Is Dating Somebody Emotionally Half My Age Illegal?

The worst thing about being a millennial is dating millennials. We're selfish and indulgent. Engage any 20something in a conversation about dating and they will quickly prattle off a dozen things they think they deserve. Yes, I have my own foolish preconceptions about what I deserve. But at least I have the jaded wisdom to know I'm probably never going to get those things / I'm going to die alone in Arizona.

I had a moment of clarity a few weeks ago. I was sick with a cold and my boyfriend came over to take care of me. Somehow, the gay agenda shifted into me buying him raisins and crackers at CVS and making him soup while he was on the phone with his mother.

This is not to say that he has never done anything for me and I resent doing things for him. But I have always felt a tension, as if our "acts of love" weren't truly selfless and we always expected something in return. More than that, he expected the both of us to fulfill certain roles that he had carefully laid out. I was supposed to be the responsible, corporate boyfriend who paid for everything. He was supposed to be the free-spirited, sociable boyfriend that planned our weekend calendar. I never really felt comfortable playing those roles, and honestly, why does everybody think they are Jessa Johansson?

I've gone along with it because I want to make promises that make him happy and I want to keep those promises. But at some point, I'm running around the city doing things I don't want to do just so somebody doesn't get mad at me via passive aggressive texts. Maybe that's what love is. I don't know. 

The ultimate problem with millennials is that our sense of empowerment has devolved into a sense of entitlement. I give him everything I have and he thinks he deserves more. I ask him for something and he "doesn't feel like it." And he just lacks the self-awareness to recognize the hypocrisy.  I'm sure I'm missing my own hypocrisy somewhere in this post but the lasting impression is that neither of us have finished growing up and being together keeps us from doing just that. In fewer words: I'm too young to be taking care of somebody. And he is too old to need to be taken care of.

New is the New New

Life is good, comparatively speaking. Looking back on time when I was on OKCupid, I am almost positive that six-month stretch will go down as the darkest era of my entire life, barring a musculoskeletal degenerative disorder that I may or may not be in store for at some point in the future.

I have a boyfriend. My apartment is one block from the metro station. I haven't felt inclined to make up a nickname for my boss that includes the word "cunt" or "poop." But it's during these times of content when I forget that things have been worse and wonder if things could be better. I can't tell if it's the lack of change or the lack of turmoil that makes me anxious. I never really considered myself someone who particularly enjoyed either change or turmoil. But the things we enjoy aren't necessarily the things that make us feel alive.

I've encountered a limit that my relationship cannot seem to grow beyond. Instead of becoming deeper it's become, for lack of a better word, wider. We share every meal, thought, and moment in this circuitous vortex where yesterday's feelings are today's feelings are tomorrow's feelings. Is there anything left to do and discover that won't be a rehash of something from before? Meanwhile the bleeding of our lives into each other's makes it so that there's no longer any distinction between my life as an individual and my life as his boyfriend.

Much of the stagnancy is my own fault. I can be stubbornly distant and seem to be adamant about maintaining the integrity of our individual lives. Is the big picture here that I'm unable to take things to the proverbial "next level." Or am I just unable to see myself at the next level with him? Emotionally speaking, I dont even know what the next level is. We already share a straw at the movies, when did that stop being enough?

I don't know what this says about me, other than I am selfish and destructive and maybe need to do more growing up than I thought. I'm even more at a loss for what to do. Is it ever fair to end a perfectly stable relationship to "find oneself" among the sights and sounds of Grindr? In two weeks time I will have found out that the only fish left in the sea are one-eyed and hermaphroditic.

I met a guy in a bar recently and we've been chatting casually. The initial excitement of meeting somebody always casts a thick veil but even through that I can recognize he represents everything horrible and uncertain and painful about my OKCupid subscribing existence. But he makes life feel new.

I Almost Forgot The Password To This Thing

It took about seven days for optimism to give way to realism. Embarrassingly soon after I declared that it was going to work, I decided the "relationship" (although I hesitate to designate what we had as *that*) was not going to work. 

Fundamentally, we didn't get along. With just a little bit of retrospect, I can see that now. So many parts of our personalities were at odds that we were constantly fighting. I think he mistook our emotional flare-ups as passion. It mostly reminded me of my parents and how much they hated each other between 1989 and 2007. True, we both cared about each other, but two cares one love does not make.

I broke it off with him in early July, reasoning that although there was not an issue per se, it would be better to end it before we got more invested. I only half-believed the words coming out of my mouth. What was really happening was he was wading deeper into the tar-pit that is a relationship with me and I was slowly backing out. I wanted to shut it down before we were on completely different pages. It felt selfish but it also felt necessary. 

Breaking up with a guy that didn't see it coming and wasn't ready to let go left me with a sense of survivor's guilt, like somehow it was an end for him and a beginning for me. I felt bad that I was feeling relief while he was feeling sadness. I also felt ridiculous for having feelings about a feeling. I was having tertiary feelings, God help me.

I still don't know if I made the right decision. I am in a new "relationship" now (though once again, I hesitate to make that designation). It feels like a better fit in all the topical senses, we like the same music, food, don't scream at each other in public, etc. But Chipmunk's loyalty and selflessness turned out to be two traits that I haven't encountered since.

Lord knows I have no idea what a healthy relationship feels like so I probably wouldn't be able to recognize the fact that I'm in one based on previous experience. I'm just wondering if those ah-ha moments where you realize you're not only in love but in love with the right guy have all been used up by Carrie Bradshaw, leaving the rest of us with debilitating unsureness.

Abusing This Metaphor to Death

I'm sitting on the 7th floor of my office building. You should be impressed because DC has a strict building height limit and oftentimes 7 floors is as high any building around here gets. I'm thinking about the guy I'm dating currently. We've been going out for about 3 months now and I am almost certain he feels more strongly for me than I for him.

For somebody who was so deeply unhappy about being a "have-not", it seems hypocritical that I would be unhappy as a "have" as well. He cares about me and he always puts me first. I have this terrifying suspicion he scrapped a plan to move to the west coast just to stay in DC with me. In normal situtations, I would be ecstatic, and probably on photoshop right now trying to merge our two faces and see what our children will look like. Instead, I feel impotent and out of control, which I really hate.

