Aw Gaaaaleeeee

I don't know what all this fuss is about. I ain't but ten years old, but I got me some sense enough to tell when somethin's gone wrong. That's why I asked my Mama if that check coming the other morning. But my Mama she just tells me "you get your mind off money and eat your breakfast" (28).

I ain't got no idea why Mama says don't worry 'bout no money. She sends me to the other room to do my homework sometimes, and they thinking I'm focusing real hard, but I can hear Mama and Daddy fussing with Grandmama about that check. They worrying 'bout money all the time. I can't hear what they saying, but sometimes my Daddy's voice come up real loud and I can tell he's worried - real worried, ever since Grandmama told me about the new house she done got me for when I'm all grown.  Now I know my Daddy wouldn't never do nothing bad for me or Mama or aunt Beneatha and I wanna grow up to be just like him. And even though Mama can be a real pain making me get outta bed so early and such, I know I always be her "little old angry man" (30). But when they get on yelling like that I can't help feeling scared some. I thought when that check comes my Daddy will be acting fine again. Seems like things always fine when people are rich.

Well, turns out I was worrying for nothing. Today I saw a strange white man sitting in our little apartment. He was a nice looking white man, but something about him made me feel done uneasy. Good thing my Daddy was there right with me. My daddy he told that white man something special. He told him that we a family of proud, proud people. He told that white man that aunt Beneatha gone' be a doctor and we gone' be good neighbors and that I make "the sixth generation of our family in this country" (148). I ain't never felt so proud before as I was standing there next to my daddy in front of that white man. After my daddy done talking, that white man he scurried out of our apartment like a scared little mouse. Gaalee! Now we moving to our new house out in Clybourne - and it'll be all mine someday. I ain't ever figured out what all the fuss was about, but I knew my daddy wouldn't never let me down. Hot dog!

My photoshop skills

The DIEmond as big as the ritz

Once upon a time, a 20th century Moses lived luxuriously on a mountain in complete isolation from society (save for his immediate family and a multitude of innocent prisoners and slaves.) Of course, this isn't just any mountain in the middle of nowhere; it's a mountain in the middle of nowhere composed of one solid diamond. Wait what?

"The Diamond as Big as the Ritz" is just one of Fitzgerald's short stories depicting the intricacies and dangers of wealth. In this highly imaginative tale, the members of the Washington family live a magical and seemingly flawless lives: they dwell in a "floating fairy-land...beyond human wish or dream", enjoy massive gardens and aquariums within their homes, and even roll out of bed (literally) each morning into warm warm bubble baths with "moving-picture" service. To say that pink elephants sent from heaven regularly roam their valleys would scarcely be a stretch.

However, beneath this utopialistic (that's not a word, is it) lifestyle lies a tradition of corruption and melancholy. In order to ensure that all of this wealth is kept solely to themselves, the Washingtons have "corrupted a whole department of the State survey" and even "had a river deflected" just to keep the diamond a secret. Braddock Washington even hides the abolition of slavery from his band of Negroes and locks up everyone who happens to come across the mountain in a dark and crowded pit. Realizing that being the only inhabitants of the middle of nowhere can be quite lonely, the Washingtons occasionally invite guests to their kingdom of diamonds to make their lives a little bit less emotionally lacking. But wait! Wouldn't these guests find out about the diamond and try to exploit the family's wealth after they leave? No problem - have fun with them today, and kill them tomorrow (a surefire way to ensure happiness, wise Washingtons.) The family is so inexperienced with true human emotion that when the youngest daughter, Kismine, hears her own name from John, she cannot help but inquire, "Did you say 'Kismine'? Or...[kiss me?]" One cannot blame her for her foolish rhetoric, however. What can we expect from someone who grew up with people who eternally trap themselves in social isolation?
Moral of the story: being wealthy is pretty depressing. Sometimes, it's better be a peasant with friends who aren't dead.

Relationship Advice for Gatsby

Essential Question: What is the problem with romanticizing nostalgic memories of the past?

This is a question that Gatsby desperately needs to be answered. Captivated by the sweet memories of Daisy inside his head, Gatsby has created a romantic fantasy for himself that is simply unattainable in the real world. When he finally meets Daisy after adding to "the colossal vitality of his illusion" (Fitzgerald 95) for five long years, he is dismayed to realize that the real Daisy does not equate to the Daisy he devised in his dreams. However, what he doesn't realize is that this discrepancy is due not to Daisy's ineptitude, but to his own naiveté for romanticizing the past. "No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart" (Fitzgerald 96).

