Saturday, December 4, 2010

A Gaffe To End All Gaffes

I diagnosed myself with ADHD after it was featured in an issue of Time and I crossed off all the symptoms on the checklist provided. I had considered getting a prescription for adderall but after bringing it up with my parents, they told me that only white people needed drugs to do well in school.

I didn't pay attention to the rest of my father's speech but the gist was this: If I couldn't focus in calculus without the aid of amphetamines, I would have to take this personal failure in stride and somehow live with myself for getting a B and shaming the family name.

In college I discovered the miracle of using my laptop during class. This actually did nothing to help me focus but at least I wasn't falling asleep in the middle of a lecture hall with my mouth open.

In fact, using a laptop only worsened my ADHD. I overstimulated my mind with sporcle quizzes and now I am completely dependent on them to stay awake. Without the adrenaline rush from trying to remember all the capitals of Africa in under 6 minutes, I feel impossibly bored and physically stifled, like my brain had become a black hole sucking every powerpoint presentation into a dark dimension and the intense gravitational pull was forcing my eyelids to close.

THE TRUTH IS I could have paid attention in my banking class. The topics are semi-interesting (somewhere between naked male celebs and the Huffington Post) and this is the field where I'm half-heartedly trying to get a job. But I stopped caring about all that after the first day when the cute boy sitting in front of me suddenly started to look like Paul Walker and then I HAD to Google all the films Paul Walker has been in.

Sometimes I will do things on my laptop so I feel like my lack of focus is in the name of productivity.
Answer all my emails. Pay all my rent. Clean up ALL THE desktop icons. So last Monday, I was taking pictures from my desktop that I had made for the last post and putting them in my "Super Secret Blog Folder." I was dragging images carefully one at a time to the top of the folder because the pictures at the bottom of the folder are porn. After dragging the last picture, the folder miraculously scrolled down to the bottom, revealing naked pictures of Paul Donahoe and a huge penis next to a bottle of Powerade.

It was only open for a second but I was sitting in the second row (behind Paul Walker) so pretty much everyone in the class (minus Paul Walker) probably saw it. And the issue isn't so much that I am annoyed that everyone in he classroom knows that I am gay, it's the fact that they all know I am obsessed with gay porn. Subtle, I know, yet important.

Two days later I had a presentation in that class about asset-backed securities. Inwardly, I was terrified that somebody would ask me a question at the end like, "Why do you have gay porn on your computer?" or "Are you a top or a bottom?"

They never did.

I'm not going to bring my laptop to class anymore. It would be impossible for me to focus on surfing the internet while thinking about all the people behind me who know about my wrestler/large penis fetish.

Sunday, November 28, 2010


Thanksgiving is always an emotional apocalypse for me. First, I have to deal with the flurry of media portraying perfect families throwing footballs, roasting perfectly browned turkeys, and sitting around the table being thankful for nothing but each others' company. I don't think I've ever thrown a football with my dad in my entire life. Our turkeys usually come out the color of Snooki's left breast. And my family mostly sits around the Thanksgiving table listing all our resentments silently in our head.

This year, we had company via several people from Taiwan that I barely know. People in Taiwan don't even know what a turkey is, much less Thanksgiving. They only participate because of the prospect of going to the Coach outlets at midnight. One bitch sniffed everything before she put it on her plate. She made it to the top of my silent resentment list this year.

Normal families are on their best behavior when company is around. My family does not understand this concept of keeping bones in the closet, not hanging our dirty laundry, etc., etc. In fact, the ice wine that company brings only serves as an uncorker for the mayhem that ensues.

My adorable mother complains that I have not cooked any Chinese food for our Asian guests so she plots to make a batch of last minute eggrolls. As she is being spattered by hot oil she complains about how she has to do everything around here. She collapses on a pile on the ground, claiming that nobody loves her.

My father, who doesn't really know how to be funny around mixed company without insulting me begins by asking repeatedly, "This is all the food you made despite cooking all day?" Actually, his words were, "Cook day all make only this?" At the dinner table, he interrupts the silence to make sarcastic remarks about how I will never graduate or find a job. Then he gets drunk and starts calling me "Iron Chef" and demands that I list every single ingredient in every dish to our guests.

Then he takes a skeptical look at the food and says that this would have been a good dessert if things like cake did not exist.

I've been spending the day recovering. Here is a breakdown of my hours.

Thanksgiving is also a trying time because it is especially difficult to be a closeted gay son. "No, I don't want to talk about college football." "No, I don't have a girlfriend." "Oh, the untitled 2010 Meryl Streep project? Let's discuss." It's only a matter of time before my quirkiness becomes blatant homosexual tendencies. So I'm not really sure how many more Thanksgivings I will have before the ultimate family meltdown occurs and the only thing I can do to escape is to hide in the cavity of the turkey itself.

Indeed, Thanksgiving always gets me thinking about family. And despite my efforts to lie at every turn and maintain the archetypal perfect son facade, my family is still hanging together by just a thread. So I wonder what would happen if I came out. At which point, I concede that the utter absurdity of Thanksgiving at my family's house is still a little better than Thanksgiving alone.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Are You There Citigroup? It's Me, Margaret.

There's no better time to post when people start having conversations through their comments demanding it. I also have this new rule where I don't post something new until the last post receives at least NINE comments so really this is a perfect storm.

Normally I would be asleep by this hour but I am lying in bed, wide-eyed and worried that my life has not and will continue to not turn out as I expect. I am a senior in the school of business with no job offer. Liken this to being the Last of the Mohicans or a wild, three-headed elephant roaming the streets of Manhattan; if the embarrassment isn't enough it's only a matter of time until I'm shot and killed. I told this to a fat, bald guy who works at PriceWaterhouseCoopers. He thought I was pathetic.

There's this girl in my banking class that is pretty and thin but her skin has this weird sheen to it like maybe she rubbed olive oil all over herself or maybe she is made out of wax. She was talking to me today about all the job offers she is entertaining. When I thought she had left the class to go pee, she was actually answering a call to receive another offer. She told me that she has one particular job in mind and plans to move to New York City for it but the $68,000 salary she is being offered sounds too low. I didn't tell her that I'm probably going to move home after school and the $8 an hour wage at Trader Joe's sounds just right.

Obviously, I am miles and miles smarter and more qualified than these people (I got straight A's in the fifth grade). I can't understand why I'm being shunned by every employer like I'm the egg salad in a Ruby Tuesday salad bar. Maybe there is some sort of scarlet letter on my back that I don't know about. Maybe they know I'm gay.

It would be hard to pinpoint the exact mistake that caused the derailment of my hopes and dreams, but I'm going to try anyway. Maybe it was the time I spent three months sunbathing and watching Desperate Housewives reruns instead of getting a summer internship. Maybe it was the time I switched to business because architecture was too hard. Maybe it was the time I switched to architecture because pre-med was too hard. I probably shouldn't have eaten an entire can of sour cream and onion pringles before my office interview with Ernst & Young.

My father, who is deeply invested in preventing me from shaming the family name, would probably say that I lack the confidence to endure the hardships that come along with the things I really want in life. And that this is all my fault because he was the best father in the world. And it's also my fault because I am gay and therefore a complete and utter failure. (This is a hypothetical and absolutely unrealistic world where I have come out to my parents.)

Though I've never really considered that being gay would have an impact on the other areas of my life, I'm beginning to see that it does. Maybe my fear of rejection and the constant swirl of doubt in my mind has prevented me from pushing myself to be something great. Instead, I've settled on just fitting in because deep down, that's all I really want.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

He Turned Their Rivers Into Vodka and Hawaiian Punch

I believe in God. Not because I have faith that everything happens for a reason or that there exists a heaven and hell. I believe in God because it is convenient to have somebody to blame when things go wrong in my life. I am aware that this is sacrilegious and I will probably be struck by lightening or herpes. But it's hard to believe that this much shit can be dumped on one person without somebody deriving some sort of enjoyment out of causing it.