I think he fell for me because he has no expectations when it comes to dating and I was in the right place at the right time. Meanwhile, I have enough expectations to circumscribe Jupiter's fat ass. It's not that he's not great, but I have this, perhaps artificial, preference for guys that are masculine and aggressive but also calm and gentlemanly. My baby is none of those things. I mean, his nickname is "Chipmunk," if you can imagine.

This isn't the first time I've compromised to be with somebody. In the past, I've lowered my expectations to the 4th floor, only to be subjected to the ironic humiliation that I am a 2nd floor in their building. Usually I'd have to lower my standards to basement level 3 to find a guy that was genuinely interested in me as boyfriend material.  Chipmunk is definitely above grade. And each time I think about how lonely I would be without his company, it sends me a little deeper into his arms. So maybe the only thing that matters right now is that in his building, I'm on the 7th floor.

I Deserve More Karmic Compensation Than This

I dated a guy briefly in February. What was interesting about him was that he had an identical twin whose name was only one letter different from his own. Even more interesting was the fact that his identical twin was not gay. I didn't end up dating him for long because his twin brother's heterosexual existence was an affront to everything I learned in AP Biology. I want to believe that homosexuality is purely genetic and the way I am isn't because of some egregious mistake occuring druring my formative years (no doubt, my parents' fault). Or maybe it was something I ate.

Actually, the real reason why we stopped dating was because he wanted me to commit and I didn't want to. It was strangely ironic and perhaps poetic justice to have the tables turned on me in that way. Here I am, complaining about how I'm all alone and nobody loves me. The second somebody tries to, I'm all, "I'd rather not." I guess it was my turn to be a bitch / I can see from the perspective of the guys that never call me back now. When it's not right for one person, it's not right for either of them.

The way we broke it off was pretty comical in itself. We were both at one of his friend's party. He saw me talking to another guy and pulled me aside to tell me he couldn't stand my flagrant disrespect and didn't want to see me anymore and stormed off. I wondered if I was supposed to cry or keep drinking or stay at the party or what. Mostly I stood around wondering where my sweater was. A few minutes later he texts me, "Please do me a favor and don't sleep with ___." ___ is the guy I was talking to and I would definitely share his name but I don't even remember it. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind and ___ was kind of gross but at that point I wanted to do it just to be spiteful. *Does my best Emily Thorne impression*


Instead I found my sweater and left and never saw any of those people again.

Hopefully My Face Stays Young Too

I have this theory, which I arrived at through a combination of empirical data, personal experience, and watching Mean Girls. 

In middle school, the normal boys and girls went girl/boy crazy respectively. For the next several years, they acted impulsively and naively when it came to "love." Jumping from one partner to the next, they didn't care about each others' feelings because they didn't quite understand their own. But nobody really got hurt because nobody really "got it." Also, nobody in middle school was having sex. (Except that one guy, who I still think was lying. And that one girl, who had no daddy.) It's the same when baby lions play-fight with one another so cutely in preparation for the day when they actually have to slaughter a cape buffalo.

Eventually, this adolescent practice gives way to the real thing. Feelings, maturity, and sexuality coalesce into meaningful relationships. By age 25, everyone is married even though the girls have yet to learn how to clean up their bathrooms and the boys still say "dude."

It's hard not to laugh, and then cry uncontrollably, when I reflect on my own middle school experience. About the same time I started lusting after my guy friends, they started lusting after girls. I felt like Julia Roberts running after that not famous guy running after Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding. Of course, I had a string of fake girlfriends to fit in and deflect suspicion, but that wasn't exactly cathartic. My urges were forcibly suppressed, held back by the anti-ejaculative equivalent of the Hoover Dam.

This is where I arrived at my revelation: the reason why gay people are so fucking annoying. We are all emotionally arrested as 13 year-olds. We're boy crazy now because we never got a chance to be cute little sluts in middle school. But since we're at an age where we can act out on our childish feelings via blowjobs, we end up feeling more conflicted and distraught when our impulsive connections don't work out. It's gotten to the point where I can't really ride the metro because every time I see a really hot guy I have this full blown panic attack that can only be calmed by eating an entire french baguette with butter.

I'm not really sad or angry about it. I'm kind of seeing somebody now and he drives and pays so I feel all mature and stuff.

All the Single Men Are Sociopaths

There is a phrase basic people like to put on their Facebook profiles and lower backs, "Live each day as if it were your last." I've adapted it to my situation so that it reads, "Fuck each guy like you'll never see them again."

I say this phrase in my head repeatedly while hooking up with boys (in between silent renditions of Whitney Houston's version of the Star Spangled Banner) to remind myself that we all just want sex, and while I'm being honest, the guy on top of me (not a bottom, just lazy) is not good enough to warrant being done twice. 

Mostly, this has worked out well for me. Like Beyonce empowered me to do via "Independent Women Part I," after it's over I prefer to leave gracefully without the clunky exchange of numbers, job descriptions, and life stories. I've satisfied my needs and for the sake of my conscience would rather pretend our encounter was just a so-so dream somewhere in between the time I dreamed I was in The Help (high) and the time I dreamed we were all lizards (low).

I met a guy several weeks ago that was intent on tampering with my system. He was cute and cordial, inviting me back to his place to "cuddle" and "be innocent." "God this guy is dumb, I can't wait to get him pregnant," is what my drunk-self in-my-head-screamed. 

I sat on his couch waiting for him to get naked while he told me about his job and his British heritage. I was like, "Really? I thought you were Russian. Take off your pants." 

 

But halfway between him telling me how hot I was and seeing his eight inch cock, I found myself wanting to see him beyond this one night. I was excited to tell him that I lived just a few blocks away and I was flattered when he suggested seeing me again soon. I wanted to know his last name. Justin What.

Even so, I attempted to leave the next morning with my hopes in check. As I opened the door he stopped me, "Wait, I never got your number." He recited his for me to put into my phone and I candidly said, "I'll save you as Justin Newton Street so I can remember who you are." He laughed, "My last name's ______."

