Journal Entry: #1 June 20, 2024 

They say, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” A drink reminiscent of summer - the taste of freedom and ecstasy that accompanies it, so quintessential to childhood that no one can deny an ice-cold glass on a boiling summer afternoon from the neighborhood kids down the street. 

But in reality, no one mentions the fact that only the lemon juice is utilized when making lemonade - the proverbial phrase excludes this crucial point. After all, saying “When life gives you lemon juice, make lemonade,” doesn’t quite have the same ring. 

And maybe it’s because lemon juice stings. The intangible, liquid nature of it has the ability to seep into cracked, vulnerable skin and burn, exploiting its fragile, sensitive nature. Like rejection, a breakup, illness, grievance, or loneliness, we have created these negative human experiences that are somewhat unique to our species as people. And because of the overwhelming, bombarding, hustling nature of society, there is no time to wallow in the sting. We must persevere and ride the high of sweet lemonade. 

Journal Entry: #36, 525 June 20, 2124 

Item #1 - The Alarm Clock - The hypnotizing sound of “beep beep, beep beep” interrupts my hazy dream. I’ve always woken up at 5:25 AM since I was a young girl. Before, it was my mother, a toothpick of a lady, shuffling in her slippers down the hall shouting, “Hana, wake up! You are going to be late for school!” even when school started at 8:00 am. But for the past forty years, it’s just been the inanimate alarm clock and the blaring red numbers beckoning me to leave my bed, even when I could easily marinate in it all day. It’s a reminder that no matter how badly I want to leave my crippling body in this broken world, no one else will be able to snooze the alarm clock for me. 

Item #2 - The Coffee Machine - An important ritual of my morning has always been coffee. Like most, I was incredibly reliant on caffeine to fuel my busy days in the office, but now, I still drink it even though I have nothing to do. The funny thing is, I don’t even make my coffee. Everybody owns these large machines that only require a press of a button to function exactly like a barista. 

My model’s name is Ted, which may seem endearing, but we all know that it’s a marketing tactic to distract from the fact that every appliance in our homes has some sort of “brilliant” AI function. I haven't touched a Keurig in decades and am probably the only one left who knows what a Keurig is. However, I will say that Ted does make a mean cappuccino. 

Item #3 - The Refrigerator - My refrigerator is the same model from when I was a little girl - a standard, white vertical rectangle with one door on the top for the freezer and one on the bottom

for the fridge. The only difference is that when I was a little girl, I would go to grocery stores with my mom and pick fresh produce from the large open bins, searching through the heaps of fruits and vegetables to find the plumpest, juiciest pieces to bring home. Now, all of our food comes from production plants, replacing the once-living plants. The workers replicate cells from old plants and animals, reproducing them to form “food” to package and ship across town. When I was a teenager, this technology was just emerging, but now all of the food that we eat is “lab-grown,” which may coincidentally be the reason why I’ve lived so long. The government said the switch was for environmental benefits, but all I see is the smog and debris surrounding the factories. 

Item #4 - The Medicine Cabinet - I visit the medicine cabinet twice a day. Standing in front of the cabinet’s mirror, my face looks saggier and paler by the day - all of the years gone by are evident in my wrinkles. This is partially not my fault because the sun always seems to be hidden behind a thick layer of ominous clouds across the acres of gray sky, but I long for the warmth of the sun and some more color on my face. The squeaks of the cabinet hinges trigger memories. Lots of memories of sitting at the psychiatrist decades ago and asking, “Why does it take me three hours to fall asleep?” “Do you think I have imposter syndrome?” and “Is it normal to plot your own death?” And instead of listening to my ramble, the mustached man instructed me to go to the pharmacy and pick up a dozen of those tiny orange bottles with the white caps. Each contained its own magical concoction of pills that were supposed to make me feel something. Instead, I stare at the empty bottles, lined up like helpless soldiers on the cabinet shelf and look at my name on the prescription labels, letting the shame reverberate through my weak bones. I never went back to get refills. 

Item #5 - The Bed - I might as well call my bed my coffin. When I assume the horizontal position, I can’t help but think of the fact that this is the most likely position that I will exit the world in. I read my old diary entries to fall asleep, and ponder all of the misfortune and lost opportunities I’ve had, knowing that my time is of the essence. I feel sorrow for the little girl who so badly wanted to join the other neighborhood kids and make lemonade with her lemons, and instead, faced the singeing pain of the lemon juice of generational trauma spilling all over her hands when she failed to please her dictator parents. Decades later, she would’ve figured out that this pain would last even when she became a very old woman who lost a whole lifetime, suffocating in a dystopian society… slowly dying. Alone.