But other than that, the city is ridiculously well-maintained. Singapore feels less like a metropolis and more like a garden that happens to have buildings in it. The MRT has cell phone reception. The sidewalks are crack-free. The grass is uniformly green. People line up for church, for the bus, for the ATM, and for a bowl of beef noodles.

I am perennially under-dressed. If I want to work here, I need to learn how to walk in high heels and wear short skirts without accidentally flashing anyone. Back in Taiwan, girls styled their hair like anime characters. Here, everyone’s hair is long, straight, and black, or worn in a gracefully messy ballerina bun.

I knew I’d be dealing with culture shock, but I didn’t expect so many little differences. Not only does traffic travel on the opposite side of the road, but lights switch on and off in the opposite direction. While going down escalators, you stand on the left instead of on the right. When you’re going up the sidewalk, you also stand on the left instead of on the right. I’ve never felt so awkward yielding way to people in my life.

The wildlife sounds are also different. Birds don’t chirp here, they squawk. In New York, we had pigeons; in Taiwan, sparrows. Here, I’m surrounded by black birds with yellow feet and beaks. They’re are louder than you would expect.

I live in a small residential area populated by foreigners and characterized by cafes. The apartment I’m staying at is located directly above a pet store. Every night, I see a dog walker waiting outside of its doors with a squadron of border collies. To the right of the pet store is an ice cream shop that stays open till 1 AM. On most evenings, you’ll find young couples there dressed for the club, even though they’re only eating dessert.

It’s not that weird to eat alone here, especially at the hawker centers. Nobody looks at you, although you don’t need to work hard to get customer service. The Starbucks in Singapore is especially nice. Croissants always come with jam and butter. When you order something to go, they put it in a bag with a stabilizer. How useful would that have been during my breakfasts on the New York subway, had New York’s Starbucks been so accommodating?

On the other hand, you’re not allowed to eat on public transportation. I actually have to drink my second cup of coffee at home now. I don’t know what to do about breakfast. Can I scarf it down while waiting for the bus? Or should I skip it altogether? I never realized how much I ate and drank on the subway until I moved to a place where doing so isn’t allowed.

I’ve started getting used to the Singaporean accent, although people constantly ask about mine. As in, why does this Asian girl talk like she’s from middle America? I suppose this how Brits and Aussies feel when they move abroad, where everyone notes their way of speaking. I don’t mind, though. In fact, I kind of like how my accent serves as an icebreaker.

I’ve befriended a lot of cool people, but I keep forgetting that the English-speaking Asians I meet are not Asian Americans. In talking to them, I’ve learned not to depend so heavily on American pop culture references to make a point. But I’ve also learned that people are people, and as long as you approach them sincerely, they’ll respond in turn despite not always understanding your slang.

Speaking of language, I’m learning to adjust mine. For instance:

line up = queue
subway = MRT
wakao = wahlao
really/very/seriously/totally = quite
center = centre
theater = theatre
“cheers” is the standard email sign-off (in the States, I used “best” or “regards”)

Also, no one says “baller,” “dead ass,” “swag,” “GTL,” “get my drank on,” “I know right,” “bro,” “what up fool,” “chica,” “you fancy huh,” “hipster,” or “shorty”.

More to come….

Maybe it’s biology. I’m 24 and the clock’s ticking. I suspect I’ve been reading too many novels. Or maybe I’m bending to social pressures, as half of my friends are either dating, married, or in serious relationships. All I know is that sometime during the last 8 years, I gave up resisting attraction. Back then, I at least tried to not like people who were out of my league. Now I just run with it because really, what else are you supposed to do when you meet somebody whose company you would enjoy even if you were stuck together in a broken elevator for 12 hours?

Now I know what has ruined me — Genesis 2. You know, “Bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh”. Can you imagine waking from a deep slumber to find your perfect match? As much as a I rail against the concept of soulmates, I’ve conducted my life as if I actually believe in them. I rationalize all of my failed relationships and pursuits with the idea that they’re steering me toward the person I’ll eventually end up with. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve already met and I just don’t recognize him for who he is. I don’t anticipate a beacon of light, the songs of angels, or even an epiphany, but rather, the delicious assurance that this person was prepared especially for me.

What is the first thing you do when you get home?
Wash my hands

What was the first thing you did this morning?
Go back to sleep

How long does it take you to shower?
15 minutes (5 minutes for hair, 5 minutes for body, 5 minutes for standing around wasting water)

Do you wear your seatbelt in the car?
Always

Do your grandparents have a cell phone/computer?
Yes! One of them even uses Yahoo Messenger

Most disgusting thing to put cheese on, in your opinion:
Brownies

Do you still talk to your first love?
Nope

Who was the first person to text you today?
A friend inviting me to church small group tomorrow

Who is the first person you thought of this morning?
The hiring manager at the place I am waiting to hear from

Do you secretly like someone?
I almost always do, even if it’s someone from my past whom I have no chance with. My heart just naturally inclines toward romantic thoughts.