I haven't heard from him since then. Sent him two texts over the course of three days to no response and figured I would give it a rest. Saw him trolling around on Grindr before I decided to give that a rest too. What I don't understand is that when I gave him the perfect opportunity to do what he wanted to do all along, why didn't he take it? Why did he have to pretend to be interested when he wasn't?

I think his behavior bled beyond politeness into pathological. It's one thing to fake-tell somebody they're attractive and reveal a last name, but it's another to make future plans with no intention of following through. It seems as though he wanted what I wanted - to have nothing to do with each other, but he wanted to be the one to say so. 

I'm not entirely sure when all of this became such a game. And if I'm supposedly making the rules, why am I still losing?

Gay For 401k

I wonder if it would be lucrative for me to sell out all the secrets of the world of consulting. House of Lies kind of does this I guess, but I feel like my account would be more visceral and desperate (read: entertaining). I’d write it in the style of Memoirs of a Geisha. John Cho would play me in the cinematic adaptation; I wonder if he’s comfortable playing gay.

In September, the disparity between my expectations for the business world and the reality of it had me reeling. Management was pretty swift and blunt about clarifying that my job was to meet contrived metrics ahead of serving the client. I was legitimately worried that I would go insane before the two year mark when I could leave the position with some sort of credibility. It’s kind of a non-issue now. The metrics are easy to meet and the client is kind of dumb anyway. Days of the week pass faster than ever and it seems seven months have flown by without any effort or drama on my part.

I do worry that I’m getting stupider and slower. I watched Million Dollar Listing last night and the gay real estate agent did arithmetic in his head way faster than I could. Intellectual comparison to Bravo personas is my SAT. I was doing so well when Real Housewives of New Jersey was on. More concerning is the possibility that I get too comfortable here and lose the drive to pursue something better. With each paycheck, I can feel the fire in my belly dwindling further. My evil manager is out for the foreseeable future due to a torn Achilles. I’m happier than ever.

A few weeks ago a headless guy with an unremarkable body messaged me on Grindr. He tried to engage me in some deep philosophical conversation about universal morality and European debt but I was just like, “FACEPIC?” It was the senior recruiter from my office. I’ve only met him once before on my first day of training. I knew he was gay then too.

So I was like, “K THANX” thinking I could walk away from that conversation unscathed.

“You should check your LinkedIn requests more often."

My initial thought was, who the hell uses LinkedIn? And then I was like, oops, he knows who I am. And then I was like, what’s my password?

He indicated that he wanted me to come up to his office sometime and discuss my “career direction.” I assumed “career direction” was consultant jargon for pointing his peepee towards my butt. He told me his office had no windows. I told him I’m on the client site…until July. If staying in this industry means turning into this guy, somebody please kill me. To be fair, he works in HR and everyone in HR is always a fuck-up carrying a ton of emotional baggage.

He messaged me on the office communicator yesterday.

Him: Hey twink
Me: Hey fat ass

So we’re paying this game now, I guess.

I Don't See Skin Color or Eye Shape

Growing up, I never really felt a sense of my Asian-ness. One time, when my sister told my parents she wanted to be a journalist, my mother pulled us aside and started crying and screaming that as long as we live "the white people" will never see us as one of them. My sister ended up studying human biology. I never really made that connection until now.

Society (at least in DC) has never made me feel different for being Asian and I never felt a strong societal pressure telling me that being gay was anything but ok. Ironically, gay society (which I have only recently been immersed in) has made me keenly, and at times painfully, aware of both. To be gay and Asian in DC is to be discriminated against. And this is obnoxious because gays bitch a big game about how they want to be treated as equals and cry to Lady Gaga about acceptance, but gay men are some of the most prejudiced people I've ever met.

In terms of a preference towards Asians, men typically fall into three categories. There are guys that just come out and say it. Per the essential question on OKCupid, "Would you strongly prefer to go out with someone of your own race?" they answer, "Yes" unabashedly or "No, not strongly..." They say things in person like "no offense, but I'm not into Asians." Even so, the honesty can be refreshingly efficient. At least I know not to bother. 

The second group of guys like to point out "I taught English in North Korea and I built village pumps in East Africa... I'm not racist." In light of their service, it's probably true that they aren't racist. But not being racist and being able to see [love] somebody beyond their race isn't quite the same. In the end, they are colorblind only in principle. In practice, they never go out with ethnic guys and usually fall for that tall, lanky white guy that makes clothes out of hemp and plays in a kickball league.

Lastly, there are the guys that actually are into Asians. But in typical gift/curse fashion with them it doesn't feel natural or organic. They don't see you as just another person that they happen to like and happens to be Asian. They like you because you are Asian. They want to speak to you in Chinese and discuss anime and K-pop. I don't even listen to K-pop. Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is K-pop? Does K stand for Korea?

I sometimes talk to white people about my racial qualms because it's interesting to get their perspective and, because I know it's there, I kind of just want to get them to admit they are the tiniest bit racist. They usually just laugh everything off and tell me that racism in 2012 is unfathomable. "Oh my god shut up, don't say that! You just need more confidence." I don't really know how to dignify a blatant attempt to sweep a legitimate issue under the rug but it's safe to say that white people don't want to discuss race issues because, for them, when nobody talks about it, it doesn't exist. 

I realize these are blanket statements about race that do not necessarily hold true in all cases. Maybe guys don't avoid me because of my race. Maybe it's because I talk too much about Mariah Carey and Desperate Housewives and the lingering racial issues of the 21st century. Maybe I do, in fact, lack confidence. Maybe, just maybe, I say "maybe" too much. I'm also aware that I'm presenting a very limited perspective: scorned Asian challenging the oppressive white man. There are plenty of other ways to look at this, like, why am I so obsessed with white people?

My roommate's parents recently came to visit from New Hampshire, where they've lived all their lives. Their curiosity about my "culture" was kind of endearing but it also spoke to a lack of exposure that is probably the culprit behind all of this unpleasantness. They asked me if I "liked being Asian in America." Not knowing how to answer that without bawling my eyes out and reciting a paragraph from The Joy Luck Club, I told them it's had its ups and downs. 