Like the time I turned out gay. Or the time my parents hated me (this goes hand in hand with the first one I guess). Or the time I thought I was dying from AIDS. Or the time I had four exams in one day. Or the time Taylor Swift enjoyed continued success. This sounded less melodramatic in my head.

Recently, I've been convinced that God's work has taken the form of drunken bitches. And in a strangely literal turn, he has possessed them to spill shit on me and my things.

First instance, a beer is spilled on my desk in the middle of the night. I find my new ipod floating face down in this alcoholic sea, alone and lifeless. I have no conclusive proof of who did this because I was blacked out on my bed at the moment. The entire situation seems too much like a game of Clue for my liking. Maybe the beer was knocked over by the Russian girl, with her hips, at 3am. Or maybe it was my BF, with his penis, at 4.

Second instance, my laptop is hijacked to provide the music for a party. A skinny girl spills her vodka and hawaiian punch on my keyboard and blames her boyfriend for bumping into her. Bitch please. In the the process of cleaning, irreparable damage is caused to the t, y, g, n, space keys. This girl is not really a close friend so I can't exactly make passive aggressive comments to her face about paying me for the damage. So I resort to making passive aggressive comments behind her back about her speech impediment and english-pea sized head. Actually, there was nothing passive about that.

Third instance, my closest friends keep spilling lies about how much I love to eat cock. I mean, cock is not bad I guess. But honestly, I prefer Chinese food.

And then there's this instance a long time ago where I explicitly told a guy where he should not come. That is all I'm going to say about that.

This is all upsetting because all I can't help but think "why me?" The only way I can get any emotional relief is by blaming God and the fact that He's just not that into me.

This is wrong. I know it. If there really is a God out there, somewhere past the stars and where Mariah Carey's mind now resides, He would not be pleased. And this is yet another unhealthy relationship to work on.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Be Honest, Have I Gotten Frat?

I never mustered up the courage to pledge a fraternity because let's face it, I don't look good in a jersey tank, I don't have very much testosterone, and I like penis. Mostly though, I just don't know how to act casually around that many attractive, young men without sweating profusely and having an absolute nervous breakdown. And I find it somewhat difficult to become close friends with men because in my eyes, building a friendship is all just a prelude to sex.

So I spent my first three years of college wondering what life was like within fraternity walls. I wondered what brotherhood and social solidarity felt like. I wondered if all the brothers walked around naked after going to the gym together to lift those bar things with two heavy round things on the end. But I accepted the fact that in this case, my ideal-self was too far my actual-self.

At the beginning of this school year, a friend suggested that I pledge his business fraternity. A glimmer of hope emerged. I guess I don't look that bad in a jersey tank.

So I rushed as a senior, clinging pathetically to my last chance to realize a 4-year dream, clumsily peddling myself to people half my college age, eating free buffalo wings.

I was invited to an interview and was actually kind of proud of my old, shriveled self until I realized virtually everyone made it past the first round. Also, everybody in the room looked about three years younger than me and I found it hard not to hum Hilary Duff's "Sweet Sixteen" in my head. It's my time to shine, Sweet Sixteen.

I had a terrible time answering questions like, "If you were a song, what would you be?", "If you were a sound, what would you be?", and "If you were an animal, what would you be?"
It was even more difficult (read: humiliating) trying to impress brothers younger than me with witty (read: retarded) answers and watching their expressionless, uninterested faces dotted with acne.

I received an email this morning, thanking me for my interest. And like Vinny on last week's episode of The Jersey Shore, I felt at once betrayed and insulted that my vulnerability would be thrown back in my face, that my efforts would be unrewarded, that my frat dreams would come to an end. But I guess I will just have to accept that my lower-standard-self is still too far from my actual self.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

If Anyone Asks, I'm White and I Love Kids

The good news is that my hometown is now famous. The bad news is that most news outlets are referring to it as "Silver Springs." Extremely rude.

A few posts back, a reader told me to embrace being Asian. The truth is that I woke up this morning ready to embrace Asia in my thin, yellow arms. After today's events, I am keeping it at arm's length. Regardless, somebody is going to blame me for all of this.

I actually know a guy named James Lee.

Among his demands is this jewel:

1. The Discovery Channel and it's affiliate channels MUST have daily television programs at prime time slots...Focus must be given on how people can live WITHOUT giving birth to more filthy human children since those new additions continue pollution and are pollution. A game show format contest would be in order...MAKE IT INTERESTING SO PEOPLE WATCH AND APPLY SOLUTIONS!!!!

This is delusional. The Discovery Channel will never be interesting. Even if lives depend on it.

Another notable demand is as follows:

10. Stop all shows glorifying human birthing on all your channels and on TLC.

This is a direct slight towards Kate Gosselin. Extremely rude.

Towards the end of his list of demands, he spirals into nonsensical ramble about dirty babies and furry animals. He loses the numbering scheme, but one of his last request manages to present a clear, intelligent point:

Saving the environment and the remaning species diversity of the planet is now your mindset. Nothing is more important than saving them. The Lions, Tigers, Giraffes, Elephants, Froggies, Turtles, Apes, Raccoons, Beetles, Ants, Sharks, Bears, and, of course, the Squirrels.

I prefer not to be associated with any of this.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Video Thursday!

This is the embodiment of the 90s for me. Thin Mariah.

I live in this world minus the eye crystals. I am Taylor Swift. Channing Tatum is the boy. Jenna Dewan is the other girl. Bitch.

Because I am gay.

Because I am gay.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Sometimes I Scare Myself

I was on a friend's friend's friend's friend's brother's hookup's friend's Facebook page this morning staring at his pictures.

So naturally, I'm going to put all of them on here.

If this is you, please don't sue me.

Also, if this is you, please follow me on twitter.

Also, if this is you, call me.

I want to sink my teeth into his arm.

My favorite parts of this picture are earrings, teeth, nipple, and cleavage, (in that order).

And he is a wrestler.

God, seriously?

So like, in a massive stroke of luck, this shows a subtle hint that he might be gay. Though as somebody who has never even met him, this is mostly irrelevant.

And this proves it beyond any doubt. Still irrelevant.

So looking at this person is fun, but it is also bittersweet. On the surface he seems to be the perfect guy (and everyone knows the surface is all that matters). It feels personal because he represents everything that I couldn't be or become: white, beautiful, capable of pulling off a v-neck, medical.

I imagine somebody is going to say something about how a lot of [beautiful] people say that their looks are actually a handicap and they find it difficult to be taken seriously or seen as anything but an object. This is bullshit.

I'm sure somebody else is going to say something about life being what you make of it. This is annoying too. Save it.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

A Bitch in Fag's Clothing

A Gay Man's Account of His Own Burgeoning Heterosexuality
Bamba Hadhur Tamang

When I came out at age twelve my sexual-preference didn’t feel like a choice. Biology seemed to confine me in pubescent shackles and all I wanted was any male that would (sexually) give me the time of day. I wouldn’t have called myself promiscuous (”but who knows?!”) and finding a sexual partner proved tricky in the dominantly Christian suburb where I lived. Luckily, at thirteen, my family moved to inner city Portland where I could surround myself with gay culture.

After a two year binge on gayness, where I was constantly surrounded by like minded people who taught me that, above all else, I was normal, I realized that, ironically, it has been conservatives, Christians, Mormons, Jews and the blue collared (like the loggers on my mother’s side of the family) who have always upheld the unique role homosexuals play in society. The liberal idea of homosexual equality, to me, is far more bigoted and backward than anything I’ve ever heard from an “ignorant” “anti-gay” conservative.

Gay men are cultural refugees, marginalized muses, and mystical aesthetes. Their legacy and contributions to society can be traced from late 19th century photography back to the dreamy statues of the Greeks. Like a kind of autism, sensory stimuli overwhelms the gay-male brain. In a rural family, there will sometimes be a boy who Sticks Out, a boy who is uninterested in paternal pursuits, like throwin-the-ole-pigskin-around. Instead of Tonka Trucks and building blocks he is hypnotized, overwhelmed, by the lushness of his mother’s clothes, the silks and the linens, the seductive scent of her perfumes, sandalwood, vanillas, orange blossoms and rose buds, and struck by the vibrancy of her make up, the deepness of the mascara, the pastel shadows, and the violent beauty of a streak of lipstick across a palid face. Makeup, to him, is simply a paintbrush.

