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.

Thanksgiving

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.