Sadly, Gatsby is not the only one who faces this break with reality - people are letting their own minds break their own hearts all the time. A certain human once said to me: "Things change, and people change." He is right. As young adults especially, we cannot expect life as we know it to remain a constant, or for the people we'll know tomorrow to remain the people we know today. That being said, the root of the problem is that people are unaware of or simply unable to accept the change that is taking place around them.

When something of great sentimental value happens to us, it is forever stamped into our memory. It is the absolute peak of the relationship, and as that cherished moment floats around constantly in our heads, often times we do not realize that the relationship is actually going downhill outside of our ignorant, unrestricted brains. Every negative reality is cancelled out or justified by simply recollecting that peak moment of happiness, and we fool ourselves with the deadly hope that whatever happiness we experienced will, in fact, happen again. Unfortunately, when reality - that things have changed - finally hits us, the damage has already been done. We will never be able to recover those long hours wasted dreaming about, well, nothing.

So what is the problem? The problem is that by holding on too tightly to a memory from the past, we are not setting the stage for a better future, but closing the door to happier opportunities that we never thought possible. We cannot, like Gatsby, expect Daisy to leave her husband and marry himself instead, "just as if it were five years ago" (Fitzgerald 109). If we do, we are only setting ourselves up for disappointment and letting our own imaginations deceive us. Thus, I believe this calls for an Elsa moment.

The Mirage of Marriage

One of the most common misconceptions about life involves the subject of marriage: a boy and a girl meet, fall deeply in love, and live happily ever after. As young teenage girls, I'm sure we've all spent a not-so-small fraction of our time piecing together the perfect future husband in our heads and fantasizing about our long-awaited wedding day to The One - the day that marks the beginning of a whole new era, the day that assures us we'll be loved forever, the day that our high school un-sweethearts will, once and for all, become mere figments of our imagination. Until we read the Great Gatsby, that is. (Actually the Bluest Eye already kind of ruined it but that's beside the point.)

After reading the first two chapters of Fitzgerald's prized novel, I am sure of exactly one thing: marriage is not all happiness and rainbows. In fact, marriage is more like storm clouds and tornadoes. In chapter one, it is evident that Tom and Daisy's marriage is far from loving - I could literally feel the tension between them jumping out from the page as I read. Between Daisy calling Tom "a great, big, hulking physical specimen" (Fitzgerald 12) and Tom's discussion about white superiority, it is clear that the couple cannot stand each other. A tone of tension and annoyance is set, with Daisy's "impersonal eyes absent of all desire" (12) and Tom "glancing at her impatiently" (12). The fact that Tom's mistress calls in the middle of dinner does not do anything for the awkwardness of the situation. Sorry Daisy, but looks like having such good looks doesn't work in your favor here.

Haha it's an egg...and they live at West Egg...get it

The second couple in the book seems equally miserable - Myrtle and George Wilson. After lying swiftly to her husband and running off to New York with Tom (and Nick), Myrtle cannot help but pour out all her heart's miseries concerning her marriage at the party, giving a "violent and obscene" (33) response to the mention of Wilson's name and calling her self "crazy" (35) for ever marrying him. As Myrtle's sister Catherine tells Nick, "'neither [Tom or Myrtle] can stand the person they're married to'" (33).

So is marriage really this depressing? Will we all make a horrible mistake by marrying one person, just to secretly fall in love with another? Dun dun dunnnnnnn...

¡¿Punctuation?!

Punctuation, like the ornaments that adorn a Christmas tree the furniture that compliments a spacey room, is equally, if not more important than the writing itself. However, the manner in which punctuation is used should not be defined as a conventional set of rules; it should be up to the writer's judgment alone to employ punctuation in a way that most effectively expresses his/her ideas.

Just as Lewis Thomas states in his "Notes on Punctuation", "there are no precise rules about punctuation." He then proceeds to provide a careful (and deeply opinionated) analysis of each mark of punctuation: "The commas are the most useful...colons are a lot less attractive...exclamation points are the most irritating of all..." This is a prime example of the distinct uniqueness of punctuation for each individual. Just like Thomas, each of us has his/her own preferences and attitudes towards punctuation, and should apply it according to those preferences. Punctuation is also an element of great variety that is subject to change over time. As language and style of writing changes, punctuation evolves as well to reflect the change in culture. While forms of punctuation such as the pilcrow and the snark were at one time common grammatical markings, they have now fallen out of use - "punctuation comes and goes" (Punctuation, Social Media, and Evolving Rules of Communication). The reality is that there is no standard or traditional form of punctuation.

