class about what happened, and then left my room. I walked to the BART station with my big, heavy bag and backpack, and then took the BART to Montgomery Station.

October 28th, 1996

Alright, let me continue what the story. So after getting off at Montgomery Station, I walk to the San Francisco Passport Office and wait for my mom and sister to arrive. I grabbed a couple of applications and filled out my own, and then they arrived about ten minutes later. We went inside the office and explained the situation to the security guard on duty, and he directed us to call a number, the passport office administration. So I called and explained the situation to them and the woman on the other end of the line instructed me to obtain a flight itinerary to prove my situation in order to rush a passport. We headed out towards Chinatown on the bus, and went to the Delights Travel place where my mom had ordered the tickets. The man there was a former student of my father’s, and he was extremely helpful. We got hooked up with the tickets on that day without having to have a passport which was what we were supposed to do at first. He also helped us take passport pictures, but they didn’t turn out well, which was why we ended up going to Samy Studio in Chinatown to take them. I just knew that i was hella grateful for the man at the travel agency. After we took pictures, we headed to Walgreens and bought gum and chap stick, and then we walked down to Geary street to pick up the tickets. Well before grabbing the tickets we stopped by b of a so that my mom could transfer funds, and then we went and got the tickets. We went back to the passport office and realized that we were two numbers past. We were 322 and the number they were calling was already 324. So we asked the woman at the counter if we could go (actually my mom told her that we went to the bathroom) and the woman was cool and let us get our passport. We did the administrative stuff, and then paid, and then were told that we should be back at three to line up and get our passport. Instead of waiting, we decided to go to McDonalds to grab some food. We had McNuggets and my sister had a Filet o Fish meal. We stayed there until about 2:45 and then headed back to the passport office and we finally got our passports. After we got our passports we went home, and packed and did other stuff to prepare for the flight to Hong Kong. We got ready and my cousin came and picked us up to take us to the airport. Before we left I had two cup o soups. When we got to the airport we checked in and then finally we got on the plane and left for Hong Kong. The flight was pretty good. The seats were comfortable and the stewardess was pretty. When we got back to Hong Kong, our cousin and uncle greeted us and picked as up. We drove back to my aunt’s house and dropped off our luggage, and then we headed straight for the hospital in a taxi. It was the worse, the feeling of uncertainty. At first, I didn’t feel so bad because my mind had not imagined it to be too serious. But when I walked into the hospital room, I smelled a smell that I didn’t like, and I put on one of those robes that they make you wear and walked in. When I saw my dad, I was so shocked. He didn’t even look like my dad. His body was still the same, but his head was all puffy and swollen. He looked all fat and it hella scared me. He looked like some fat guy in a movie, not my father. The top of his head was wrapped in bandages, and tubes went in and came out of his body, some filled with red stuff that I assumed was blood. He also had an artificial respirator tube leading out of his mouth; undoubtedly helping him breathe. I was told that he wasn’t breathing on his own, that it was the machine who was helping him. They said that a lorry mirror had hit him in the front of his head and threw him 10 meters, or about 30 feet. Just imagining how this could have happened makes me feel so sad, afraid, and pissed off all at the same time. I think about how I always used to feel bad for him as he walked on the streets, and I imagine just how all of a sudden he’d be thrown by a damn truck. Shit. It just pisses me off. When he arrived at the hospital, he was still conscious, and knew his name, number, and everything. But then they told me that he started to go crazy, that they had to restrain him in bed. He looked like he was in a lot of pain, people said. He was yelling and shouting out incomprehensible sounds. I wish I could have seen him like that. Maybe then he’d recognize me and stop, and something would happen. I thought that perhaps he was struggling because he knew he had two great children in me and my sister, and that he had to let them know that he loved us, or that he just needed to talk to us. If that was true, he didn’t have that chance because they approved him to have surgery. The doctors said that he had to have his blood clot removed from his brain cavity, because it was causing dangerous pressure on his brain. Besides that, the fronts of both sides of his brain were severely damaged. The first operation was pretty successful, and they were able to remove the bad blood. But then the doctors said that my dad had an abnormal biochemistry, that his clotting mechanism in his blood didn’t function at 100%. So they had to go through a second operation, one in which he wasn’t expected