Today’s Thoughts:

The known health benefits of Green Tea are piling up, from antioxidant to immune-booster to sweet-breath-for-days to stronger teeth and on and on. But studies contradict on how much you need to drink to achieve the maximum effect. I’ve seen reports of anywhere between three and ten cups a day being ideal. Ten is a lot! The important compounds get into the tea by leaching out of the bag and into the water, released by heat. When they leach out, they get diluted. So, here’s the question: if the tea is so good for you, why doesn’t anyone just eat the leaves? Could eating the whole undiluted tea bag equal the antioxidant value of ten cups a day? I’d be up for it if it turns out to be true. Just place the whole bag on your tongue and gulp it all down with a big swig of water. I’ve done it before on a dare, I know I can do it, especially if the bag is cut into two or three parts. I looked the question up online, and found no answer. Why hasn’t anyone ever thought of this?

In my creative writing class, someone is staring at me every time I look up. Everyone in the class arranges the seats into a circle so we’re facing each other, but that doesn’t require people to stare directly at my face, which they do. And I’m talking about people from every direction – far left, far right, diagonal – not just those directly across from me. I’ll look around the room and catch one or two suddenly looking away, watch someone blink and play it cool as if they weren’t staring, or, on occasion, I’ll look at a person while he or she stares right back at me unfazed.
I know I am one to stare at people, observing faces, wondering what I can determine from looks: I try to guess anything from sun sign to personality to childhood struggles. I have a genuine staring problem. Like my classmates, I usually look away when I’m caught, and sometimes don’t look away.
Perhaps these people stare because are all just like me and I stare. That would mean I found a class that attracts the same psychodemographic group that I belong to. Perhaps they all just think I’m cute. Or perhaps I’m just odd to look at.

I burnt the top of my mouth on hot tea. It didn’t hurt that bad, so I didn’t think much of it until I felt tiny bits of skin peeling off the roof of my mouth during class. Now I have something that feels sort of like a scab there only it’s softer. Thank God the tissue inside your mouth grows and heals so fast, and this will probably be gone tomorrow.

When I was a kid, I was a science fiction fanatic. I liked science fiction books because I thought they would come true, and regardless if the portrayed fate of humanity was positive or negative, I wanted it to come true. I longed to live four hundred years from now, living in some mile-high skyscraper or zipping across space at a relativistic speed.
Whenever I read a book I particularly liked, I made my dad read it next. I had him read my books so we could talk about them, and Dad would usually begin the conversation by saying he hated the book. Looking back now at what I used to have him read, I can see why. At twelve years old the unrealistic or cynical future portrayed by the author didn’t phase me: the thought of human oppressors finally getting their just desserts at the hands of a disrespected alien race, environmental catastrophe causing humanity to flee the Earth, liberation from an occupying species, aftermath of environmental catastrophe or nuclear war, or, my favorite, lessons in interstellar governance where advanced governments debate whether developing civilizations should be controlled or allowed to advance and evolve by themselves. I read books intellectually, while my father read them emotionally, so I would curiously ponder the rhetorical lessons of the plot while my father would recoil in deeply disturbed disagreement.
It came as a great surprise to me when my dad recently bought one of David Sedaris’ books. He did it completely on his own – I didn’t even know that a new book had been released. I was a fan of Sedaris and talked about David Sedaris’ books to my parents from time to time, comparing my awkwardness to the author’s and praising his sense of self-deprecating humor. This summer my dad showed me that he bought Dress Your Kids in Courduroy and Denim, and I couldn’t help but be a bit touched. Common as it may be for children to adopt the cultural interests of their parents (or, perhaps more common, to specifically reject them), I consider it rare for a father to adopt new interests at the influence of his child. He wanted to be in the group. He wanted something to talk about. He was imitating me, because he thought I was cool. That’s so cute.