An empty psychadelic club at nine o’clock.
There are a lot of me out there.

If you Google my name, the first result that comes up is for some M.D. in the United States. Facebook doesn’t list me anywhere near the top among the other profiles under Victoria Chiu, and I’m not even sure if Google Images turns up any photos of me in the first ten pages. (I’m not gonna check now, but when I narcissistically ran a search on myself in tenth grade that was the status.) I’m common. There are tons of me, and I am not particularly special. 

It sounds bleak, but it’s kind of comforting: I won’t have to worry about future employers stumbling across embarrassing photos of me as a kid unless they scroll until their fingers cramp up, and creepsters who might happen to stalk me across the Net won’t be able to dig up anything useful except the things I want them to see. This anonymity gives me a sort of defense against the uncontrollable nature of the Internet—the “put it out there and it’s available forever” kinda deal that the comes in fine print whenever something is uploaded to the expanse of the Wild Wild Web. 

These are the thinks I think when it’s a Sunday night and I’m supposed to be getting ready for bed. 


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Writes words mostly on the go. Lentils are life.

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