to survive. The problem was that his blood didn’t clot, which meant that it didn’t stop at they were performing the surgery. They said it was fortunate that he was able to make it out of the operating room. When we saw him, it was after the second operation. The swelling in his face scared me a lot. Everytime I thought about it, I felt like I didn’t want to go see him anymore. But after we waited for the doctors to tell us what happened, we came home and didn’t return to the hospital until the next day. (we arrived on Saturday, yesterday was Sunday, and today is monday). When I saw him the next day, he looked so much better. I felt a lot better, too. He actually looked like my dad. Oh ya, the first day I saw him, I wanted to give him a hug, but there were so many instruments and pipes, that I couldn’t. I just held his hand and talked to him, and told him that I loved him. It’s so strange because normally we rarely tell our father that we love him. Even for my mom, it’s rare. It’s just that in our family, it’s more understood than anything else. But I said it anyways. We left the hospital (just me and my mom, my sister didn’t want to go) and we went to the mall to hang around for awhile. Then we went dim sum with my aunt and then dinner at my grandmas. We came home with my uncle who drove us, and then that leads us to today. In the morning me and my mom went to the immigration office to get a new id card for me, and after that was done, we came back and prepared to go to the hospital again. The thing was my aunt Julia called and told us that they were moving him to a different floor, and that we should get down there immediately. So we went down there, and now I saw him again. This time he looked better still, but the doctors said that the way he looked didn’t reflect what was going on inside his body. Things were still just as bad. We hung around in a tiny room for awhile, and soon they closed the door and said we couldn’t go in for awhile. So we just sat in the room and then my mom and my sister went to go eat with me, and then we came back. We talked about all the traditional stuff about death and everything, but I feel like I don’t want to go through with it. It’s so pointless. Waiting is pointless. I didn’t want to wait so we all came back here. I know my dad wouldn’t want me to wait, so why should I? I knew he wouldn’t want to go through all the trouble with funerals and burials and all that. Yet, they say that I should do it, that’s it’s my responsibility. I really want to go home and go on with my life, but I think I will do this anyway. Perhaps right now I don’t understand, but maybe sometime in the future I will and I don’t want to risk regretting what I didn’t do at the time. Well, that’s it for now, but there is a lot more that needs to be said. I will write more later.

March 3, 1997

It has been four months and I am finally adding to this recount. I don’t exactly remember what happened after I wrote my journal, just that we did eventually leave Hong Kong. Looking at the calendar, I think we left about six days after my last entry. I didn’t want to keep any further entries because I felt like I wouldn’t be able to handle it anymore. I am finally able to talk about what happened. It was after that day that I felt like I wanted to run away and not face the situation anymore. My friend Mark wrote me an e-mail message saying that because my father was a such a great man, I should not give up on him. I had only told Mark that my father was a professor, but he interpreted it in a way that shed a new hope on me. I felt at that moment that my dad would indeed survive. My aunts were really pissing me off… to this day, I still hold a grudge. So let me recall what happened that week… I know I got my id card, which I wrote up there somewhere, but I also went to the computer mall to buy CDs for my computer. My mom bought some CDs for Alan and Stanley, and some stuff for my sister too. After we got out of that mall, we noticed a little cart and a man selling counterfeit music CDs and we bought a few. Then we went to eat at a cheap restaurant. It was good, even though it was cheap. After that, I think we went to the supermarket (Wellcome) to buy some groceries for my aunt, and some candies and stuff for me to bring back to the US. I bought some cola candies for myself and my cousin, and also a box of instant noodle bowls for my dorm. That took my mind off of my father’s situation. We continued to visit my dad, and one time we had a conference with the doctors. I think that happened the day after we arrived, except that I didn’t mention it above. I think logically I knew things were really bad because we were actually flying back to Hong Kong. That is a big deal. But what clinched my fears was the fact that the doctors advised us to prepare ourselves. It’s like something from a movie, you just never expect it to happen to you or your family. I want to say that the doctor was cool about it… he was nice. But there was this other doctor that kinda pissed me off. He seemed so indifferent about it, as if it was another day of work. He knew nothing about his patient, but perhaps if he did, he’d have a little more respect. Fuck him. Fuck him and others like him. Anyways, during that week, we also took the time to visit my dad’s school, the Chinese University of Hong