What do you tend to dream negatively about the most?
That all my plans in life will fail and I will end up living at home, depressed.

How often are you angry for no reason?
Not often. When it comes to negative feelings, I tend to feel more sad than angry.

Are there any stains on a favorite item of clothing that you just can’t get out?
YES, on a long white shirt with a small front pocket. I really liked that shirt too. It went with everything and reminded me of the 1970s.

Who was the last person you said you loved on the phone?
My mom

If you’re having a bad hair day, do you wear a cap of some sort?
No, because caps make my face look fat. I just do the Snooki pouf.

Favorite television character is played by which actor/actress, and why are they your favorite?
Sherlock, played by Benedict Cumberbatch, because he is charming and snarky and a joy to watch.

Do you look more like your mom or your dad?
My dad. It’s because of him that I look 100 percent Chinese.

What are you listening to?
The birds squawking outside.

Is the last person you kissed older than you?
Yes.

Do you have a favorite item of clothing?
Yes, a military jacket that makes every outfit spiffier. Had to leave it in Taiwan because it’s too hot to wear it in Singapore though.

Last movie you saw in theaters?
50/50. Incredible. My favorite Seth Rogen role, by far.

Last thing you ate?
Fruit rojak from a nearby hawker center.

What was last thing you drank?
Gula melaka 3-in-1 coffee.

If you could have one thing right now what would it be?
A job

What were you doing at midnight last night?
Listening to Party Rock and wishing I were out dancing with my girl friends.

On the one hand, I wish things could have worked out for me in New York. I had a whole life there: awesome friends, a church, a professional network, my own place, my favorite restaurants, favorite bus routes, and secret havens for reading or reflecting on my day. On the other hand, I’ve been given the opportunity to find all those things in a completely new place. I don’t feel adventurous, but somehow I’ve been thrust into it. Six years ago, I could barely make it out of my dorm room without crying from homesickness. It took me months to find real friends, and more than a year before I worked up the courage to attend a college party. This time, I willingly packed my bags, said goodbye to everyone I knew, and traveled to a place where I had no connections whatsoever. The journey from Point A to Point B is a long story, but I will say this: I’m as uncertain now as I was back then. I don’t know what the future holds. I think I made the right decision, but I don’t know if I’ll be successful. I could just fail and end up back at home, embarrassed and confused. Or maybe a year from now, I’ll be miserable. The difference is that I’ve come to enjoy uncertainty, knowing it can be reframed as a means toward good things rather than bad.

I have a tendency to let my fear of failure prevent me from taking initiative. It just doesn’t seem worth it to expend so much effort into things that won’t work out: a job, a relationship, a friendship, a drastic move across the ocean. But there’s a flip side to uncertainty — because for every chance that things could go wrong, things could go so, so, so right. You read my entries. Fear and failure swirl around my thoughts all day long. But every day I remind myself that the fact that I actually went through with my move to Singapore, and am having a great time despite not having my own place or a job, has to mean something. And while I’ve only been here a few weeks, I’ve taken my sense of awe and wonder at the uncertainty to mean that I’m experiencing something I never really knew that I wanted.

I was very, very sad to leave New York. Back then, I thought I loved my life there because of its stability. But once I settled into an even more stable routine in Taiwan, I realized that what I really missed was my life’s abundance. It’s only been a few weeks, but I think I have it here, albeit from a different source. I’m still lost 80 percent of the time. I still don’t know how to update my EZ-link transit card. I don’t have a job or my own place. I have only one suitcase’s worth of possessions. And while I’ve met a lot of cool people, these friendships still have lots of room to grow. Ostensibly, I have very little. But on the inside, I feel so rich. Like I’m in exactly the right place at the right time, although God only knows how long I’ll actually be here.

Haruki Murakami once wrote, “Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.” I think that’s what’s keeping me from being bogged down by sadness and homesickness now, like I thought I would be. I don’t know what’s on the other side of that door, but I cannot shake the feeling that whatever I’ll find there will be worth the wait.

That was a lot time ago. I don’t really hold it against the guy. We were in high school. I’ve dated a few people since then, but the sting of rejection had a profound impact on me. I’m always afraid to show guys how I really feel because deep down. I’m afraid they’ll react like that first guy. I don’t think he was even flattered. He was just creeped out. Most guys my age have enough tact to not walk in the other direction when I strike up a conversation with them. But I can tell by their body language that they’re doing the same thing in their heads: “Oh God, this girl likes me, get me out of here.” Meanwhile, I’m laughing and chatting and playing with my hair, and it’s like high school all over again.