This is when his mother said, "How could it possibly be bad, you have all that incredible food." And then his father asked me why there isn't a word in Chinese for love.

But Really My Main Issue Is His Mouth

Remember when the Jonas Brothers came out and everyone thought they'd be as unsuccessful as The Mofatts but then they were actually kind of successful but then they faded back into Mofatt-level obscurity? That's the presidential campaign trajectory that I envision for Santorum. 

The first time I saw Santorum, he was last on the left in a long line of circus acts engaging in one of the early republican debates. I only recall two things about him. 1) He looked like my genetics TA, but considerably less confident. 2) His stage presence was so shrinking that he actually made Ron Paul not look like Estelle Getty for once. I wrote him off immediately, like I wrote off Adele when she guest starred on Ugly Betty or when Rihanna had a concert in the ghetto ass shopping mall in my hometown whose anchor stores include Marshalls, Wet Seal, and Ruby Tuesday.

Inexplicably, he's created a viable candidacy since then. Well, it's not completely inexplicable, given how weak the republican field is and the inherent stupidity of Americans. But seriously, do people not see his weird fucking mouth and his smarmy smile. He does this thing where he purses his lips and his chin disappears into his neck. I haven't seen something so disgusting and tight since I took that picture of my asshole with my iPhone. Just kidding, I've never done that and there is no evidence of it anywhere.

There are more substantial reasons why he belongs on a soapbox in a Power Ranger costume on the corner of the Chinatown Metro station instead of in the oval office. Most of it has to do with his religious zeal, which I feel like he thinks is really endearing and cute. But actually, it's like, not.

He touts his obsession with the "ideal" family/society/government like some cracked out whore trying to sell his utopian concept that exists under the freeway bridge. In reality, his ideal is just a rehashing of 1950s values repackaged with a doomsday ultimatum. He would have us all living in Pleasantville before Tobey and Reese show up. He's Kirsten bitch mother from Mona Lisa Smile.

Santorum has religious blinders on. He wants everything and everyone to be a certain way that would give him, (and the rest of the rich, white, catholic men in society) a sense of power and security. "Put women where they belong and gay people where we can't see them!" Don't let his damage-control backtracking on Fox News fool you, he wants women out of the army and into aprons. He wants black people to stop being so poor and gays to stop being so gross. But all of this conversation is baffling to me because who is the president to tell us how to live our lives? For somebody who so readily vilifies the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khoemeini, he sure is acting like him - even more offensive in a country where church are state are supposedly separate.

All his interviews have done nothing but allow him to flesh out the haughty contradictions in his platform. Like his unwillingness to acknowledge the needs of the poor, even though their tax dollars paid for his lobbyist salary. Like his argument that global warming is concoted by the government to get their hands in our lives, even when he wants a hand in every woman's uterus. Or his readiness to welcome every last baby that is conceived, which is tempered by a lack of  support for a stronger welfare system and universal healthcare for all the little miracles born to poor and neglectful parents. "Uh, it's a bit much," I imagine him saying, right before he flashes his trademark smile.

I Blame All This On Grindr

I don't actually have any groundbreaking new material to talk about but I'm trying to post more often and this is my last chance to squeeze one more January post in. So. 

The dating game is at a complete and utter stalemate. Even still, I can't pry myself away from playing, though I have much more pressing and productive things I could be doing like developing my biceps and studying for my federal tax exam.

Why do I even get into it if every last guy ends up a disappointment? 

Because the beginning is so sweet, when you exchange names and mutual interests. Because he tells you that you are adorable and that you should meet for coffee or drinks. Because it's so exciting to go to his apartment and watch TV in his bed with your socks still on. Because the first kiss is always electrifying to some extent, even if there's no chemistry there. Because if he doesn't call you the next day (or week), maybe he's just busy. Because when he tells you you're "adorable, but..." you can seek some solace in your cuteness. Because even though he's hurt you, you'll get over it soon enough. Ah, because the next one, surely he will be different. 

See, there are a lot of reasons.

My friend and I were on the phone today theorizing reasons why guys never seem to want to keep seeing me after the first or second date. The top three potential reasons were: I look better in pictures that I've meticulously doctored in Photoshop; I smell really, really bad; white guys will only ever respect Asians enough to treat them as casual things on the side that they can dump on a whim and not feel badly about at all.

This habit has become obsessive and it's clearly destructive to my psyche. But I feel like in some ways I've been too overstimulated (by my iPhone, obviously) so that my baseline level of excitement is impossibly high. I just want to feel something so I grasp desperately at anything that presents itself, whether I know inwardly that it's going to damage me or not. There's also a chance that I do this because I'm tired of being alone and feeling unwanted - and that last pesky bit of optimism hasn't been extinguished yet.

See, all old themes.

"I Like Having Too Many Friends"

I have a lot to say; I always do. I just feel so emotionally-exhausted that I dont know if I have the words in me these days. I'm also regular-exhausted. I have this free 3 [consecutive] day pass at the WSC but everytime I go there's a new receptionist who perpetually thinks it's my second day. I've gone 5 days in a row now. I can't feel my arms.

The picture of complete and utter loneliness that I paint around myself is not entirely true. My situation could be worse. I could be a black, lesbian Jew - I could be Aneesa from Real World Chicago. But I've done ok, working with what I've got, in the district of desperation and dismissiveness. I go on a steady stream of dates, (I'd say an average of 3 first dates a week). I went on three last Thursday alone. The problem is these dates almost always end with, "I'd be cool with messing around, but let's just be friends."

Now I don't know about YOU guys, but I don't give handjobs to my friends on the Metro. So my general reaction to these overtures is something biting like, "THIS IS NOT AMERICA'S NEXT TOP BEST FRIEND." It's insulting to be told you aren't qualified for the upper echelon of dateable guys; what about me isn't good enough for them? Since I'm dating exclusively white guys, it kinda puts me right back in San Francisco in the mid 1800s, "You're ugly. Go build me a railroad."