Kong. He had a job there and we wanted to find out about what would happen with the insurance and pay and benefits and all that other stuff. We took the train up to University, took the shuttle, and went to talk with the manager/whatever he was. Then we went back to the station and took a taxi to my dad’s place. No one knew that I had a key to my dad’s house except my mom and her family. I never told my stupid aunts. The taxi drivers pissed me off too… one guy told us to take a green taxi, and the green taxi said take the red one. I knew that we were supposed to take the red one, but the red driver was lazy. I explained to him the address, and we went to my dad’s house. I won’t forget for a long time, maybe forever what I saw at my dad’s place. When I opened the gate, a sense of anticipation filled me. I finally got to the front door and I opened it. Inside the house, things were neatly kept. It looked like he was preparing to leave for somewhere for awhile (that’s another story). In the kitchen, I remember opening the fridge and looking at what’s inside. I saw some food that I wanted to take, because I did not want to waste it, but then I decided not to. It seemed that my dad had stocked up because he knew that my grandma was going to Hong Kong. I usually feel bad when I waste food, so I felt even worse when I left the food and had left it under the circumstances. In the living room, his slippers were still there, placed together. He was wearing them before he left the house… as always. His cup of tea or coffee was on the little table by the sofa, still stained. He must have taken a drink before he left. Everything looked the same as it did when I stayed there during the summer, but the feeling was different. I felt like things were going to waste. I noticed his papers on the dinner table, his mail, his toys. I played with those toys while I was there. My sister watered the plants for him… I still feel horrible for yelling at my sister. She watered the plants and water spilled onto his documents. It was the frustration I felt… I just blew up. I noticed on the other table a watch, a NIKE watch with a red wristband… when he was in the US I told him that mine had broken, so he must have bought a new one for me… it was an exact copy. I felt even worse. Slowly I walked into the corridor leading to his room… I checked out the two side rooms, but I don’t remember seeing anything in there… I think there were clothes hanging from the shower. I walked into my dad’s room… he had just done laundry, for his clothes were scattered on his bed. On the chair of his writing desk, I noticed the green shorts that I used to wear when I had stayed during the summer. My dad’s shorts that he let me borrow. He still wore them. Then I noticed something that almost made me cry. The two cans of shaving cream that we had bought together at a Target store on our way back from our trip to Reno. I still remember how we got the cans cheap, because the man couldn’t find the bar code and so he gave them to us for 99 cents or something. That was something that made my dad happy because he always wanted to save money. I also saw a picture of my sister, my dad, and I from the time we were at Lantau Island. That made me really sad. I looked in his closets and saw his suits. I wanted to take them, but I decided not to. I noticed his fax machine… there was a long roll of fax paper coming out… he had many faxes awaiting to be read. Then I remembered that he kept the metal plaque of his doctorate degree in his tv shelf. I decided to take that. I wanted to remind myself of what a smart man my father was. I remember asking him why he didn’t put it up. I guess he was just modest. I thought it was dope, to have a phd at such a young age. When I got back to my dorm, I put up the plaque in my room to remind myself to work hard. As I type this, I look up at it and see my dad’s name, John Dragon Young. It’s just dope. After we left my dad’s house, we went back to the train station to take the train to my grandma’s for dinner. There, either I yelled or my mom yelled at my sister. Throughout the entire ordeal, she had not shed a single tear. I knew that it was tearing her little 16 year old self apart, but I also knew that she was one of those people who won’t show their sorrow. She hadn’t cried. With the yelling at the train station and the yelling I did to her earlier, she could no longer take it. She burst into tears and my mom gave her I hug and started crying too. I gave them both a hug, and there we were, the three of us, embracing as the train rolled by. It was totally like a scene from a movie. My mom said that she would never forget that moment. I know I haven’t forgotten it yet, and I don’t think I ever will, either. After that things got worst with my dad. Even though he looked better, and there wasn’t swelling, the doctors still insisted that his outside look had nothing to do with his inside condition. At this point I really wanted to return to the US, because I had midterms coming and I had not studied anything in Hong Kong. There was a time when I went to the hospital to say goodbye to my father, because I did not want to see him in that condition again. Do you remember how I said that I would stay so that I wouldn’t regret something later on? Right now I feel it. I feel some regret. I went to