I’ve worked with children in my church and in summer camps. I’ve noticed that this nascent fascination with aesthetics, for boys, often couples with a predisposition towards sensitivity and/or shyness. This predisposition leads, inevitably, towards a failure to bond with peers, particularly the ones uninterested by paper and string. This disjunction causes a feeling of Otherness which is tantamount to the gay experience. It’s a uniquely gay Otherness unlike racial exile. I want to, almost, call it “queerness.”

When gay adults claim that he or she has been gay since childhood what they are remembering is, in effect, this particular kind of Otherness, this queerness.

Because of this it seems odd to me that gay activists would align themselves so stringently with biology. The widespread desire to find a biological basis for homosexuality is still moot (I doubt we will ever find a substatial biological foundation for gayness) and, furthermore, will lead to claims that we are deformed at the prenatal level. The desire itself is symptomatic of an over-politicized social climate. The left actually believes that finding the “Gay Gene” will force everyone to submit to the rhetoric of “acceptance.” Quelle fascisme!

The LGBT community needs to stop harassing Christian people. The Judeo-Christian tradition sees homosexuality as an existential threat because it is. Gay men, in fact owe a lot to the church and how it has influenced gay culture. (Then, when I stare at the alter boys, the contra altos in the choir, and the statues of boys lashed, crucified, bleeding, naked, I can’t help but think that the church also owes something to gay culture…). From the ACT UP campaign, in which queer activists stromed into a cathedral and threw condoms at the bishop, I have been vastly dissapointed in the way the LGBT youth have conducted their partiuclar mode of “building awareness.”

In the words that might remind you of the great gay messiah, Chris Crocker, “Leave Jesus Alone!”

A truly progressive politics should not be a middle-class, elitist posturing with a paternalistic attitude toward the religious working class’ “ignorance.” “We are the educated ones, and your homophobia comes out of deep ignorance,” touts the left. I hate this. We are smarter than this.

Sexuality is highly fluid. It wasn’t until college that I even realized that having sexual realations with a woman was allowed, let alone a possibility. I was a sexually reversed person. A faggot who needed to “come out.” And, sitting in bed one night, next to my male lover, I lit a cigarette and asked if he had ever had sex with a woman. “Of course not,” he replied. “I’m a faggot. I like dick.” “Well,” I said, “So am I, but have you ever? Have you even considered it?” He frowned said, “Once but I didn’t like it.”

It occurred to me that the feeling, the fright and excitement, the visceral fury of the simple idea of having sex with a woman, was something I had not experienced since, say, I was sixteen and trying to have sex with men. Gender didn’t seem to matter so much anymore, the excitement of something new and “forbidden” was overwhelmingly appetizing. And yet, like a sixteen year old, I was terrified to peruse anything. WHAT IF I WAS WRONG? Better to just stay in the closet.

If sexuality can be this fluid how are we, then, to concede that gayness is strictly biological? How? Perhaps the chemistry has just changed? But then, is it a coincidence that the chemistry would change in college, especially a college where sexual experimentation is allowed, nay, encouraged?!

To deny fluidity of sexual preference is to abandon the work academics have put into the study of gender and sexuality. Sex is temporal and always on a continuum, coming in and leaving like the tides. It permeates every relationship, even familial, every dream, every word that comes out of our mouths is in someway touched by sex. How can we find a GENE for this? How can there possibly be one biological factor, nay, one UNWAVERING biological factor that determines our sexuality from birth until death?

We can change our sexuality. Yes. You heard it from a fag: sexual conversions are theoretically possible. Though they may not be pleasant or desirable or even valuable, and though Christian fanatics may use this fact against queers, sexual conversion must be theoretically possible. We are more comfortable knowing that sexuality is genetic, rather than letting it loose to the chaotic powers of God.

Instead of mooing about equality the Left should look long and hard (tee hee) about its approach to gay politics. At the same time, we, as gay men, should seriously reconsider our affiliation with the left, our pursuit of marriage rights, and special legal protection. Additionally, gay men ought to embrace our culture’s character in spite of its tendency towards sexual promiscuity and drug use, nay, BECAUSE of sexual promiscuity and drug use. To be gay is to be an outsider. To be an outsider is to be an artist. To be an artist is to be hated by soceity at large.

Even if you think homosexuality is an inborn trait it does no good to seek the approval of government, the Judeo-Christian establishment, and other contenders who know very little about queerness. I’m adopting the view of Parker who once said, “heterosexuality isn’t normal, it’s just common.” We’ve got to start thinking and behaving along those lines instead of validating the Right’s queer-fears and degrading our culture by asking for their vapid approval. I’m not calling for separatism, (though a continent of gay men wouldn’t be half bad) but I am calling for enlightened militancy. We’ve got much bigger fish to fry than marriage.

Since homosexuality is a choice, there is no need to harbor self-hatred by thinking that our choice to love who we want to love is somehow wrong. It’s fabulous. And it’s how we have and are going to survive for the millennium to come.

[sad face]

When you're gay it oftentimes feels like the entire world is out to get you.
As a part of a extreme minority, group solidarity is key and I definitely would like to believe that every gay person out there wants to fight for the same causes that I do. That is why this person's story is so upsetting; he claims to be one of us but has brash opinions that seem to go against everything that is logical and right from a gay person's perspective.

While his description of makeup makes him seem like the biggest fag on Earth, I find it hard to believe that this man is actually gay. His entire story is unbelievable. I mean, what kind of retard doesn't know having "sexual relations with a woman was allowed." This was a young, confused boy that was desperate for any sexual attention he could get and young dumb-asses like him are a lot more likely to get attention from gay men than women. In college he finally woke up and realized it was women he wanted all along. Good for him. The fact that he is applying his own marginal experience to that of gay society as a whole is absolutely ludicrous. His sexual fluidity is just another way of saying he is just a big slut. Most of us are more viscous.

He then proceeds to use the fact that he supposedly rose above the shackles of homosexuality to lecture us on all the things we are doing wrong. I take extreme offense that he does this while using the term "we" when he is fucking women now and renounces the very essence that makes us who we are. I don't see how seeking marriage equality and the same legal rights is a trivial pursuit we should abandon. I don't see how fighting to be equals under the law amounts to nothing more than vapid government approval. What kind of bigger fish could he possibly be talking about. Would he be saying the same things to the women who sought suffrage and the slaves that wanted freedom? I'd also like to point out that he has no idea what "enlightened militancy" means.

The problem is not that gays harass Christians, though I'm pretty sure it's usually the other way around. The problem is not self-hatred, because I think the majority of the hatred we receive comes from... well, Christians. The problem is not even the right's queer-fear and the left's misguided political agenda. The problem is that people like him are coming out of the woodwork and providing false evidence for our critics to suggest that gays choose to undermine religion and family and government. If anything, his story is creating more mistrust and misunderstanding.

I don't really want to get into his argument dismissing a biological basis for homosexuality, but I'm going to. As somebody who doesn't know anything about biology, he grabs onto words like "genes" and forms a completely misinformed opinion. He believes that one gene couldn't possibly be the sole factor influencing our sexuality. But nobody said homosexuality wasn't polygenic and nobody said environmental factors didn't also influence our behavior. Don't try to explain this to him though - wouldn't want his head to explode.

Aside from all these problems, I just don't understand what he is talking about and I'm sure he doesn't really either. His story is just full of contradictions, loose ends, and generalizations. and he has a funny way of sticking in big words and poetic statements without any transition or explanation. And by the end of his story, it becomes painfully clear that he knows nothing about genetics, religion, politics, or the gay community that he's got one foot in and one foot out of.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Please Ask, Do Tell

I walked through the last door of the last car on the train. He walked in through the second to last door. We moved to the center of the car and met face to face in the middle in an urban take on running towards each other in a field of wildflowers. He was wearing a tan military suit. I wasn't sure what the tan color of his clothes or any of the the medals and pins on his chest meant. But he was cute.