Of course, certain grammar rules must to be applied in order to ensure clarity and proper organization of thoughts. I'm sure JFK and Stalin are extremely thankful to the Oxford comma for preserving their non-stripper identity. In such situations, punctuation marks such as commas are instrumental in expressing a certain meaning, regardless of who is using it and the time period.

On the other hand, if punctuation is not necessary in order to convey meaning, adhering to a strict set of grammar rules can be extremely excessive and can greatly hinder the flow of a sentence. Consider this Facebook message from a kind and sweet human who shall remain unnamed.

Is it just me, or do those commas really have no business in this sentence? Obviously, removing them will not change the fact that I look pretty cute. In this case, the grammatically "correct" use of commas is like "tightening the leash" (Austen) and in all honesty should be "used sparingly" (Thomas).

 

Soiled

"And now when I see her searching the garbage - for what? The thing we assassinated? I talk about how I did not plant the seeds too deeply, how it was the fault of the earth, the land, of our town. I even think now that the land of the entire country was hostile to marigolds that year. This soil is bad for certain kinds of flowers. Certain seeds it will not nurture, certain fruit it will not bear, and when the land kills of its own volition, we acquiesce and say the victim had no right to live. We are wrong, of course, but it doesn't matter. It's too late. At least on the edge of my town, among the garbage and the sunflowers of my town, it's much, much, much too late" (Morrison 206).

The last paragraph of The Bluest Eye provides the perfect tie-in with the second prologue of the novel with the recurring extended metaphor of Pecola and the marigold seeds. This extremely impactful passage, although written in simple and straightforward language, reveals a powerful underlying truth: the prevalence of racism and oppression is due not to the flaws of the blacks, but to the hostility of the world around them.
Society, with its multitude of prejudices, assumptions, and standards, represents the unyielding soil; the individuals who make it up constitute the seeds planted within. Just as some flowers are able to not only survive, but thrive, stripping away the land and nutrients for remaining seeds to flourish, the whites of society have established themselves at the top of the social hierarchy, leaving no freedom or probability for the colored to create lives for themselves. In the harsh reality of the real world, it is truly the survival of the fittest - the result is a thoroughly selective landscape that will inevitably force the weaker seeds to never sprout again. "Certain seeds [the land] will not nurture", and certain classes of individuals society will never receive.
When Claudia finally realizes that she did not plant the seeds too deeply, that the blacks are not faulty, not ugly, not inferior, it is too late. The world, just like the nature that adorns it, has already evolved to cultivate exclusively those whose roots have grasped the soil since the dawn of life.

My genius editing job

Three Quarts of Milk vs. One Bowl of Rice

Ever since I could remember, I have been told that I am extremely lucky to have a roof over my head, food on the table, and clean clothes to wear. Yet, I still find myself constantly complaining about the quality of my life. Thus, when Pecola was literally shunned by Mrs. MacTeer (not even her own mother!) for drinking three quarts of milk (not even one gallon!), I was reminded of a certain event in my own childhood.

Long, long ago, in the primitive year of 2006, an ignorant and foolish young girl named Angela Chen utterly despised food and the concept of eating altogether. "Dinner is ready" were words she looked upon with utmost contempt, and every bite she took was a direct violation of her personal moral code. One day, after her father retreated upstairs, leaving her to finish her uneaten bowl of rice all alone, she decided it was time to rebel. With the help of her soft fuzzy socks, she silently slipped out of her seat, and with one agile flick of the wrist, dumped the entire contents of her bowl into the trash can (don't worry, she covered the evidence with a slightly crumpled, totally convincing "used" napkin). Her father would never know.

Please excuse the bad quality

Unfortunately, young Angela failed to account for the fact that "finishing" an entire bowl of rice in 10 seconds is in no way believable, given her history of eating at a slower-than-snails pace. In less than ten minutes, her father was downstairs, open trash can before him, Chinese words of censure firing from his mouth. "Unappreciative," he said. "Spoiled," he said. "Shameful," he said. "How ridiculous," thought young Angela.