his bedside and talked to him. I told him about the Discman that my friends had gotten me for my birthday. I knew he liked getting expensive things for free, so I mentioned that. But he just lay there, his machine inhaling and exhaling for him. I said goodbye to him, thinking it was forever. I didn’t like the smell in the hospital. I could also smell my dad’s rotting blood/fluid which no nurse cared to clean because he spewed it sporadically. I couldn’t stand it anymore. After that I made my decision to return to the US. At this point, I stopped going to see my father. But the day before I left, or actually the day I did leave, I don’t quite remember, I went back, even though I said I wouldn’t. This time, I held his hand. It was warm. Like I said, his body was in good shape, but his brain was wrecked. I said goodbye to him now, forever. It is this moment that I regret now. At this very moment, I feel like maybe I should have been there until the final moment. But back then, I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t comprehend what was going on. We flew back to San Francisco, and I went back to school the day after, a Monday. I went back to SF on Tuesday to vote, and after I voted, my mom told me that he had died. They took away his machines. I had already expected the worst and made myself feel better, but that barrier I built crumbled again. I did not cry. To this day, I still don’t cry. I think about what happened everytime I’m in the shower. I don’t know why, but I do. In my room, there is a picture of just me and my dad. We took it at the rest area on our way back from Reno. He actually had a big smile on his face. He was beginning to smile when he took pictures, something he didn’t really do before. I felt he was finally starting to enjoy life. I was accepting him as my father, developing a better relationship. And on one fateful day, it all comes crashing down. I looked at that picture tonight, which is why I’m writing this now. I look at my own ID card, and I see him in me. Or I see me in him. I don’t know. I really miss my father. How can that be? I was so used to his being away. Why am I not used to it now? I don’t know. I do know that I had always thought we could be friends, playing chess, or talking. I dreamt about how in the movies, a son and his father, two grown men, debate and play chess, like in Independence Day when David and his father play chess. I have an Asian American studies class where I need to do an interview… my dad would have been the perfect subject. There is also a lot of scandal surrounding my father’s death and life. I will not go into that anymore. That will be saved in my head. Maybe I will write it down one day. Another reason why I am writing this is because I read about Carlos Bulosan’s life. His life was way worse than mine, but I felt like I could relate to his pain somehow. It was the paternal bond that really took me. I am still afraid to turn on the tape of our Reno trip in April. I regret not bringing my camcorder to Hong Kong during the 1996 summer, because that’s when my father and I really got along. I will only have memories in my head, not on tape. I am afraid that I will cry if I watch the tape. I want to cry alone, by myself. I don’t want anyone to comfort me, I just want to cry and let it all out. As I write this, I don’t feel a damn thing close to crying. I wish he wasn’t dead. It’s still unbelievable to me sometimes. His greatest achievement, his greatest asset, his brain, his education and his studies, his books, all gone in a matter of seconds. Why was his best part struck? The topic of waste comes to mind again. It is such a waste. What did he go to all those years of school for? He lost it all. His brain cells weren’t there anymore. I am sort of glad that he enjoyed himself near the end. I felt like he was happier than he ever had been. His kids actually talked to him, shared jokes. But he always had this thing… he left without mentioning it before. Or maybe it was me. I still didn’t pay attention sometimes. That explains why there aren’t many pictures of him and I in Hong Kong. He wanted to take pictures, but I always refused. On the day he left, he called me to say bye. I said bye, but it was early morning and I was impatient. I recall telling my roommate David later that day that I felt bad for not saying bye to my dad. The last time I ever spoke to my dad was on my birthday. He called me while I was at the computer or something… and I did not bother to stay longer and chat. What a piece of shit I am. If only I had known… but these things you can never know. That’s why you always have to cherish your moments, and treat everybody with love. And yet, even though I’ve gone through this and have experienced a lesson, I sometimes forget the lesson. Why is it hard to express love? Am I afraid to be hurt? Will I be embarrassed? I don’t even kiss my mom, not even on the cheek. It’s this thing I have. Maybe that is not important, but sometimes I get impatient with my mom. But especially my sister. We are not on very good terms. Why can’t I be more tolerant? Perhaps I have been. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about that right now. I’ve typed a lot. It’s time to go back to writing my Odyssey paper. Or maybe get some sleep. It’s 3:29 am right now. I’ll end it here, for now.