I was facing forward, like most people, in the direction that the train was moving. He was facing me, inching ever closer as people packed on at Farragut North. I hoped desperately that I smelled good and that my pores were invisible. His proximity made me nervous and sweaty. My pores were visible.

When he looked down at his phone, I began to stare him down. From his excellent complexion to his
long eyelashes to his neat, closely cropped hair. I hoped desperately he would not look up and catch me staring. But deep down, I wanted him to catch me, smile at me, and ask me what my name was. I caught a glimpse of his name on a pin embroidered on his chest. Jeremy, if you are reading this, please follow me on twitter.

He turned around to send a text message on his phone. I read over his shoulder, wanting to discover something that would suggest he was gay, like "I am so sad Ugly Betty was canceled" or "Where do you think Landon Donovan gets his hair cut?" But I was not holding my breath. It has been my experience that men like Jeremy, (aka men I desire), are not only straight but also conservative and into whites only. I only caught a few words from the messages. It seemed as though somebody wanted him to turn around and go back in the other direction. He let out an audible sigh and sent a final text.

"I have dinner with gay Jon in an hour."

The small beacon of hope grew blindingly bright. I immediately saw myself as gay Jon. I mean, my name already begins with a J. Then I thought of my boyfriend, away at work and unaware of the loneliness that led to this torrid affair. In seven minutes Jeremy had shown me the beautiful, unexpectedness of life and the fragility of love - an urban take on Bridges of Madison County.

We stopped at Dupont Circle. He said, "excuse me," revealing a deep voice. As soon as he walked out the door, I could not make him (or his tan suit) out amongst the crowd through the tinted windows.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

It was a typical hot and humid DC afternoon. He walked three feet in front of me around his parents' house to the backyard where thirty of his relatives were already grilling and combating the summer heat with cold beers. He came home from New Jersey to celebrate his niece's first birthday and invited me to come along. He had actually invited me several weeks ago but I didn't take him seriously until he called me the day of asking if I was ready to go. I frantically ripped through my closet to find my straightest looking shirt and put on the best bro face I could.

As soon as we arrived, he went to say hello to his parents and his brother whom he hadn't seen in a month. I immediately dove for a barbecued drumstick like a wild savage hoping to avoid awkward introductions to people who had never seen a gay Asian boy disguised as a straight white man before.

His older brother, who has always derived joy out of teasing him, started talking loudly. "How come you still haven't brought home a girlfriend yet? It's been three years in college and a month in New Jersey and you still can't get a girl?"

I eyed a platter of deviled eggs and popped one in my mouth. And then ate two more. Okay three.

His mother interjected with a smile, "Oh come on now, leave him alone."

His brother continued. "Maybe he doesn't even like girls." And started laughing with his friends.

I grabbed the an ear of corn and gnawed on it furiously trying to drown out their conversation.

He had already had a few drinks and looked upset. I could tell he was deep in thought but figured we would go up to his room later and talk about it in privacy. And then make out. Instead, he turned toward his brother and shouted, "Yeah. You're right. I don't give a shit about girls. I am gay and _____ is my boyfriend." He looked right at me and I stared back, doe-eyed and hungry, sitting in a cheap lawn chair under the shade of a tree.

I quickly looked straight down and began taking non-stop, successive bites of watermelon, hoping to avoid the eyes of thirty or so conservative WASPs and their judgmental babies.

He walked towards me, took the watermelon from my hands, and threw it on the ground. My eyes were still fixated on the wasted fruit when he grabbed the back of my head and kissed me hard on the lips. He smelled like charcoal and tasted like beer. I tasted like watermelon.

He took my hand and pulled me up, leading me quickly towards the front of the house and back to his car. He never turned around to see his family's reaction, but I looked back for one last glimpse at the scene we had just caused.
Mouths were still open in shock and no one was speaking. And I stared longingly at the cake that had yet to be cut and served.

But this isn't really what happened.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010


I am in Chinatown when three tourists come up to me, unaware that I am a tourist myself.

Touristy Mommy: Do you speak English?
Me: Not really.
Touristy Mommy: What is dim sum?

I am in Chinatown when he sends me a text, "When are you gonna be back from Chicago?" I tell him I will be back Monday night. I wonder why he asks because regardless, he is still going to be in New Jersey. My whereabouts are largely irrelevant. A few minutes later he asks when he can call me. This immediately feels strange, this proactive effort to speak to me.

As soon as I return to the hotel room, I hide in the bathroom, turn on the stall shower, sit in the bathtub, and call him. He picks up and his voice is comforting, despite the sound of the shower in the background and my racing heartbeat.
He tells me he was in New York City last night. He stayed out too late and needed a place to sleep so he went to the apartment of a man he had hooked up with before [we were together]. This is where the man tried to kiss [fuck] him. So he left and went to the train station and fell asleep until the first train left for New Jersey in the morning. He tells me that nothing happened and that he loves me.
I ignore the holes in his story. He's never been to New York City before, why would a former hook up live there? Out of everyone he knows living in New York City, why pick this place? Why did he have that man's phone number and address? What did he expect would happen? I don't interrogate him with these questions, partly because I'm afraid of the answers and partly because I've been in the "shower" for too long. Deep down I know he didn't go there just to fall asleep. But I tell him I trust him. In my head I rationalize that trusting somebody is not as hard as being alone. But then again, I am alone right now, aren't I.

Maybe this is a self fulfilling prophecy. I was so desperately worried about him cheating that it has become a very real possibility. This is ironic and obnoxious because I dream about discovering ten million dollars of cash in my basement all the time and that prophecy has yet to materialize.

Later in the afternoon, I muster up the emotional composure to take a walk down Lakeshore Drive and then eat an entire stuffed pizza.

When I wake up the next morning, I feel like hell. I self medicate myself with pain killers and Jamba Juice. My sister has already checked out and the hotel room feels dark and empty. As I gather my things and motion towards the door, I look back and find it difficult to leave. Like closing the pages of a good book, it's hard to watch these adventures and this life[style] come to a close. And I know that when I land in DC, I will have to return to a life[ ] and perhaps a failed relationship that no amount of painkillers and Jamba Juice can pacify.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Chinese Buffett

My mother calls me at work.

Her: How would you like to make $40 of interest.
Me: How did you find my number?
Her: I need to borrow $5,000.
Me: I already told you I don't think a facelift is a good investment.
Her: My best friend is opening a jewelry store in La Jolla Beach.
Me: I think you should get a facelift instead.
Her: This is how Warren Buffett made his fortune you know.
Me: Investing in small business ventures led by discontent, middle-aged, Chinese women.
Her: And See's Candies.

When the conversation is over, the issue is still unresolved. I'm sure that $5,000 will be missing by the end of the day. She has all my account numbers memorized and considers these "loans" a personal debt I owe her for all the food, shelter, and violin lessons over the years.

Coincidentally, Warren Buffett appears on the front page of Yahoo news in a list of most successful people to get rejected from their first choice college. I read the story, hoping at least one of these people will be Asian, fat, and emotionally unstable.

Buffett says:
But at the time, he "had this feeling of dread" after being rejected in an admissions interview in Chicago [for Harvard], and a fear of disappointing his father.
Memories, light the corner of my mind.
As it turned out, his father responded with "only this unconditional unconditional belief in me," Mr. Buffett says.
This feels... less familiar.

And his story ends with him, "dashing off to Columbia instead." How adequate.

I am never going to see that money again, am I.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

It's Actually Flitwick

Wallowing in self-pity is a bit like playing near a tar pit. First you stick your toe in and it feels nice and warm. And before you know it you're neck deep in shit and the more you struggle the deeper you sink.