1. Dear Nerd,

We met a long time ago, but I wish we’d met now, when I’m more sure of what I want in another person and what makes a good relationship. I’d never admit this to your face, but you’re the closest I’ve come to an intellectual soulmate. I should have known you were something special when you quoted Lord Byron on my Facebook wall. And now we’re on separate continents. A lot has changed, but I still feel like an idiot. One day, you will write a book or release some kind of epic thesis, and I will regret friend zoning you all over again. Damn it.

Best,
Denise

2. Dear Hipster,

You’ve never dentified as a hipster, but since you like weird synth music, wear skinny ties, and ride a fixed gear bike, in my mind, you are one. I don’t really remember what I liked about you, except that you’re really tall and you’ve tried nearly every type of food — except for stinky tofu, my hometown’s specialty. Please keep traveling and writing and sampling different types of tomatoes and beer. We never went out, let alone went anywhere, but the world felt like a bigger place when I was around you.

Regards,
Denise

3. Dear Infectiously Happy Guy, 

You have the nicest smile I have ever seen. I love how it takes over your face. I love that you’re always laughing, and that you seem genuinely happy to see people, even the ones who aren’t really your friends yet (and I say yet because eventually, you make everybody your friend). I don’t know what else to write because embarrassingly enough, I don’t know that much about you. All I know is that you possess a quality that is pure and bright and inexplicable. Won’t you come find me sometime? You’re good at making me smile, but I think I’d be even better at making you laugh, you know, with my penchant for melodrama and terrible puns. And if you haven’t already, please don’t friend zone me. I’m really mean to all of my guy friends. Trust me, you don’t want to be one of them. I’m infinitely nicer when I’m something more. As in, I’ll bake and give book recommendations and watch all your favorite shows without irony. Did I ever tell you that the first guy I dated in college was a Star Trek fan? So that instead of learning about sports from her guy, like a normal girl would, I learned about freaking Star Trek?? Sorry, I’m being a nerd again. You have that effect on me, even when I’m only thinking about you.

Call me,
Denise

If there’s one thing I constantly pray for and strive toward, it’s a rich and holistic life. Prestige is nice, and money is comfortable, but neither of those things can compensate for the hollowness of living without a sense of destiny. I want my relationships to be sincere. I want to see my spiritual life producing fruit. I want to gain confidence that is not self-centered. I want so many things, but most of all, I want to not be in a place where I need outside validation/personal glory to be happy. For the longest time, my life felt empty. And I was so tired of feeling that way, that I couldn’t bring myself to want anything anymore.

But I think I’m on the verge of living abundantly again. For the past year, I’ve felt as if I were afflicted with a low-grade fever. Moving back to Taiwan, where I lived with my parents, from NYC, where I had my own place, put me in an emotional funk. I freelanced full time, but could barely muster any joy from my work. The only time I remember feeling any gratification, aside from the usual ego boost that follows writing a viral post, is when I saw my interns become confident writers and editors within the course of a semester. I didn’t often feel empowered, but the discouragement I felt on a daily basis granted me compassion for those who were experiencing the same thing. And that’s when things started to turn around for me, as an editor. Previously, I thought editing simply meant fixing grammar, assigning stories, and writing good articles. Now I know that it entails teaching a staff how to do the same. After you recognize a great talent, you have to invest in the person to understand how they can best serve the publication without becoming a slave to it.

I came to Singapore because I wanted to be around people again. To work with them again. To edit a publication that doesn’t depend on its staff as mere suppliers, but as lifeblood. If the staff is unhappy or unhealthy, the publication suffers. And I think happiness at work starts with believing that you’re part of a legacy, and not just a part of something in need of maintenance, like an old clock.

Maybe that’s why I felt so fatigued and unmotivated last year. I couldn’t see a point to my boredom, to my being at home, to my working graveyard shifts on a computer seven days a week. I didn’t feel as if the pain of leaving New York and figuring out my life in Taiwan were refining my character in any way. By forcing myself to socialize every 3 weeks or so, by filling my otherwise listless days with freelance job after freelance job, and by avoiding the guilt that accompanied my lapsed spirituality, I felt as if I were maintaining my life rather than living it.

And yet here I am, in a place where I have the chance to do that — to have an amazing career, to make new friends, to right things with God, maybe to even start dating again. I’m blessed and I’m free, but it’s been so long since I felt this way, that I don’t really know what to do with myself. How to deal with all these feelings of newness. In which direction to run. Or if I should run at all.

Is this just how it’s meant to be? Always the companion, never the girlfriend? Always the freelancer, never the employee?