Somebody on OKCupid put it perfectly when he said gay guys no longer form relationships via their daily lives. Everyone's on an online website or on Grindr where the pool is seemingly limitless. They make split-second judgements without making the effort to observe any other personal qualities. In doing so, "the perfect guy" is potentially bypassed for a "total babe" who is a total nightmare. This guy is either a genius or as pathetic as I am. Perhaps both.

Ok, so let's say I get why people wouldn't necessarily want to be with me. The larger problem I'm wrestling with is its effect on me. Why does it matter? Why can't I be like the rest of these bumbling idiots, content with going on an endless string of first dates until Mr. Perfect falls right into my lap? How come I can't stick my toe into the pool without falling in and drowning?

The truth is, I notice problems with every guy I date too. Mr. Thursday was slightly effeminite, mildly arrogant, and a Republican. Mr. Friday was selfish, awkward, and had this really consicupous stain on his front tooth. Red head #1 was immature, transient, and looked like a dinosaur. Thor was Icelandic.

The difference between me and all the other men is that I search inwardly for ways I can make a relationship with an otherwise imperfect person, perfect. They, on the other hand, only look for reasons why it won't work and treat each one as a dealbreaker. Maybe it's only fed by desperation, but I feel for people, imperfections et al. White people only care about themselves - finding somebody to satisfy their needs. And so the real question becomes: is it worse to settle with somebody or grow old with nobody? 

I suppose the verbiage is still in me, I just have to dig a little deeper these days.

Reflections, Regrets, Resolutions

I've been thinking a lot about time lately. The holidays provide the perfect backdrop for my temporal affective disorder. The one, two, three combination of Christmas, New Years, and my birthday are relentless. They simultaneously remind me of how quickly the last year has passed and how slowly the time ahead of me seems to move. They emphasize how desperation can stretch for months onto a year and happiness can only last for a day, and in some cases, just a few seconds.

Christmas as a young adult is always letdown. The traditions I remember from my childhood have all been abandoned and family togetherness is contrived- merely an excuse for my parents to get me in a room with them and warn me against dating anything but an Asian girl. My sister somehow escaped this purgatory. It turns out San Francisco is just out of arm's reach. I should move there.

My parents and I went to Great Falls on the Potomac on Christmas day. Standing on the bridge above the gushing rapids, my father felt the need to unload some philosophical musings about how time is like water: it seems never ending but the water you see right now will be gone in a moment and you will never see it again. This was depressing. Then my mom made a comment about how if I ever abandon or disappoint her, she is going to jump into the falls headfirst. "How about if I jump instead," I bargained in my head.

New Years was less of a downer. I went to New York City this year; its frenetic pace and the masses of unfamiliar faces helped me forget about my "DC problems" for a few days. Also, I imagined myself as Michael Fassbender in Shame. That was fun. 

New Years Eve, at around 11pm, I text a guy that I'm seeing to wish him a happy New Year. He texts back, asking me what I'm up to. Turns out we are both in NYC, both in East Village. He doesn't want to meet up. The ball drops. And then I go home.

Birthdays are especially hard. I spend the entire year building up immense expectations that this is the one day out of the year that the people I care about will want to make me happy, that the universe will somehow allow everything to go my way, that I will feel loved. Not so. I worked all day, went to dinner with my mom (apparently after not receiving a text from this cute guy that wanted to buy me dinner- not sure if I believe him when he says this now), went home, watched Modern Family, went to bed. I don't even like Modern Family. The only thing more disappointing about the actual day is the fact that I have to wait a whole year to experience it again.

At the moment, I don't know how to feel about time. In some respects, it moves too quickly and I feel like every part of my life is out of control. In other respects, it moves too slowly and I feel like there's no passion, no excitement, nothing to live for.

In the new year, and my 23rd year of life, I've made the resolution to let go of everything behind me and strive to be a better, happier person. But aside from waking up earlier, eating less meat (interpret this however you want), and investing more in my 401k, I don't exactly have any fabulous ideas that will make me the cute, upbeat, loveable guy that I want to be. More importantly, I wonder if change really is easier to achieve now, when the "new year" concept is just an overblown celebration of the arbitrarily selected Julian calendar. WHAT DO THE ROMANS KNOW ABOUT MY LOVE LIFE? 

Maybe my dad was right. Perhaps true happiness exists only for a moment in time, and when that time passes, it's gone forever.

Can We Take Today Off the Calendar Please

It's been eight or so years since I began my "gay life," marked by the moment I realized that my adulthood would be different (read: difficult) and there was no way to deny or avoid it. I had one last girlfriend during my gay life. She wasn't really so much a girlfriend as she was an asexual beard. But we both got some sort of self-esteem boost out of our dysfunctional relationship and I hear she's doing quite well for herself now so I don't feel too bad about it in retrospect.

Despite my dutiful and supportive beard, I was miserable the first half of my gay life. I thought about what would happen if my parents and my friends found out. I worried about how I would hide my sexuality during college. I lay in bed most nights wondering, "Why me?"

My first gay relationship marked a turning point in my gay life. Today marks two years since. I remember driving home the night we started dating officially (though we were only ever official in our heads) thinking to myself, well I guess I'm pretty lucky after all.

Tralala.

In the time since my last post, I've been trying to move forward with gay life. More accurately, I've been trying to live regular life without suffering a nervous breakdown in a public place. For the most part, I've been successful, though I do tend to drag my feet and look down at the ground a lot like I'm Macy Gray in the music video for "I Try." Life is hectic, I don't know if that helps or hurts.

I still think about "it" a lot, though thinking about it at all is probably thinking about it too much. It's probably unreasonable to not care for four months and suddenly suffer a massive epiphany/stroke and start caring. A friend pointed out to me today that I tried, and he tried, and it didn't work out, so I should just let it go. She also suggested that what I really missed was intimacy and not him in particular. I hate people who are all, philosophical and insightful on Skype. I just want you to tell me my hair looks nice.

I wonder what it's like for him to love somebody new. I wonder if he thinks about me on occasion. I wonder how he can suddenly do without all the things he used to love about me. These thoughts are depressive though. For the moment, it seems like the best thing to do is to bottle up all my questions and doubts and fears inside of me in the hopes that one day I'll forget that they exist.