I made it pretty clear from the beginning that this blog would be "an outlet for my emotions." Read: This blog is meant for me to whine and occasionally talk about cute boys and pretty clothes.

My new boat shoes.

Every once
in a while, readers feel the need to tell me to stop being so "emo." That's just not possible. My life is too depressing and I never claimed to be a strong person. I had hoped that my personal doubts and inner struggles would be interesting and endearing and cute. I certainly don't want to drag all of you into the tar pit with me. In fact, I get a sense of fulfillment when my readers derive enjoyment out of my miserable existence. If that's not your thing and you want a light-hearted read, go follow some gay middle-schooler who only has to worry about passing trigonometry and figuring out how to masturbate. Or go here or here.

And as for the person who called me a fuckwit, I have to say thank you. Hearing the word fuckwit cheered me up because it sounded like a professor's name from Harry Potter. (This is one of those people who have to use British slang to sound intelligible.) And here is usually where I would say something mean about you. But since I don't actually care enough to read your blog or follow your incessant chattering on twitter, I don't know anything about you and wouldn't even know where to begin.

But you definitely took my mind off things.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Toothpaste Tears Us Apart

Before Tall Blonde Alcholic left for his internship with Colgate in New Jersey he told me how bored he was going to be in a new place and how miserable he was going to be by himself. He gave me no choice but to feel sorry for him and I tried to comfort him by telling him I would miss him with all my heart and would patiently wait in DC until he came home to me.

This was before I left for Alaska, where stormy seas and evergreen trees prevented us from communicating. When I came back after seven days, his story had changed.

The day I got back to Seattle, I called him while I was on the light rail. He told me about how great the internship was and how much fun he was having with his fellow interns and roommates. They had already gone out for several nights and there was even going to be a party in the near future. His invitation fell somewhat flat on my ears, "I guess you can come if you want." Later that night, I finally got in touch with him on AIM. Only he left after 15 or so minutes because he had to go to sleep.

And there I was, the fool feeling sorry for him. I had thought that we were both going to have a terrible time being apart, except he was having the time of his life. And it wasn't so much that it was fun, it was that the people were fun. This immediately made me wonder what set these people apart from me. What's to stop him from falling in love with them over the course of the summer? And when it's all over won't he hate leaving them, and won't he miss seeing them, and wouldn't he rather stay with them? Coming home to me at the end of it all will be nothing more than a cheap consolation prize for giving up the best experience of his life.

On Tuesday night, I left a small party to hide in the bathroom and call him. I turned on the faucet so people outside wouldn't be able to hear me. I asked him why he hadn't called recently, making snide comments about how happy he was in New Jersey and poking fun at his sudden change of heart. He said, "I thought you'd be happy for me. Aren't you glad I'm not miserable?"

And in an instant, the guilt was deflected. I stumbled on the phone, grasping desperately for words that would avoid the truth. I want to be able say that I love him enough to want nothing more than for him to be happy. But deep down I was glad when he first told me was going to be lost without me. Like anyone else, I want to feel important. To see him enjoying himself so much breaks my heart into a million icy pieces and makes me reconsider just how much I really matter to him.

And all of this is much easier for him than it is for me.
I am the one stuck here living our old life. His absence changes everything for me. He is the one who gets to start anew without me. And wouldn't you know, it's still pretty damn great.

So in the end, I suppose neither of us has the upper hand in this argument. I don't love him enough to want him to be happy without me and he doesn't love me enough to be unhappy without me. And neither of us love each other as much as we thought we did before this summer came along and tore us apart.

I turned off the faucet, got off the phone, and went back to the party. Average Brown Quarter-Asian was waiting outside and said to me, "Have you heard from Tall Blonde Alcoholic recently? He can't stop talking about how much he loves New Jersey."

I could have punched her in the face.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Can I Use My Cell Phone In Alaska?

My idea of a fun vacation involves something unique and unusual. This would include, for instance, backpacking through a war-torn African country or perhaps committing a string of identity thefts and bank robberies across central Europe.

My mother ignores my suggestions and plans a seven-day family cruise to Alaska. Hell is a place on Earth and its name is The Oosterdam.

As I enjoy my "Bon Voyage Dinner" on deck nine, I experience a brief moment of deep reflection and wonder if a single potato on this ship didn't arrive pre-cooked.

To maintain my sanity and battle the effects of seasickness, I begin to meticulously judge those around me. To my left, a group of 70+ year-old passengers who can't walk, see, or hear, order a bottle of wine. They will be having more fun than me, most probably. To my right, a group of overweight passengers heap mounds of roast beef onto little plates while discussing with each other the pitfalls of overeating. Straight ahead, a group of quintessential middle-aged Asians, chew with their mouths open and talk loudly about real estate.

The ship makes several stops on land. The first of which is in Juneau. After visiting Sarah Palin's old house, I walk around downtown hoping to find a shirt that says, "Juneau You Want Me."

The next stop is in Sitka. I search high and low for spots where The Proposal was filmed, spots where Ryan Reynolds may have walked on. I would later find out that The Proposal was filmed in Massachusetts.

Victoria was fun. All the boys are cute. I am considering moving there after school.

On board the ship there is a magic show where the magician somehow incorporates the theme of gay marriage into his stand-up routine. "Straight people have been married for years, gay people deserve that misery too." My marriage is going to be utopia with a white picket fence. That's what I deserve. Asshole.

Over the course of the week I meet several new people on the ship. One woman makes a living singing The Way We Were twice a night, every night. One group of tweens has adopted a new motto, "Don't abuse alcohol. Let alcohol abuse you." And just about everyone else on the ship either has a rich grandfather or is a rich grandfather or is a really really cute guy with really really long, dark, and conspicuous eyebrows who doesn't pay any attention to you whatsoever even though you attend all the same events and somehow manage to sit at the table next to him almost every night at dinner.

Towards the end, this trip becomes bearable. Because, let's face it, this is ten million times better than work where you hate everyone and everyone hates you. Also, happy hour is between 3:30 and 4:30 pm. Also, you got to see a whale and a seal and a dolphin. Also, all the fat people make you look skinny.

My one lingering regret is being torn away from Tall Blonde Alcoholic as he begins his summer internship in New Jersey. When the ship docks I call him as soon as I get the chance. He misses my call and returns it a few minutes later. He says he's at Target and sounds distracted. He tells me over the phone about his cool, funny, roommate from Miami as if I'm not cool (I am) or funny (I am) or from an exotic locale (Taiwan). He must have known that I would frantically stalk this new variable on Facebook as soon as I got the chance. He is cute and skinny (absolutely, not relatively) and definitely gay (absolutely and relatively). Inwardly, I have a terrible feeling about this. Realistically, there is nothing I can do. As I disembark, my stomach is filled with salmon and my heart is filled with terror.

And while I look outside my cab window and watch the rain fall in Seattle, I try to come to terms with the fact that things change and people move on while you are gone. I wonder what the weather is like in New Jersey and if I'll even recognize my life when I finally find my way home.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Copyright 2010

Apparently a quiet war is being raged against me by impostors on the internet.

On Somebody's blog, Somebody writes:

Thank you to Hugo Boss for your present as well... was very sweet of you. Oh... and Happy 17th Birthday to you. Only one more year before you are of legal age in the US... :-P
Love ya so much

I try to be cute and funny and ironic and I write:

are you two doing it. that would be illegal. right?

Somebody writes:

wait... what?
How would it be illegal for me and Donna Karan to sleep together?
Last time I checked straight sex between two consenting adults is still legal in ALL 50 states :-P

(At this point, he misunderstands who I am talking about. Things remain civil.)

Then, Impostor, posing as me, writes:

Straight sex is legal, and a boy and a girl is considered straight sex in all 50 states. It's also considered pedophilia when the girl is only 7! On my investigations Becky is not even in her teens yet. THAT'S WHY ITS ILLEGAL!

(Not really sure why Impostor had the urge to write this. I believe it should say, "a boy doing a girl," and not, "a boy and a girl." Not really sure what "on my investigations" means. Missed an apostrophe. This sounds nothing like me.)