Ridiculous, indeed. Now, eight years later, I can't help thinking...what would Pecola have done if she were in my shoes? What would Pecola have given to have that full bowl of food all to herself? She surely wouldn't have thrown it all away without a second thought. So now that I've long since outgrown my food-hating phase (and entered into a food-vacuuming phase,) it would be nice if I could go back in time to give young Angela a small dose of common sense.

The Dehumanized Human Barbie

Nowadays, whenever I hear the name "Barbie", images of women plagued with insecurity and plastic surgery are the first things that pop into my mind. It's an automatic and instantaneous reaction that today's media and social discussions have branded onto my brain: Barbie seems to be the universal symbol of a perfect (and unattainable) image for women.

However, as a child, I have never ever looked at a Barbie doll and thought, "wow I wish I could look like that!" In fact, I never even thought she was especially attractive. To me, she was just a doll - just a plastic plaything with hair to brush and limbs to twist into unnatural but hilarious positions (yes, that's pretty much all I did with my Barbies.) Looking at her unnaturally small waist and stick-thin legs, it seemed clear to me that Barbie was not intended to look like a real human. Wanting to look like Barbie would be no less of a stretch than wanting a pink magnet on my foot and a sparkly tattoo on my butt like my beloved My Little Ponies.

Therefore, I was utterly baffled to discover that there exist people in this world who have literally transformed into a Barbie - namely Valeria Lukyanova of Ukraine, a.k.a Human Barbie. Why would anyone willingly toss away her rightful identity as a Homo sapien and reduce herself to an 80 pound mass of plastic and bones? To fulfill her self esteem? To achieve Internet fame? Side note: having a 16 in waist does not make posting half-naked photos online more respectable.

      "Oemgee mini me"                        #nofilter #justplasticsurgery

To make matters worse, Barbie isn't even the only fictional character that girls have strived to look like in recent years. Anastasiya Shpagina, also from Ukraine, has used immense amounts of makeup as well as plastic surgery to transform herself into a "Human Anime Character". And hey, surprise! She just happens to be BFFLs with our Human Barbie, Valeria.

"Just chillin wit da habibi"

People really need to realize that dolls and cartoon characters aren't real for a reason.

The Meaning of July Fourth for the Angela Chen

When asked what festivities and/or events characterize the Fourth of July during our class discussion this week, only one thing popped into my mind: my bizarre and utterly radical fear of fireworks. (I do not appreciate your condescending chuckles, dear reader.)

To me, fireworks are like silent bombs that jump out and destroy you when you least expect them. Each ear-piercing boom is enough to shatter my skull and ensure that I my heart never beats again. Year after year, while my friends and relatives are happily eating their overpriced elephant ears and silently admiring the fiery bursts of color right beside me, I am sitting there in a hunched up little ball, hands clamped over my ears as if my life depended on it.

Could this symbolize something about my perception of the American Independence Day? The Fourth of July, to a normal person, is an occasion of celebration and appreciation for the freedom and liberty of our country. However, entrenched in my dark sphere of fear and apprehension, freedom and liberty are the least of what I feel.
 *Cue wise old man voice* 
When a firework is released from the cannon, it becomes independent and harbors immense amounts of potential. This parallels America's break from Britain back in 1776, as the new nation headed towards a bright future at full speed. Once a firework reaches its pinnacle, it explodes in a brilliant flash of light and color, followed by a thundering bang that reverberates in the night sky. Similarly, shortly after its independence, our nation rose to great strength and success, boasting liberty and equality for all. However, this ironically created deeper oppression for the individuals who did not enjoy freedom glorified on the surface - the women, the slaves, and the Native Americans. Likewise, while the effect of fireworks produces joy and satisfaction for most, there will always be strange outliers like myself who will feel the exact opposite of what is intended on this oh-so-consecrated holiday. 

Okay, that analysis was a bit of a stretch. But I really do hate fireworks.

Do I embarrass myself too much on the Internet?

Life-ception

I hate to be negative, but the one thing The Scarlet Letter has done for me (other than cause me to lose brain cells) is give me severe trust issues towards anyone and anything that seems to have any credibility at all. I mean...if Dimmesdale, the venerated priest and holy role model that every Puritan holds so dearly is secretly an adulterer, just think about about all the other lies and secrets that could be out there. Who would've guessed that the reverend Dimmesdale could be not only imperfect, but the lover of the heinous Hester Prynne and the father of the devil-child, Pearl? Who am I to say that my own life isn't just an extensive, elaborately crafted lie?