In truth, all of this posturing is hypocritical. I've been on a steady stream of dates since the summer. The fact that none of them has led to anything seems kind of like it's my own fault and it's certainly aligned with the kind of luck I've come to expect. 

I used to worry if being gay meant everyone in the entire world would hate me. Now I worry if it means nobody (other than my beards) will love me. And while I spent the first half of my gay life wondering, "Why me?" the second half of my gay life (this is assuming I don't make it through 2012) is mostly defined by the question, "Why not me?"

The Irony In My Life No Longer Impresses Me

I was feeling manic on Sunday night after Once Upon A Time and before Desperate Housewives so I googled "gay-friendly therapist, dc." Finding one that seemed to have a particularly sympathetic looking headshot, I sent an email urgently asking for a first consultation as soon as possible. She emailed me back the next day, "First consultations are $350." Miraculously, I felt better instantly.

It's downright prophetic that I wrote about TBA in my last post because 3 days later a friend texts me, "Do you know the new guy that TBA's dating?" I was, in fact, not aware that he was seeing somebody. This was one of those shoot-the-messenger moments. I resisted.

I suddenly felt like I was being kicked in the stomach and the back of the head, simultaneously. The guy he met right after me turned out to be somebody serious. Being the dramatic diva that I am, I sent the most awkward and ridiculous message I could have possible come up with, "Do you love him?" He said, "what?" and then a few minutes later,"yes."

I felt the kicking again. How could two people who were basically each others entire lives just move on? Well, I guess the real questions is, why did one move on and the other one didn't? It's tough to imagine all the things he used to do and say to me, he's now doing and saying to this new guy. I wonder if he makes him happier than I did and I suddenly feel this strange connection to Adele.

This question is more or less answered by the fact that TBA also came out this summer. He decided not to go to Princeton but to stay in the area for a job. I wonder if this is the work of the new guy too, getting him to do and feel things that I could not. Ultimately, I will go down in history as a footnote in TBA's little black book, the boyfriend that was always in the shadows and a little bit insane. This new one seems more real.

I was dropped, I see that now. And I also know now that anybody who says they will love you forever can wake up one day and decide that they don't anymore. Four months after the fact, I should care less than I do. Perhaps it seems like I'm only upset that he found love sooner than I did. But the truth is I'm upset because he found somebody to love and I think I'm still in love with him.

There are many more questions I would like answered. But although knowing may satisfy my curiosity, it will probably only make me feel more horribly inadequate and depressive. The best strategy here is to go back to what we were doing just a few days before, not talking to each. For me, it takes a conscious effort to not pick up my phone and tell him that I want nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms. For him, it's rather effortless. It doesn't seem to matter to him whether he contacts me or not, and when he does, he comes off surprisingly glib. Yesterday morning, out of the blue, he said to me "if you are looking for new music, the new florence + the machine album is fantastic." This might be the last thing he ever says to me and I'm always going to wonder if it was spam...

Compounded with the rest of my problems, I feel especially helpless - like I'm drowning and there is nothing for me to hold on to. People say, "just move on" like it's that utility bill sitting on my desk that I've been putting off. They say, "don't think about him" as if the new season of Top Chef, white Hyundais, Angry Birds, Fresca, Pop music, the very thought of college, and a million other things don't remind me instantly of what we were together.

I was on OKCupid tonight hoping to spark up a conversation with a rando internet freak that would somehow result in the love of my lie. I clicked on a profile that looked somewhat promising and there he was, standing in the background of this guy's profile pic. TBA was wearing a shirt we bought together, smiling.

How fucked up is that?

This Is the Part Where I Tell You I'm A Cutter and You Tell Me How To Fix Everything

I'm not really a crier. I've cried a handful of times in my adult life, mostly during episodes of Desperate Housewives and one time to make TBA stop arguing with me and hug me. Usually, I express my feelings of profound sadness through eating fatty foods or just going to bed. So it is surprising, even to me, that I came home from work today, sat in the corner of my room, and cried.

I realize it's a little bit early to be having an existential crisis being that I'm still young and there is still time to make sweeping life changes. But the very root of my frustration is that extenuating factors will keep me from making these sweeping life changes and I'm going to have to live the life I'm leading now for the next 30 years until I turn into an old gay person / cease to exist in society's eyes.

I'm adjusting poorly the real world. I can't even explain how disappointed I am in myself for choosing subsequently easier majors until I settled on one that would lead me down this career path that [I am just now realizing?] is going to drive me fucking insane. Maybe it's just the company I work for, which seems to be relegated to the smaller and more remedial projects. Maybe it's the project itself, which is indeed small in scope and remedial. Or maybe it's my boss, who can only explain concepts while making motions like he's throwing a football, and still does a shit poor job of it. 

But I'm trapped. If I leave before a year, every company on the face of the planet will think I have some form of professional leprosy. I also have to study my ass off for the next six months to finish my CPA exam or I owe my company the $3000 they paid for the useless study courses. After one year, I could always move to another company, go to law school, or maybe get my MBA. But will these things really make my life better, or provide more of the same problems? What I really want to do is start my own food truck. I do not have the capital for that.

More than my professional problems, I'm affected by personal ones. I'm lonely. My friends have scattered to far flung places like London and Seoul and Arlington. I used to eat every meal, do every workout, and drink every drink with a friend. Now, I find myself doing all those things alone. I have too many nights of quiet desperation where I don't do anything but evaluate and reevaluate my life. Just like saying a word over and over makes it lose its meaning, thinking about my professional and personal goals on an hourly basis makes them seem so much farther away and wholly unattainable.

Recently I've been thinking about TBA a lot. We did this whole awkward social tango where I successfully ignored him for about a month after our break up and then he texted me out of the blue and asked "Are we seriously never talking again?" so I relented and we talked for about a day and then he started ignoring me. I'm not sure if he was just doing that to gain the upper hand and have the last say but that's what happened. I'm pretty sure he's sitting somewhere, stroking his four cats, blissfully aware that I miss him and I am utterly incapable of starting a new relationship because every guy I go out with either doesn't remind me enough of him or reminds me too much of him.