Alas, Somebody says:

Dude... where the hell do you get that from? Donna Karan is the same age as me... she is in college...
I cant believe I am even explaining this... I really hope you are joking around... but even so its not a cool thing to joke about.

I am stupified

Not to be pedantic, but stupefied is spelled incorrectly.

If this person wanted to pose a maniacal argument, he/she could have just written an anonymous comment. Clearly there's a personal vendetta there. I'm just not sure what's causing it. It's probably because I think Meryl Streep should have won the Oscar over Sandra Bullock. I've made a lot of enemies because of my stance on this hot button issue.

So all this makes me sound belligerent as well as retarded and a little bit insane. As if I wasn't already good at making people hate me through mean comments, this will certainly put me over the edge. The follow up post to this is called, "People Are Morons," and the comments section is devoted to discussing how weird and dumb I am. I guess the impostor got what they wanted. But just for future reference, a comment is only from me if it is bitchy AND grammatically correct. Not one or the other.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Hello Summer, Nice To Meet You

The night before my advanced accounting exam, I pace back and forth in the study lounge. I am unprepared. As I read about double entry book-keeping, I think about how much more I would prefer some double entry ass-fucking. Tears well up in my eyes and I feel like I am going to throw up. I have hit the bottom. My former roommate who I used to hook up with before we ended things on bad terms walks by outside and sees me through the window. He knocks on the glass and waves. It is 5:00 am and this is a new, unfamiliar low.

At 7:00 am, the anxiety gives way to feelings of calm resignation. I pack my things up and walk upstairs to my room where I plan to crawl under the sheets and suffocate myself on a tube sock. Failure in advanced accounting is inevitable. And then we die. And then we are reborn as impala on the African plains. It is the circle of life.

At 8:00 am, the exam begins and I don't know how to answer the first question. Instead, I daydream about the season finale of Desperate Housewives. I can't believe Paul Young is back. Angie was so smart to put the bomb IN THE DETONATOR.

At 10:00 am, I text my bf, "Yay over."

For the next four days I complain very publicly about how badly I did and how I'm going to get my first B and that my life is over. But grades came out yesterday and I got on A. Yay.

When I come home from school, I want to tell my mother the good news. It feels strange that I want to do this because she has always criticized everything I've ever done and for years I've tried to convince myself that I don't need her approval. I realize I do this because deep down I still want to make her proud and redeem myself for my consummate failure: being a gay son.

Before I can get a word out she looks at me and says, "You look too fat." This would have been fine if she hadn't said "too." Because "too" implies that I am fat in both absolute and relative terms. I lie to her about having eaten lunch already. Today I've had one cup of diet coke and two cough drops. She knows nothing about the A.

I am going to the beach tomorrow with my bf. I don't know what he's said to his parents about the trip but I am lying and telling my parents that I am going with four guys. Four guys in one hotel room with one king size bed doesn't arouse as much suspicion as two guys in the same situation. He will probably make me watch the Lost finale. Maybe after that we can sell beer to teenagers and have gay sex in the sand. We are a couple of renegade summer tourists.

I am probably too fat for the beach. I have a crippling fear of little children mistaking me for a beached whale and trying to haul me off to sea. I am probably going to sit, fully-clothed, under an umbrella and read Laura Bush's autobiography.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

You Again

In my first post ever, I briefly talked about my best friend in middle school who unknowingly helped me realize I was gay when I found myself staring at his crotch with more than just competitive inquisition.

Once he started becoming the subject of my pubescent fantasies, I began to act differently around him. I would casually insult his clothes or make fun of the things he said because the only way I knew how to show love was how my parents did it, through intense and unfiltered criticism.

I never really considered telling him how I felt because I was afraid of his reaction and how news might spread among our group of friends. Eventually, I just pushed him away, using a small incident involving a relay race, a baton, and the word "penis" as a reason to end the friendship. I began telling everyone how much I disliked him because I found it much easier to channel my emotions through hatred than unreciprocated love. Deep down I had hoped that he would chase after me to try and reconcile everything, but he didn't. And even after we went on to different high schools, I wondered for a long time if he thought about me and what happened between us. Eventually I realized we would probably never see each other ever again so I just let it go.

Anyway, eight years later, turns out we are not only at the same university, we are in the same major. And wouldn't you know, he is randomly assigned to a semester-long group project with me. In cases like these, I like to ask myself, "What are the odds?" But this has nothing to do with chance. This is the work of God and his sick sense of humor.

And this is extra fun because there are only three people in this group. So when the third member invariably ditches meetings because of some stupid grandmother on life-support, I am stuck with him in quite possibly the most awkward situation on the entire planet.

Me: Can we meet at _:__ in _____ to work on the _____?
Him: You sure you don't want to just do it at my place?
Me: ...
Him: All my roommates are gone and it'll be more comfortable

...More comfortable than what.

When I get to his apartment it is indeed, empty. And
he still has the careless hair and big brown eyes of the first boy I ever fell in love with. Could this be what I've waited eight years for? Am I finally going to get to see what is under his basketball shorts? He starts talking about the project, and then his girlfriend. I try to act normal. He laughs at my stupid jokes and mannerisms, which apparently he still finds funny. I consider standing up and shouting, "Why didn't you chase after me?! Couldn't you tell I was going through something?! Couldn't you tell I was drowning?!"

Maybe all this time he was blithely unaware of the teenage psychodrama that I had convinced myself ruined the relationship. Maybe he is aware but is just as happy to pick up right where we left off. Does it really matter after all this time? When I look at him now, all I can do is laugh about how strangely life unfolds. I'm not in love with him anymore. Perhaps we can finally just be friends now.

It's getting late and I tell him my head hurts. He brings me an Advil with a cup of cold water.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Pride and Prejudice

At a recent party that I attended because somebody tipped me off that there was an 18 year-old boy there that looked like Taye Diggs, I overheard a conversation between LeeLee Sobieski and a foreign exchange student from Austria.

Austria: I do not think gay people should have children.
LeeLee: What? Why not?
Austria: Parents should be man and woman. It is not natural.

He failed to notice that the real deviation from nature in the room was his hair, obviously, a European import.

Anyway, this is where I chime in and try to be cute and say, "I thought most Europeans were supposed to be more liberal than Americans. [giggle]."

Austria: No you guys are much more liberal than we are.

I found this to be shocking. I thought Americans were the champions of bigotry and discrimination. And we kind of like to breed the idea here that all of Europe is pretty much like Berlin or Paris, (run by gay people), and that Eastern Europe is a nether-land that exists only to produce great gymnasts.

But that must be an incorrect generalization. Kind of like the time I wrongly convinced myself that all black people were like my black roommate: selfish, messy, and like to cut all their friends' hair in the common room every Thursday afternoon. (But then I met Taye Diggs. Who was cuter than a little black button. [giggle].)

Europe was supposed to be the homosexual promised land that I could always run away to if I ever became dissatisfied with the unalienable freedoms being taken away from me at home. And Europeans were supposed to be fun, skinny people that were either gay or wished they were gay. But the fat, ugly Austrian proved all this wrong.

For every LeeLee that generously takes the gay agenda into her own hands, there is an Austrian steadfastly climbing the Alps to spread the word that all gay boys should be childless lest we teach the next generation to be as gay as we are. I had hoped that the only people who truly hated gays were 40+ and when they died we would be free at last. But sadly, gay haters are being born every day, everywhere. And if they are so unwilling to change their minds, I wonder how long it will take for the world to just accept us and let us have babies.

At the very least, we'll always have Paris.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Farewell, Ugly Betty

Tralala I went home for the weekend and my boyfriend won't respond my texts. He did a power hour and then went to a concert with a crazy girl who is in love with him. I'm ok with it. I'm doing homework and watching Buffy. Ok, I lied. I'm not doing homework.

I wonder if he's having sex with the crazy girl. I wonder if he's having sex with some guy he met at the concert. I wonder if he's having sex with both of them. I wonder if he ordered Chinese takeout without me. Growl.

