Eastman Kodak/How to build an empire
Celina Qu
When I was in school, I wanted to work at Starbucks. I didn't realize it'd be like meeting your idol and being met with an insult. I've always waited for something to happen. Or to escape this biology lecture forever. I wanted someone to hand me a coffee at every 8am and juncture and heartbreak. I hate when my liquid highlighter leaks neon over my palm, and I hate checking my notifications on lunch breaks. I bought apple juice from a vending machine for two dollars, but it didn't taste as I wanted. I hate holidays and shaking snow off my boots, and I hate All I Want for Christmas is You. When it plays in each Walmart I step foot into, I begin to sing along in my head. I hate summer get-togethers and seeing my old friends for four hours at the side of the road. I hate
conversations about what we've been doing. I hate eating the last watermelon chunk. I hate traipsing through the rust sidewalks, and hearing my manager say don't shoot the messenger. I hate my apartment. I've never thrown out a stuffed animal for fear of retribution. I wish my cat would purr more and get up from under the table. I never wanted a cat in the first place because I didn't want to grieve. When you give birth to a human child you might hope to pass your sorrow onto their baby bodies instead. Maybe I stopped by the shelter last March so I could find something that understood obsolescence, or didn't understand but was. Never mind these flowers and conglomerates. I have this vision.
where we're lying in the living room in the afternoon and I'm feeling the sun on her fur. And I move slowly. And we close our eyes. And I feel the sun on me. And I soak in it. Bathe. She's murmuring something I can't make out. Ten minutes later, I'm scrambling off the steps of the 498. You wouldn't know it, but I like this umbrella. I've gotten into the habit of listening to Weyes Blood on the way back. Five minutes is too long for one song. For seven years I imagined sex with a girl. I practiced floating and moaning every night. When it happened, I wanted to die from boredom. This mattress might be infested. With what, I'm not sure, but it creaks when I leave it. And I hate fishing for the wrong key. I hate coming home to nothing. I hate leaving home for nothing. I hate wanting, and I hate dreaming. I've imagined so many magical moments. And all of them had you. And none of them did. There's this one day in spring where I'm standing at the door to my apartment building with a broken umbrella, fumbling for the card. There's a drum and steel guitar pounding, only a few beats away from my diagnosis. I'm seeing myself in the glass door, as I always have. There's one day I'm pulling a push door, and I realize I've always lived in prose and dragged my sneakers across the foyer, too drowsy to stand upright beside the monolithic waiting elevator.
Celina Quo is a first-year in Pierson College from Vancouver, Canada. Lately, she's been shoegazing on the banks of rivers, whispering Kate Bush lyrics on the train, and repairing lost watches.
ABOUT THE ART | Vomit by Tashroom Ahsan, 2025. Tashroom Ahsan is a student at Yale University.