It feels good to get some of my feelings out on virtual paper even though emoting online doesn't make anything go away. Realistically, all I can do is hold fast and try to make good life decisions. But inwardly I worry that the natural flow of "wise" life decisions is going to keep taking me further from the things I really want.

The Lease Dies Tonight

I have this roommate. 

He seemed like he was going to be white and gay and friendly and smart and considerate and funny. It turns out he is only white and gay. Apparently white and gay are not synonymous with any of the aforementioned traits; only bitchy, selfish, and... what's the word for "has really nice hair"?

I pose an example.

Every day, after he comes home from work, he frantically changes out of his suit and into some sort of hipster clothing article he bought from a thrift store for $1 or a vintage store for $100 and spends a good 15 to 30 minutes complaining about everyone he spoke to that day. Normally, I would be fine with this, but he does exactly what the people he complains about do.

I pose an example.

He takes very serious issue with a coworker who makes judgmental comments about what he eats for lunch. "I don't understand why anybody would try to impose their arbitrary food preferences on somebody else like it even matters."

Nevermind the obnoxious use of the word "arbitrary" in that sentence [like it even matters]. But the other night, he comes home, looks at me drunk-eating a sandwich, and goes, "I don't understand anybody who would buy pre-sliced and pre-packaged turkey." What does he do? Hunt, roast and slice a wild tom every time he's in the mood for a turkey club.

He also likes to preface most of his comments with the phrase, "I don't understand." As if the idiocy that is about to follow can be forgiven because it's all part of his endless quest for knowledge.

Anyway, he's a complainer. And after going on and on about how he has the worst life out of anybody on the entire planet, he takes a stab at politeness and asks, "I'm sorry, how was your day?" But at that point he isn't really interested in listening and is already thinking about J. Crew's November catalog.

One afternoon, I came home to find him dragging a sponge across the kitchen counter. It was like the only place he ever saw somebody clean was during "The Help." "I cleaned the apartment all day" he said in his best housekeeper/martyr impression. He then complained about our other roommate for never cleaning (I'm sure he complains about me when I'm not around). But the real irony is that the place looked exactly the same. White people's idea of cleaning is putting a spoon into the dishwasher and then going back to reading Gawker, eating grainy mustard, and bitching about why everyone else won't clean everything else.

And he also does this thing where he says something really obnoxious and catty like "I don't understand why anybody would watch Desperate Housewives", pauses, and then goes, "are you mad at me?" like asking how his bitchy comments make you feel makes him somehow thoughtful. FYI, just because you're paranoid about being inconsiderate does not make you considerate.

Then there are the little things: like the fact that we are fighting a war of attrition on who should by the next ream of toilet paper, and the fact that he refuses to split the cost of buying a couch from Ikea because it's "ridiculously expensive" but will buy a $200 peacoat from Zara right after work but before going to the store and spending $50 on arugula and Icelandic yogurt.

But more than all of this, it seems like he's just not a great person. He finds himself very intelligent and inquisitive and cool but everything about his life is so contrived and refuses to be disagreed with. To top it all off, he's always saying something shitty about somebody, most of the time, right after they've left the room. Sure, he tells me he's my friend to my face, but who knows what that even means coming from a white and gay person.

Perhaps it's fitting then that last night, he came home from the grocery store fuming, "Can you believe somebody at Giant told me I had no manners?"

I did, but I didn't say anything, because I'm the good roommate.

At Least I'm Still Skinny

I feel ugly today. It's probably because earlier, my dad was like, "You're not that ugly for an Asian, go find a girlfriend already." Also, my mom does this cute thing where every night before she goes to sleep she takes a long look at me and says, "How much weight have you gained today?"

My ugliness has ruined my self esteem, which is why I'm so into self deprecation, which makes guys even less attracted to me, which makes me feel even uglier. The cycle is endless. But actually, there are some times when I feel pretty attractive. Like yesterday I was in the shower at the gym and this guy walked back and forth at least five times staring at me the entire time. At first I was like ew no he is so gross. But then I was like, maybe he wants my number? Then I was like, ew no he is old. But then I was like, maybe he will buy me mozzarella sticks?

Then there are the rare instances where cute white boys are into me. Like my ex bf, but then again that didn't really work out. And who knows if that was true physical attraction or just post adolescent desperation gone horribly, horribly wrong. Now there's the new straight guy. But he hasn't exactly disabled his OKCupid account. And also he lives in NYC. 

I've been going on Manhunt a lot because I have this huge financial accounting exam coming up that I really need to study for. Mostly, I get messaged by a lot of 40 year old men who look like they're 20 years pregnant and guys pretending that they want to play tennis and trying to convince me that that somehow requires I show them my penis first. There were a few promising leads but those turned out to be a 5'2" guy who insisted on watching the new "Planet of the Apes" and an Indian guy who forgets who I am every 24 hours.

My misanthropic views of online dating are this: people decide within 5 seconds whether they want you or not, and it doesn't have anything to do with your cute humor or beautiful personality, it's how you look. I find it really annoying how guys pretend to want to find friends and deeper connections so they can stand on some sort of sexual high ground. But it's not like I've been invited to any Jane Austen book clubs or Liz Lemon worship parties. So either they're lying, or they only want to find friends that they can envision future sex with. And it doesn't matter if you're on any site other than Manhunt that touts the idea of "matches" and "connections." Gay guys don't care if you're a 99% friend match just like straight guys would never actively search out a platonic relationship with Ugly Betty. Men want sex. End of story.

Basically, these sites are built for narcissistic white guys to find guys that make them feel like they're having sex with themselves. (I'm obviously angry, but that sounds pretty hot, no?) "YEAH, I LOVE LICKING ASSHOLES, oh wait? you're Asian? ew no." I guess I can get some satisfaction out of the fact that when these guys get to be 30 they start looking like Peter O'Toole and they're forced to hit on young ethnic minorities because in their delusion they think that's an even match. Future young Asians, exact my revenge.

The more I read this, the more it sounds like a crazed rant. To be honest, I'm a hypocrite for judging. I pretty much dissed and dismissed the short fem guy and the Indian with no crystallized intelligence. But it feels good to let some of the bitterness out once in a while. I'm beginning to realize that the only relationship I'm ever going to have is with this blog. And even then, we only do it once a month.