Indeed, few narratives intersect as frequently as love and work. As a freelancer, I’m constantly wrestling with how clients take advantage of hard-working independents. Richard Morgan said it best: “Freelancing is basically just courtship, but the freelancer-editor relationship is nothing more than friends with benefits.” There’s a relationship there, but it’s not exactly committal. You’re denied health benefits, paid vacations, and the respect that comes with a formal title. You provide a service, they pay a fee, and you part ways. Sound familiar?

“Friends with benefits” works for some people, but generally, I favor commitment. You like me, I like you, let’s make it happen. You like my work, I like your cause, let’s make it happen. But in real life, people will often take what you have to offer without giving you what you really want. That, or they’ll procrastinate until they have no other choice but to commit. In the same way you don’t want to date someone for years and years, only for them to propose marriage to appease social expectations, you don’t want to permalance with someone for years and years in hope that they’ll make you a formal offer once you’ve paid your dues. Think of it in terms of love. You shouldn’t have to pay your dues to be somebody’s wife/girlfriend. If they really desire you, they’ll make a commitment before someone else can scoop you up. The same goes for jobs. Obviously, everybody has to start somewhere, but after some time has passed, you’ve got to know whether they consider you a family member or as hired help.

Maybe it’s my own fault for continuing to believe that somebody will come through. The disappointment is enough to make me question the value of living. At the very least, I begin doubting the value of forming connections, which are what bind me to life itself. Am I a bargain product? Get as much out of it while paying the minimum? Being an accidental freelancer or someone’s unofficial companion is like being a subletted  apartment. You tide the inhabitants over while they scout for the house of their dreams, all the while hoping that someone stick around. But it’s never going to happen as long as you’re a temporary residence by definition.

I know this isn’t the brightest path to wander, but nothing pulls me back like considering that for every one person who rejects me, there are at least five who’ve reached out to include me. Why does heartbreak matter so much when others love you in spite of it? Every time I think of the people I lost, I think of the friends who pray for me, laugh at my jokes, and who listen to my long and rambling stories. And since no one from the past has access to this part of me, that’s where I find my solace.

In the grand scheme of things, lost loves and opportunities don’t amount to much when you weren’t destined for them in the first place. If I were to disappear, they’d hardly notice my absence, let alone miss me. But I’m pretty sure I owe more to the people inhabiting that safe place in myself. I write this for them, and in doing so, hope to remember how to write for myself.

It’s usually the first thing people say when I tell them about my predicament. To be honest, I’ve entertained the idea. Not in the sense that I’ll actively seek out men who’d lovingly escort me to the Land of the Free, but that I wouldn’t immediately reject that option if it presented itself. I’ve waited so long, followed so many false leads, and spent so much time alone that I’m almost (ALMOST) inclined to believe that it’d be easier to find a willing man than a willing employer.

Let’s pretend that next month, I meet an eligible bachelor who’s conveniently an American in want of a wife. Even better, he’s from New York. Best of all, he’s a not elderly, good guy who’s super in love with me, so much that he’s willing to get married within the next year and to do all that paperwork. Would I go through with it? What if he were a perfectly good guy, and not a total weirdo, aside from the fact that he’s offering me a green card marriage? Would I do it? Would I forgo my youth, casual dating, the normal course of relationships, the excitement of actually falling in love with someone of my choice, to marry a guy for a green card so I can return to my beloved New York?

If only I were better at handling disappointment. I can just imagine the looks on people’s faces. “Wow, you sold out.” “Marriage is sacred!” “You should have left it in God’s hands.”

I know exactly what I’d say if people criticized my decision to get married out of convenience instead of love: For thousands of years, marriage was a business deal. You got married to preserve the family line, to honor your parents, to solidify a political contract, or (if you were a woman) to avoid being a social pariah and a burden to others. It was only in the Victorian Era that marriage-for-love started becoming the mainstream ideal. So basically, I’d be doing what people did for eons up until the past 130 years or so. Plus, who says I can’t fall in love with someone over time? It’s not like there were any serious contenders beforehand….

I can deflect other people’s opinions on romance, but I’m daunted by the prospect of diffusing my own disappointment. To marry someone for a piece of paper seems so desperate. I’d have officially admitted that my own talents and patience aren’t good enough on their own. For the rest of my life, I’d think about all those other guys I could have dated or married, the ones who were potentially a better match, or with whom I share real chemistry. I can’t. I CAN’T. I’d rather just not ever go back, and to seek/find my fortune elsewhere, than to put it in the hands of some guy with the right citizenship.

So the short answer is no, I wouldn’t marry someone for a green card. Well, maybe if he were a  Joseph Gordon-Levitt/Andrew Garfield hybrid, or perhaps a clone of either one….