One of my favorite numbers.

It’s probably because in elementary school, when we were assigned a class number, I was #11 for multiple years.

It was also the number of people in a group with whom I thought I’d be friends with forever.


More than 10, but less than 12.

There was something “odd” about it (no pun intended).

But this is probably another reason why this is one of my favorite numbers because I always felt like the odd one out.


Not one of my favorite numbers, but I can appreciate it.

After all, they say two is better than one.

Two peas in a pod.

Two halves to a whole.

A lot of things come in pairs.

If we take the 1’s in 11 & add them, well, 1 + 1 = 2.

2 makes us feel complete.

2 tells us we get a second chance at life.

But when we add 11 & 2…

11 + 2 = 13


The unlucky number & quite conveniently, my karmic debt number.

12 is considered universally perfect; it represents harmony & all good things.

But 13?

13 tells us that we took things one step too far, & now harmony has turned into discord.

13 causes us to look back & try to figure out where we misstepped.

Did we do too much just to receive so little?

We try to go back to the very beginning.

And that’s exactly what I did.

I made it back to the very beginning with a sad smile on my face.

But as I scrolled through the archived messages on my desktop, the system crashed.

Perhaps it was a sign that I wasn’t supposed to be looking.

If we take 11.2 & turn it around, it becomes 2.11.

And I see it as 2, 1, 1, as if I am nearing the end of a countdown to something big, but I am afraid to say “zero” because I fear becoming nothing. 

I’m counting down the days to my showcase, to my graduation, to moving back home, to my MCAT.

I’m counting the days I spend time with people, & the ones that pass where I wish I could renew a friendship.

I’m counting the days of my hair growing back, while hoping that the stress I’m feeling won’t cause it to thin again.

I close my eyes & count to 10, hoping this is all just a bad dream.

Because I’m terrified by the numbers.


A Honey Drop of Doubt.


It’s all I ever want, all I ever ask for.

Too often, life is sugar coated. And while I love sweet things, my palette needs to be exposed to know the sour, salty, and bitter tastes of experience as well.

So f*ck it. Throw me in a hot wok with all of that sh*t.

Best learn how to face the fire head on, no?

I just want people to tell me the truth. Because at the end of the day, someone’s gonna get hurt either way.

Might as well rip the bandage off in one ‘go.’

For me, it’s better to have a minuscule spot of blood on the skin compared to a moistening, building infection under the latex or cotton coverings.

Besides, I’m resilient. 

So why, pray tell, am I most frightened when someone finally comes around and tells no lies and speaks words like honey?


So sweet and so thick. So rich in the color gold. So crystal clear. One needs only a small spoonful to add flavor and in a short amount of time, the taste becomes an addiction.

How is it that something so pure has been placed in front of me?

Things I want, things that I’ve always wanted, but never asked for out of fear of being “too much,” are now being freely given to me without me asking, and it’s nice.

Quite wonderful, even.

And still, I doubt.

In my mind lives the thought of it all being “too good to be true.” The thought that the honey will lead me to a sticky situation that I cannot escape because I naturally get too involved. The thought that this addiction will lead to a deterioration of my health in one way or another, be it diabetes, weight gain, or my mental stability.

How rewarding it is to finally have something to savor after years of sitting at the table.

But how long until there is no food left on the plate and the emptiness settles?