The Scarlet Letter is full of hidden identities and untold secrets - Dimmesdale wears a thick mask of piety in order to conceal his sin, while Chillingworth falls under the guise of a benevolent physician to obscure his vengeful intentions. After reading this, I can't help thinking...how much of my life is actually what it seems? How many people do I know are actually who they say they are? How can I even be sure that I myself am not a product of some mysterious sin that happened years ago, as Pearl was? Who am I even? 24601?!

Just kidding, that was an exaggeration. But I still have my doubts. Just last night I found myself absentmindedly gazing at my mother as she sat at the dinner table, passively eating wonton soup as she watched the Voice of China on her beloved Samsung Galaxy Tab. I thought to myself, "What could my mother, this seemingly simple woman who chastises me to wash dishes and study for the SAT, could be hiding behind those unusually large Asian eyes?" Could it be possible that she, like Hester Prynne, is wearing a figurative scarlet letter on her own chest? A series of mind-blowing deductions and far-fetched possibilities dashed through my mind before I was commanded to start eating, and don't blame anyone but myself if my wonton gets cold.

Perhaps I'll never find out the truth. But the next time I fail a test or find myself on the receiving end of another heartbreaking Facebook message, at least I can find comfort in knowing that maybe none of it is real.

On your marks...

Is it just me or is Deborah Tannen attach an overly negative connotation to the word "marked"? 

True, ever trivial characteristic of a woman contributes to her image and produces peer judgment, but in my opinion, a woman's "marks" ultimately speaks to her identity and individuality.

At the introduction of Tannen's essay, she critiques each woman's hair, makeup and sense of style, later claiming that every woman possesses distinct characteristics that set them apart from the others. But...what's wrong with that? Every woman chooses to present herself in a certain way for a reason - to show the world that we are not simply members of the female species, but unique individuals. Even in the few frenzy filled seconds before rushing out to the bus stop each morning, I usually manage to throw on something somewhat comfortable as well as adequately stylish. (Unless I have to take a practice ACT - those days call for automatic scrub mode.) I'm sure this gives the impression that I do put some effort into my appearance and have fairly decent taste in fashion. On the other hand, a girl I know regularly dresses in baggy shirts and basketball shorts almost every day. She establishes herself as a tomboy who doesn't care much about the idea of beauty. Another girl I know usually wears outfits that, while not exactly distasteful, are very plain and far from the latest trends. She sends the message that her physical appearance is not particularly important to her and that she'd rather not draw attention from a crowd. As expected, we do not run in the same social circles - our contrasting styles of dress are in a way an indication of the type of people we are and who we interact with. Is it wrong to look like the people we are?

Of course, the downside is that society is sure to form judgments upon us superficially - I'm sure we've all looked at a random girl in the hall and thought "Ew, what is she wearing?" However, undergoing a little social critique from strangers is by far a better alternative to being unmarked altogether. I mean seriously girls, do we really want to be like the typical teenage boy whose closet consists of  approximately two sweatshirts that more or less look the same? I hope not. So embrace yourselves, chicas. On your marks...get set...go!

The Scar-let Letter

I can't be the only one who immediately thought of Zuko from Avatar: The Last Airbender when we started reading The Scarlet Letter in class. I mean seriously, he literally has a SCARlet letter (kinda) on his face.

So, as a healthy alternative to losing brain cells while trying to decipher this book, I have created a comprehensive list of similarities between the best cartoon character ever and our romantic hero, Hester Prynne.

Just as Hester wears the scarlet letter as an emblem of shame, Zuko's scar is also symbolic of a sin he has committed in the past - speaking out against the Fire Lord a.k.a worst father and evillest dictator ever. (Fortunately Zuko did not commit adultery because he is actually my soulmate and that would be terribly heartbreaking.) Because of Hester's crime, she falls to the lowest ranks of society and becomes the embodiment of a debased and unholy woman. Similarly, Zuko drops from the esteemed heir to the throne to an unworthy "banished prince", one who is looked down upon and deemed incapable by his own people. Both are characters who, due to scrutiny and influence of society, have been thoroughly robbed of their honor.

However, obviously, neither Hester nor Zuko is really the one to blame here. Ultimately, their shame and dishonor are rooted in the fact that neither character conforms with the accepted ideals of society - for Hester, being a devout Puritan, and for Zuko, being a heartless ruler who shoots fireballs at people just because he can. Now that I think about it, The Last Airbender as a whole can be classified as a romantic work: emphasis on elements of nature and departure from classical standards are core themes throughout the course of the show. In this way, Zuko, just like Hester Prynne, is a romantic hero.