Sometimes I tell him about my irrational fears and ask him if he would ever cheat on me. This might seem like an unusual thing to bring up in the middle of dinner but ever since my home girl Sandra took that fall, nobody can be too careful. Usually he pats me on my head and tells me I am crazy. He never says anything like, "I couldn't even imagine," or "You're the only one that I want." He just tells me I am crazy. Which I already know.

All of this is probably caused by a deep rooted suspicion that he doesn't find me attractive. And that feeling is probably caused by the fact that I don't find myself attractive. And that is probably because I didn't grow up in Asia where everyone looks worse, the same, or only slightly better than me. Instead, I grew up in America, where I am surrounded by young bucks romping shirtless around the quad with their blue eyes, effortless muscles, and curly blonde hair. And also, I am fat.

I can name a few things about him that I find very sexy. But I don't think any part of me drives him wild with desire. And I think that hurts our relationship. Though it's hard to deny that my glittering personality couldn't make somebody fall in love with me, I sometimes feel like we are together because we are just two lonely gay boys that have nobody else. Which begs the question: can a man truly fall in love with somebody he doesn't find attractive?

I can't really believe Ugly Betty was canceled. I'm going to miss it.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Mommy, I'm Gay

Daddy: I know you have a girlfriend and I know that she is Indian.
Me: What.
Daddy: You brought home leftover curry last night. An Indian girl must have made it for you.

Actually Dad, it was Thai curry. So if anything, the stupid slut is from Thailand.

Mommy: Don't come home one day and tell me your girlfriend is pregnant.
Me: That would take a miracle.
Mommy: What?
Me: Huh?
Mommy: Do I need to buy you a box of condoms?
Me: Aaaaaaaalready have some.
Mommy: What?
Me: Huh?

I don't know how many more awkward conversations I can take. Whenever I go out, they joke about me going to see my girlfriend, which annoys me to no end. How dare anybody insinuate that I like girls? Sometimes, I want to turn around and say, "Actually, I am going to suck my boyfriend's giant penis. And then we are going to watch Up In The Air." But I keep it all in. I suppose this is the price I pay for, uhm, what is the word for the opposite of estrangement?

I can't put this off forever though. True, I could hump men all day and all night without my parents figuring anything out. But when it comes time for me to settle down, get married to a beautiful, tall, white man, and adopt a Vietnamese orphan girl, I can't exactly do it with my parents in the dark. And although I previously wrote it off as a narcissistic white boy's game, there is something unsettling about never telling your parents who you really are before they die.

So I guess one day, when the political climate is right, I will have to just do it. I would definitely come out to mommy first because she is the more sympathetic of the two and she just gets it. [It being fashion.] The problem is, I have trouble gauging what her reaction will be. Sometimes I purposefully expose her to gay things and observe her behavior.

Like one time I turned on CNN and there was a story about a man who was outed in Iran and then stoned to death on the street.

Mommy said, "That is ridiculous why would they do that?"

And then one time we watched Brothers & Sisters on a plane together and the two gay guys started making out.

Mommy thought that was major lolz.

So from what I can gather, her reaction will be somewhere between not taking me seriously and bludgeoning me to death with medium-sized stones.

Coming out can wait.

So I don't know what the point of this was.

Thursday, March 11, 2010


Sometimes I log onto my old manhunt account in an effort to forge platonic relationships with members of DC's homosexual underbelly.

This morning I received three unprecedented, and might I add unwarranted, negative messages.

Since I don't feel the need to protect the identity of people who are mean to me, here they are in all their glory.

Location: Pentagon

Him: Try to look at the corner honey. There they use a stick. The sickness profile I have ever seen in my life
Me: i have no idea what you are talking about.

Him: of course you don't . That wouldn't suprised me a bit
Me: you are a ridiculous if you have nothing better to do than harpoon people you don't even know on a site like this. surely you can take your arrogance elsewhere; i am not amused. i'm also not sure where all of this negativity came from (maybe syphilis is slowly eating at your brain) but if you don't have enough of a sense of humor to take my profile with a grain of salt, than that is your problem and not mine. and if you're going to pick an argument with somebody, try making at least a little bit of sense.
Him: Mr. English speaker, why don't you just summarize your lengthy essay in one word "ego problem" That would save alot of our time. Anyway, I have so much fun. Hope to see you online soon.

I really couldn't make sense of what this guy was saying. Something about corners, sticks, and surprising him in the past tense. I'm glad he could recognize that I speak English but disappointed that he didn't know how to read my masterpiece essay. Isn't there some law that says you can't have sex before you can read? Well, there should be. I'm also upset because there should be a comma before ego problem (which is, incidentally, two words). But, I mean, he looks pretty good other than his asymmetrical breasts.

A few minutes later.

Location Pentagon

Him: Reading your profile make me empty a bottle of tylenols. You sure are def. the winner of sickness person on earth. With that attitude, Why don't you just come back to wherever the hell you from.
Me: learn English.
Him: Speak for yourself

Excuse me, my grammar is impeccable. I eat dangling modifiers for breakfast. In fact, I would like to point out that in telling me to, "come back to wherever the hell i from," instead of, "go back to wherever the hell i from," he implies that he is there too.

Also, who is he to tell me off, considering his profile reads, "all men are NOT created equal!"

Now, at first I was confused about these two seemingly independent occurrences. But then I thought, how many twenty-two year olds from Pentagon could be on manhunt at the same time using the word "sickness" incorrectly? Surely, less than two.

And finally.

Location: DC

Him: Pitiful !!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Nice hair.
Him: Thanks but sorry I cannot say the same to you. You're got the look but with that profile, you sure got alot of attention

I don't know about him, but I was being sarcastic. Seriously, his hair looks like the surface of the mega-asteroid in Armageddon. This doesn't make me any less ecstatic about hearing that I've "got the look." But I have to wonder how many
twenty-two year olds could be on manhunt at the same time mistaking "alot" for one word? Surely, no more than one.

Maybe this guy thought he was making some brilliant point that manhunt users should be less like me [smart and funny and cute] and more like him [illiterate]. But sadly, none of his three manifestations could amount to anything more than confusion on my part and hopefully, amusement on yours.

This was a lot of fun.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Heads & Balls & Shoulders

I don't usually give out advice on my blog. It makes me feel like one of those 40-somethings that cling desperately to their youth by trying to tell young gay boys how to live their lives with pearls of false wisdom. I am a firm believer that a stranger on the internet can't possibly "know exactly how you feel!" Don't trust them. Don't even trust me. Everyone should find their own way through life.

Ok, but I have to give you guys one bit of advice.

A few nights ago I went to the club with a few of my friends. At around 2am everyone was pretty tired and we all went our separate ways. I went to Tall Blonde Alcoholic's apartment to cuddle for a bit when we decided it would be a good idea to get freaky in the shower. So he grabbed his laptop, put it on the vanity, and played Disturbia, while I took off my clothes. Funny.

And then we got in the shower. And did the dirty. While getting clean!

The next morning, I woke up to the most excruciating pain ever in my balls.
I thought I was going to die. Seriously killed by ball pain. So I put my clothes on and tiptoed out of the apartment, thinking an STD of some sort was involved and it was time for me to jump off the roof of the building out of shame.

Later that morning, Tall Blonde Alcoholic texted me, "Why do I have rug-burn on my balls?"

And then it dawned on me.

Me: Did you use Head & Shoulders as lube?
Him: Yes. Why?
Me: It contains zinc pyrithione! A potent heat shock response inducer that may cause DNA damage!

Actually, I didn't say that. I just looked that up on Wikipedia right now.

But the point is that now my balls look like the surface of Mars.

And I'm probably going to get cancer.

So next time my knees are behind my head [on my shoulders] I am not going to use Head & Shoulders. And neither should you.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Love: A Personal History

You grow up thinking it's perfectly normal that your parents love each other and hate each other at the same time. So it's also normal that they love you and hate you. You believe that every kiss should be paired with a slap and every "I Love You" is waiting for a retraction.

