Your mom clicks "like" on every single picture/comment/status you post on Facebook.
You know how to mismatch ten different clothing items into twenty completely different outfits. Yay for recycling clothes!
Peanut butter is a cuisine.
And Nutella? Nutella is heaven on earth.
Skyping your family is something you crave (even more than the lack of peanut butter in your diet).
Letters from home--even ones talking about who's dating who and who got their hair cut such and such way--make your month.
You realize that you have forgotten what it feels like have a seat buckle securely around you. Seat buckles? Pretty sure I've basically forgotten what those are. I think maybe the king of Thailand wears one. Maybe.
Everyone stares at you. And talks about you. And they think you don't notice.
You no longer seem to care about personal hygiene. Things like showering on a regular basis and oh, say, applying deodorant daily suddenly just aren't that big of a priority.
You find yourself driving an elephant. Not a car, those are so yesterday (or I should say 21st century).
Using newspapers (or blank journal pages, if you forget tissue) make for smashing toilet paper. Or leaves. Leaves are nice, too.
You avoid the mirror like it's your ex and things did not end well. I got a love/hate relationship going on with mine. Needless to say, most days it's hate.
Being super pale is super attractive. Got to love the Asian culture.
You see a white person and immediately assume that they're American, making them your very best friend of the moment.
You stay up till 3 a.m. and wake up at 7 to work. Hey, when you have a TV and your favorite TV show in English, you take advantage of that.
You simultaneously discuss your body functions and personal baggage. All in the same conversation. It's impressive.
You only have 50% of the things you started out with. But it's okay because all your important things like jeans that don't smell like squid juice and tank tops were replaced with essential things you need to have to live. Like stone elephant trinkets.
You look at pictures with remorse and remember the days you used to actually try to look nice.
You plot super complicated and absolutely foolproof plans on how to kidnap little orphans that steal your hearts.
You want to blow up pimps. But you have to remember grace, so you pray for them instead.
It's normal to have five geckos chilling out with you in bed and while you use the bathroom. Or bats. On the mission field, it's normal to have bats throw a slumber party in your bedroom.
You catch the bats hiding in your room and keep them as pets for a day. And name them.
You miss your family so bad it hurts.
MP3Player worship sessions... Did you ever have anything else?
Crying out of compassion and pain for the hurt around you is okay. Sometimes crying daily is okay.
You love your life, you love being alive, you love just life more than ever before.
You love the Lord more than ever before.
You are humbled daily, and you learn daily. When you start to learn to love the Lord's plan more than your own life.
When every single day is an adventure.
You're only fifteen and you're teaching English classes all. by. yourself. four days a week.
You rely on your cool, older sister's Tumblr to keep you posted on the fashion scene back home. Hey, that's important.
You see boys younger than your baby brother committing their lives to serving Buddha.
You camp out in churches on the tops of mountains so as to pray for the believers on said mountain village.
You start downloading popular Korean stuff to your MP3Player. (Or maybe that should be on "You Know You're On The Asian Mission Field When...")
Being a Christian makes you less than one percent of the population.
You can buy handwoven scarves for $3 dollars.
Foot massages become a whole new currency of their own. On the mission field, you'll do anything for a free foot massage.
You crave trashy gossip magazines.
You know the names of all the clerks at the Seven Eleven down the street and their college major and are basically their best friend because you see them, like, twice a day, every single day. Seven Eleven and their packs of Oreos become your anchor.
You can no longer remember the days when you thought romantic, fleeting love could compete with God's overwhelming, all-consuming love.
You learn to finally see the hurt the Lord has always been able to see in the hearts of those around us, and to have compassion.
Even if you fight it, you will never be the same.