May 10, 1998

Well, who would’ve known that it’d take me this long to add to this journal? It’s just that I haven’t felt this overwhelmed with sadness and emotion in a long time. Even until now, I had had second thoughts about continuing this journal, but I saw what you might consider to be “signs”. I saw a single drop fall from my water flask, just like a tear falling, as if it were reminding me to do something. Then, as I was re-reading my journal from above, I heard the DJ on the radio say “Hong Kong” right when I was looking at the words “Hong Kong” in my journal. It’s a strange thing… but what really got me worked up and unable to sleep tonight was a movie I just watched. We always watch movies that bring out feelings, don’t we? This movie was about a single father trying to raise his family, and it made me think about my mom trying to raise my sister and I. The son didn’t know how to act and got into all these bad things, like crime and triad stuff, and people around him starting dying everywhere. Unfortunately, this kid still doesn’t get it and he tries to get revenge. His father is there, and the father does so many things for the son that it made me sick to see the son still not listen to his father. In the end, the father grabbed the gun from his son and shot the bad guy, with cops watching and all so that the son wouldn’t have to go to jail. When his son asked his father, “Why father, why did you do it?” the father replied, “No matter how bad you are, you are still my son.” Those words ring really loud in my head, because I know that both of my parents feel the same way. Lately I’ve been really missing home and I wish that I could just stop everything and go home to be with my family. It seems all of a sudden I understand what it means to be alive, that I understand what the meaning of life is. To me, being with my family is all that counts. All these other things around me are there, but in the end my family will always be there. My mom’s been telling me about how she feels sick and all that, and of course I am worried and concerned. Next year my sister is going off to college, and my mom will be alone. I know how bad it is to be alone. Here, I have only myself to turn to when I need someone from my family. Even though when I go home I fight with my sister sometimes, I still miss that. Just being near someone you know cares makes a big difference. The people in this apartment are my friends, but I can’t, I don’t feel the comfort that I feel when I am with family. There was some other stuff that I wanted to write, but I don’t remember. Let me scroll back up and check… Right, my mom says that she’ll have to be alone some day, so she should get used to it now. I don’t know why my mom has so much pride, but I don’t think she really feels that she can be alone. How can a mother let go of her children whom she raised with all of herself? The answer is she can’t. During these times my mortality has really been talking to me. Before, I knew that people had to go away some day, but now I’ve experienced it, and I can almost feel it. I think about the future and the past at the same time, and I think to myself that I don’t want to die. I don’t want my family to die. I imagine how I am going to be when I am 80 years old and in my death bed, about to die… it’s something that I can comprehend, and yet at the same time I don’t want to comprehend it. It’s like my sociology professor said, we’re not afraid of dying, but we’re afraid of leaving everything behind. I’ve also thought that maybe by the time I’m 80 I would’ve experienced so many things that I’ll be ready to go… but at the same time I would have acquired so many things that I wouldn’t want to let go. When I say “things”, I don’t mean tangible property or objects, but friendships, relationships, family. But back to the things I wanted to talk about, I finally had the nerve to turn on the tape of me and my dad and our trip to Reno. When I watched it, I didn’t cry, but instead I wanted to smile because I saw him and I saw us and I saw how happy we were. I still haven’t shed a tear, but I feel like I am really close to doing so. It was this past week where something happened that triggered all these emotions inside of me. The thing was, I’ve been living here for almost an entire school year, and so far it hasn’t been the greatest thing, and so I wanted to talk to one of my roommates about it, since he was the main reason why things weren’t so great. So I just took everything that bothered me out and put it on the table and offered to try and make things better. We got into some arguments about some things, and then he falsely accused me of being confrontational – and yet he was the one who