And then you are watching Step By Step and Full House and learn that real, anglo-saxon, American love is unconditional. You wonder why the people that say they love you can also hate you and ultimately hurt you. [It is because they are Asian.] So you force yourself to stop forgiving them for the way they make you feel and you decide to resent them instead. And when they say, "I love you," you stop believing. And where you used to respond, "I love you too," you don't say anything anymore.

But as you grow older you realize that this is not their fault. They cannot love you because they cannot understand you. They will continue to see what they want to see: the archetypal version of a son that will one day marry an Asian girl who will bear them three grandsons. And they will love that archetype with all of their hearts and they will love the real you the only way they know how. And though you still can't bring yourself to say you love them, you can appreciate their gestures.

And when you are all grown you think you don't need your parents' love. You know what real love is and you can find it in the form of a boyfriend or a naked French rugby player or through the unrequited adoration of Kim Yu-Na.

But the people you love can never love you back in the idealized manner you've always imagined. And when you are with your boy, all the little things bother you because they seem to tell you that, just like your parents, he loves you and he hates you.

And though you've convinced yourself you would be capable of loving somebody that truly understood you, you find that you are not so different from your parents. Like them, you are incapable of love. Because you don't know how to feel loved without feeling hurt.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Panda Hat(er)

To commemorate Tai Shan's last day in DC, I wear my cute fuzzy panda hat to work. It was a doubly good day to wear it because it was very cold outside and my cute fuzzy panda hat keeps my head and ears quite warm.

The receptionist sees my hat and smiles.
______, the bitch, says, "I like your hat."
My supervisor sees it and laughs for the first time since 2003.
Visitor A says, "Can I try it on?!"

The day is a success. Not only am I paying tribute to Tai Shan, I have made countless people on the metro and at work smile. I have brought joy to the world.

The next day I receive a call from my supervisor, who is working remotely.

Her: Did anybody talk to you about your hat?
Me: _____ said it was cute.
Her: Oh, I probably shoudn't say anything then.

She continues.

Her: Somebody came to me saying the hat was not appropriate for the workplace and it conflicts with the image we are trying to portray.
Me: Who said this.
Her: I cannot tell you who said it.
Me: It was ____ from marketing wasn't it.
Her: I cannot tell you who said it.
Me: My life is over.
Her: I would not worry about this.
Me: If you need to reach me, I will have run myself through the paper shredder.

I was not trying to make a statement. All I wanted to do was pay homage to Tai Shan and wear something that was cute and fuzzy and warm. And now ____ from marketing has turned me into this frivolous sociopath trying to dismantle the company's meticulously polished brand image. Even worse, he has turned my cute fuzzy panda hat into a symbol of anarchy.

And before you wag your finger at me, take a moment to consider that I am not the one taking two hour lunch breaks to go to Georgetown Cupcake and renting a zipcar with the company card to take day trips to Philadelphia and New York City. But I am sorry. I am sorry for wanting to have fun and for being cute.

I never meant for my cute fuzzy panda hat to become an emblem of sweeping social change, but my cute fuzzy panda hat and I will show the world that cute fuzzy panda hats and professionalism belong side by side. When I show up next week, cute fuzzy panda hat and all, I will show the world that my cute fuzzy panda hat is the embodiment of corporate commitment to quality and integrity.

And ____ from marketing is just jealous that he isn't as cute as I am, anyway.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

The Gay Couple

The gay relationship is a mysterious beast. Unlike the straight relationship, gay relatioships can't annouce themselves to the world, show their affection in public, or end in marriage. Well, maybe we can in West Hollywood [not the marriage thing] and most parts of Canada. But if you live anywhere else you're probably going to get clubbed to death like a poor baby seal.

With both of us still in the closet, and the background to our bad romance being a somewhat conservative city, it's difficult for me and Tall Blonde Alcoholic to do coupley things. Whenever we're out together I have this strange sense of unease. To
calm my paranoia, we walk with our backs to each other so we have a 360 degree view of approaching lynch mobs. It's more romantic than it sounds.

When we go to the movies, we watch things like 2012 in its tenth week of release or Nine in its first week of release to make sure nobody is in the theater. When we go to dinner together we're not exactly snuggling it up in the booth and spoon feeding each other. And
when we're in a big group, I tend to overcompensate by staying as far away from him as possible. Usually this is easy, though sometimes he mistakes this to mean I am mad at him. But this can prove difficult when he gets drunk and takes off his shirt and charges at me.

It's kind of hard carrying on like this. I feel like I have an obligation to pretend he's not important to me because I don't want to accidentally out him. I guess he feels the same way about me. But playing things cool all the time can really wear a couple down
. At some point this brilliant deception is going to become a reality. Are we fooling the world or just fooling ourselves?

Our two month anniversary is in EIGHT days and I'm so excited!

Monday, January 18, 2010

Well, That Was Fun

It's always hard to know beforehand which posts are going to get a lot of attention and which ones aren't. Sometimes I poor my icy heart out into a post and the only person that comments is mother disguised as a fat middle-aged man disguised as a cute teenage boy.

I didn't expect people to get so excited about my little study on Jason Carwin. It's kind of thrilling. Apparently, the only thing I've learned from all of this is that if I want my blog to be any sort of success, I should just attack teenagers until they are all floating, lifeless in the blogging sea.

I try not to care about what people say in the comments. When people tell me I'm a good writer, I smile to myself and blush a little. But I don't really think of myself that way and I haven't exactly gotten any Pulitzers in the mail so that's that. When people disagree with me, I tend to think they've got their little minds backwards. But everyone has their opinion and I can tolerate that as much as I can tolerate heterosexuals. So that's that.

But when people are mean, I get kind of taken aback. Well, clearly I've done myself in because I'm the one that dedicated an entire post to writing off a poor innocent boy. But at least I had the decency to channel my aggression onto my own blog. For example, don't comment on my post calling me a seething, jealous bitch and then ask me how things are going with my boyfriend. Things are going fine, by the way.

I didn't think Jason was going to read the post. Some fucker probably tipped him off. Probably that bitch, Anon #5. But he left a nice comment which I respect as much as I can respect heterosexuals. So I suppose in this exchange he is the bigger man and the better person. Who knows, maybe even smarter fag (well, depending on who you ask).

I don't really regret what I've said but I regret where I'm coming from. I don't want anybody to be happy until I've found happiness for myself. I want to go to Yale and I want to Julie Powell-esque blog success and I want to attend the Golden Globes with Neil Patrick Harris. When I encounter people that have these things, I try to rationalize why I deserve it more. I need to get over that.

All things considered, I certainly don't think Jason should take my post to heart. As much as I have the right to be a bitch, he has the right to be happy about his acceptance. If I'd gotten in somewhere great, I probably would've jumped for joy and told Stavros Niarchos to suck my dick. And though I am hard-pressed to say so, in Jason's own way, he deserves it. Meanwhile, I still grasp desperately to the hope that one day I will achieve my own sort of success and acceptance. Because I think I deserve it too.


It really bothers me that somebody with absolutely no readers and no comments has called my blog under-read. How would he even know? My sitemeter is password protected...

This person thinks he's Mother Willow because he's too mature to care about money and where he goes to school and "any of that shit." Please. That is just so naive. Hand me that $2 trashcan from Ikea so I can vomit in it.

Your parents paid for your private school (seriously doubt they were snipping school vouchers from the local newspaper) and probably paid for your college and will probably continue giving you whatever you want for the rest of your life no matter what you do / how unsuccessful your blog is.

And though this person finds me "absolutely disgusting," I have a feeling he will continue reading my blog and will probably have some sort of response in the form of a short witty comment. But I really hope he doesn't. This is the last thing I want to say about all of this.

But if he decides to write a follow up on his own blog about how horrible and tragic I am, I couldn't care less. Because if a tree falls and nobody is there to hear it, then your blog is a piece of shit.