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The book Modern Psychometrics: The Science of Psychological Assessment (4th Edition) by John Rust, Michal Kosinski, and David Stillwell

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Pink, D. H. (2009). Drive: The surprising truth about what motivates us. Riverhead Books.

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new folly more captivating than the first

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Sips of sorrow, sips of coffee—what about a little something else... processing (seems never-ending, my love).

Go and read your book, my dear. Look into its pages, and maybe someday, eventually, within those pages, I will find traces of her fingerprints or maybe a fragrance, fragmented pieces of who she is. Who is she? Is she lost in time?

My imagination—it’s the only way that can lead me toward her. Far-fetched, almost delusional, my belief. But yes, it ends with her. Creating magic to reach her using starlight under the moon.

High on caffeine, daydreaming all over again.

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When the nymph of my dream never comes ashore, when I am tired and loveless for eternity—of the right love, of the love I want, maybe the love that's not real, the love that can exist but maybe not for me. How tired I am of waiting for someone who would know me for who I am and match my freak. I have been wasted by a lakeside under the starry night, smoking cigarettes, drinking wine sleepy yet tortured by insomnia.

"Touch grass to feel the reality," said my friend.

Touching grass is not enough, my friend. I must eat it.

"What does it taste like? I never had it," said my friend.

"It tastes like prickly sorrow and grief in my mouth, hard to swallow with its invisible thorn. It hurts in my mouth and in my throat. It's hard to be full, and I am hungry for love, not grass so it's not enough, my friend."

My emptiness—my not so empty hands now—but my heart does hurt with grief and longing. I don't know what potion heals. Maybe undying love of a nymph her hands around my arms—no corruption, no vile thoughts, less desire, with possibility that might corrupt her the dangers that lie with being in love, and to be with someone with my darkness together.

Or maybe she is different and she tries to lead me toward a path less known to me to the sky—we fly like Icarus, with wings made of her love, my love, with imagination, with dreams that do not die easily, that do not let us fall, fall apart—not in the abyss where I was alone.

Yes, the grass, my friend. The toxic grass, or the love grass, or just green grass, my friend.

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Jhangiani, R. S., Chiang, I.-C. A., Cuttler, C., & Leighton, D. C. (2019). Research methods in psychology (4th ed.).

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This is Love

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Chakrabarty, P. (2012). A guide to academia: Getting into and surviving grad school, postdocs, and a research job. Wiley-Blackwell.

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Poetry is what helps me remember that even in my fragments, I am whole.

- Jennifer Huang

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Ellis, H. (1927). Studies in the psychology of sex: (Vol. 5). F.A. Davis Company.

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Booth, W. C., Colomb, G. G., & Williams, J. M. (2003). The craft of research (2nd ed.). University of Chicago Press.

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Sorrow orbits around me; I am the angel of death, and the halo on my head is lost.

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Sapolsky, R. M. (2017). Behave: The biology of humans at our best and worst. Penguin Press.

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American Psychological Association. (2020). Publication manual of the American Psychological Association (7th ed.).

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Self-Hatred in Psychoanalysis: Detoxifying the Persecutory Object, by Jill Savege Scharff_1992.