was raising his voice and cussing. But I don’t want to get into that. The thing was, or is, I get the feeling that he doesn’t see me on the same level as he is. Rather, I am so small that he has to speak to me like a child… and everything that I say sounds like garbage to him. I don’t know what makes him assume that, but I try not to let it bother me. The point is, after my little skirmish with my stupid roommate, I felt really emotional, like my hands were shaking and I was breathing heavily and my heart was pounding. I compounded the situation by listening to Sammi Cheng’s Can’t Let Go on my way to class… and it was then that I felt like I wanted to cry. I imagined that I’d call my mom over the phone and tell her that I miss her, and that I also miss my dad, and then I’d be crying over the phone and everyone at VLSB would be watching me. But that never happened. I didn’t have the guts to do it, but I called home anyway and nobody answered. It was that kind of day too, with clouds and rain falling hard. I still remember everything so clearly. I read my original journal at times and I can see everything as vividly and clearly as if it were yesterday. I thought about the times when my mom was in Hong Kong for a year and my dad was here to take care of my sister and I and what we had to go through. Talking about it brings all the emotions back out. I learned that on the day of the accident, my father was indeed conscious and was also screaming in pain. Like I said before, when I found out about that I wished that I could have been there, perhaps to help soothe his pain. The other night I was so stressed out that I recorded my own voice – I just wanted to talk and let everything out. When I played it back, I thought that I sounded like my dad a bit. If I tried hard it seemed like he was speaking. I had no idea that someone like my dad could have such a huge effect on me – doesn’t that sound strange? It’s just that it wasn’t really the greatest father/son relationship ever, but like the father in the movie said, no matter how bad he is, he is still my father. And the thing was, he wasn’t that bad anyways. At least he tried to make things up… I thought about what it’d be like to be in his shoes, and it makes me really sad. Seeing your two kids not talking to you because you made a mistake, being stuck between a rock and a hard place, not knowing what to do, and at the same time seeing things get worse as a result of your own stupidity. I don’t know if my sadness is warranted, because like my mom says, I am a very soft-hearted person. I feel bad about everything. I sometimes feel like that maybe I am different from everyone else because I am like that. I don’t know how I can think that, because it may seem arrogant, but sometimes I just do. I feel like that I am one in a million in terms of the ways that I think. Often it just seems like that nobody understands me, understands where I’m coming from, what I’m trying to say. Remember how I said I thought about dying… well I want to write and write and leave behind my words – because I was reading some books from school, listening to classical music – two things whose creators are long dead. The only thing people remember those dead people is through their creations. So I want to make a difference and leave behind my writings. My father was a very smart and educated man and he left behind some writings as well. Unfortunately I haven’t read any of them. I’ve read a few excerpts, but that’s all. I found his pocket thesaurus that he had when he first came to the United States, and it once again made me imagine what it’d be like to be in those shoes, coming to the United States for the very first time and being young. It must have been really exciting. I never asked him about those things, and now it’s too late. I can only ask my mom and his friends. Another thing is, being a student myself, I see professors lecturing up on that stage, and I try to picture my father doing the same thing. It would be really special to be a student in my own father’s class. He was a professor too, and sitting there listening to him and taking notes would’ve been bad-ass. And then after class we could go home and discuss the day’s topics. That’s something I would have really cherished. But that’s not going to happen, and I can only imagine such a thing happening. I don’t know if think about what happened everyday, or even if I think of him everyday, but I do know that it’s always happening. It probably is everyday, but I don’t want to say just in case it isn’t. But anyways, it seems like that I’ve gone on forever… and my head is getting heavy coz I’m sleepy. It’s 2:38am, and I started at 2:00 am just for the record. Good night.