Runaway Lessee

The first open house I ever went to was for an apartment near Mt. Vernon Square about two blocks away from the convention center. The apartment itself was the third floor of a converted townhouse, no doubt the work of a gay couple from Chevy Chase or Fairfax dabbling in real estate on the side. Everything was pretty and new, down to the roommate, a congressional staffer from the Midwest. He was the embodiment of corn-fed gorgeousness. I listened to his smalltalk halfheartedly, spellbound by his looks and the prospect of seeing him walk around communal areas naked. The room was less impressive. It was windowless and maybe 6x9 with enough room to fit a twin bed and almost nothing else. It kind of reminded me of that scene from Kill Bill where Uma Thurman wakes up inside a coffin. I also thought it was grimy that I would be paying the same price as him while he slept in the spacious master. Drew, the roommate, asked me if I would contact him to follow up. I said I would. I did not.

A few weeks later, I went to another open house in the Chinatown neighborhood. The apartment and room were slightly larger and it was part of a complex with amenities including a gym and a pool. But as soon as I walked into the unit, I knew I wasn't going to live there. It was one of the dirtiest places I've ever seen. There was uneaten and spilled food on the coffee table. Piles of dishes in the sink. Dust and grime on all the furniture. The carpet was discolored and the entire place smelled weird. It was cheap and conveniently located, so he may have been able to sell me on it, but the roommate was blasé during our entire meeting. His face only lit up when our time was over and two blonde girls arrived for the same tour. I seriously doubt any girl would be interested in living with such a dirty person though. He was pathetic, I don't even remember his name. He is a college kid that never grew up, and most likely never will. Mostly, I'm just annoyed that he had the audacity to not clean up before an open house and then act completely nonchalant about it. I didn't call him either. I still see him post ads on Craigslist to this day.

Perhaps the most impressive open house I went to was in a complex in Columbia Heights. The building was beautiful, the apartment was beautiful, the bedroom was beautiful. The roommate was beautiful but something about him seemed off. It may have been his ad, with glittering statements like, "To be in contention you must have enjoyed chugging a 4loco before Chuck Schumer banned them, raging house parties and loud bars. If you're a homebody, this home ain't for you. The unit is somewhat small, so if you are not outgoing and you act like a hermit you will get annoyed and wind up passive aggressive." During the tour, he couldn't stop disparaging poor people, people who eat mac & cheese, and the "Petworth hood." He reminded me a lot of Patrick Bateman, especially when he pointed at his TV and said, "This is my new $1,000 TV." In later emails, he would demand that I reimburse him for all the things he bought.

I told myself to grin and bear it. This is not America's Next Top Best Friend, I just need a place to not be homeless in. Needless to say, we had a confrontation about rent even before signing the lease. He went on this rant about how, "some people wouldn't think it's fair for me to squeeze my life into the den and pay less rent." I was not about to have some brat from Long Island tell me about the unfairness of life, so I called it off.

Sometimes I wonder if I treat this housing search too much like I treat my search for love: impossibly high expectations with too much emotional investment in things that I know won't work out. I'm also a size queen in both regards.

Mama's Boy

One of the most poignant memories from my childhood is from when I was four years old and my father got a rather unexpected call from his ex girlfriend. She was visiting the United States and wanted a ride from the airport. About twenty some odd years earlier, she had broken up with my father, leaving him heartbroken, and one must assume, still the slightest bit in love. My mother flew into a rage. Storming to the basement to retrieve two large, black suitcases. She tossed them onto her bed and began packing clothes. I wandered into the room, asking her where she was going. "Nowhere. I'm trying to scare your father."

Sure enough, he never went to the airport and my parents are still together (for better or for worse).

I have a theory that my eyes and lips were inherited from my mother through nature while my need for love and flair for the dramatic, through nurture. Traumatic events defined my childhood and I became like her in many ways. I fall in love easily and get hurt easily. I recall both of us gasping with giddiness during the dance scene between Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis and then sobbing uncontrollably when they part ways at the end of the movie. The slightest bit of emotional letdown sends me spinning and I too, take guilty pleasure in "scaring" people back into loving me.

The recent barrage of dates was rather pointless, something my mother would do. An effort to feel something, anything, other than lonely, it was as ill-conceived as TLC's search for a Left-Eye replacement. I found myself comparing each and every guy to him, wondering if I was trading up or trading down. It was unhealthy. And I also discovered that all the guys in DC are really self absorbed; but unlike the self absorbed gays in NYC, they're ugly. And a little bit mentally insane.

I was about to give up on men and relegate myself to dying alone, sexually inactive, and surrounded by cats (which I am allergic to so you can add "with sinus problems" to that depressing list), when I got one last message from OKCupid. I figured I could listen to one more guy tell me I'm cute only to confess, after getting to know me, "Sorry, I have HPV. Bye."

Unfortunately, this guy turned out to be genuine and sweet. The bastard texts me in the morning, apologizing for falling asleep while we were Skyping at 2am. This asshole talks about taking care of me when I'm drunk and listens patiently while I freak out about my "lost" wallet that I drunkenly stuffed into the glove compartment of my car. He has the nerve to worry about me getting home safely after a night out. And like the douchebag that he is, he tells me that thinking about me gets him hard at work.

I could forgive all that shit if it weren't for one thing: he is straight.

Well, he is as straight as a man looking for other men on the internet can be. But he's never done anything with a guy and has only recently developed feelings for men. I mean, he plays lacrosse and drives a Nissan Sentra... what more can I say? Do I know what I'm getting myself into? Probably not. Do I think anything will come of this? Probably not. Do I think he will marry me? I'm not sure. No, like, I actually asked him, and he said, "I'm not sure." 

I sensed he was uncomfortable with my awkward and personal line of questioning, and I was worried that he too, would end up telling me had HPV. So I told him that I was sorry for asking and that we should stop talking because I was having feelings for him that he couldn't reciprocate. He just laughed and said, "I dunno, I'm pretty into you."

A play right out of my mother's book. Worked like a charm.