Sincerely,

Your source of infinite wisdom, Avatar Aang-ela

haaaaaa ha ha ha ha.

Peace.Love.What?!

Fact #1: I am a socially awkward Chinese girl with strict parents who eats rice every day and overachieves in school.

Fact #2: I can just feel the stereotypes running through your head right now.

Over the years, I've grown accustomed to constantly hearing the lines "can I copy your homework?", "why can't you go to parties?" and "why do you think a $10 shirt is expensive?" The answer is almost always the same: Because I'm Asian. How silly of you to ask!

It's no secret that racial stereotypes exist in society. You don't need to be Sherman Alexie or Brent Staples to know that. But this is not a typical upset-kid-blames-society-for-being-racist post. Not at all. Today, my sole purpose is to blame myself.

If you knew me or knew of me at the tender age of twelve, you might be familiar with a certain Facebook page that I usually avoid speaking of at all costs. It's called Peace.Love.Asian (go ahead, start laughing, but I'll have you know that page got 164 likes). And yes, this page is pretty much exactly what it sounds like - a brainless 6th grader glued to a computer screen in attempt to make friends on the Internet. Somehow, the 12-year-old me believed that creating this page would finally give Asians a free pass to popularity. Little did I know, however, that posting dozens of rice bowl photos captioned with overflowing exclamation points would only reinforce and promote the stereotypes already surrounding Asians in society. 

(Literally.)

Looking back four years later, I realize that my actions on this page have probably negatively portrayed Asians instead of helping me rise on the social hierarchy. I mean, who would want to interact with a race that publicly obsesses over its "only" food and boasts shamelessly about its skin color?

No joke, at some point I actually posted this picture.

Now, embarrassment and loathing for my 6th grade self aside, my point is this: Maybe racial stereotypes aren't always the result of the ignorance of others. In this day and age, maybe the real perpetrators of racism are none other but ourselves. 

Or maybe it's just me.

Fact #3: If Peace.Love.Asian posts mysteriously begin to pop up in my News Feed after the publication of this blog post...I will find you, and will I kill you.

Maybe.

What are you hungry for?

Take a look at this picture.

Are you hungry?

Now take a look at these pictures.

Are you hungry now?

Why not? The answer lies in society's assumption that hunger applies exclusively to food. Before reading Jeannette Wall's memoir, The Glass Castle, the word "hungry" to me was merely a synonym for "I haven't eaten anything in about 10 minutes and my mouth is getting dangerously lonely." While this statement obviously still holds true, reading about Jeannette Walls and her family has given me considerable insight into what hunger really is.

On a surface level, Jeannette walls is on the verge of starvation. She is “tall and pale and skinny” (Walls 28) and “finds [her]self rooting in the garbage at school for food” (Walls 125). In this way, I may find that Walls and I have nothing in common. I mean, there is nothing in my refrigerator or pantry that cannot satiate my constant cravings. However, just like Jeannette, and just like you, I am always hungry. Growing up in a bizarre household that never settles down and never conforms with society, Jeannette hungers for stability, for success, for social acceptance, for independence, and for control, just to name a few. After an exhaustive self-reflection, I've come to realize these elements are no different than what I hunger for myself. Every day, I am hungry for security and self-esteem. I am hungry for a 4.0 GPA and acceptance to a top college. I am hungry for a smartphone to fit in with my friends. I am hungry for the the freedom that comes with a drivers license and for a figurative steering wheel to conduct my own disordered life. And of course, I am hungry for strawberry shortcake flavored Goldfish grahams.

If that’s not enough for you, think about a story/movie that we all know - The Hunger Games. Why is it called the Hunger Games? Yes, the citizens of District 12 are all poor and starving and yes, winning the Games brings wealth and an end to that starvation. However, on deeper inspection, the Hunger Games ultimately depicts a hunger for strength, for courage, and for survival - it is a fear of death and a scarcity of prowess, not an empty pantry back home, that drives the tributes to kill one another in the arena. (Unless you’re Katniss and Peeta; they’re mostly just hungry for each other. No one cares about Gale.)

I all comes down to this. Hunger can be a passionate desire for an object, be it three-cheese lasagna or the iPhone 6+, but more often it is a lack or absence of an abstract aspect of life. It doesn’t matter if you've just returned from an all-you-can-eat buffet or have all the money in the world. What are you hungry for?