i lose at life

So, yesterday I was recovering from a devastatingly fun Saturday night. Seriously, any time I even think the words 'low-key night' I end up staying out till 6 AM and revert to a state of childlike helplessness the following day.


Anyway, anytime I have a headache or need a good relaxing wind down, I listen to a Celine Dion song, usually 'Think Twice' or 'Immortality.' (That, my friends, was the gayest sentence in the history of the Internet). But, so what? Who cares?! It's unfortunately true.

I was so defeated yesterday, I decided to watch the DVD documentary Celine: Through The Eyes Of The World. (Possibly even an gayer sentence...) I wrapped myself up in a blanket and prepared to be entertained by the most amazing singer of ever.

Turns out, this thing is not effing around. Along with footage of the tour performances that range from South Africa, to Tokyo, to Phoneix, there is a lot of footage of Celine interacting with her fans and her family. I had no idea how much she did for her fans.

Whether she was doing a meet and greet, waiting outside her hotel to sign autographs, and singing to dying children, she was amazing.

I literally cried like 8 times. I can say that at least 4 of 5 of those were due to the hangover, but no matter my state of mind or nausea there would have been some giant, pathetic tears. I mean she visits a concentration camp. I lost my shiz and had to pause it because the screen was blurry with tears.

Also, I think my Asian DNA is a huge contributor to my tears. When they showed her tour through Asia, these fans were legit. They would cry so hard, their little eyes looked like they might not ever open again!

I ate an entire frozen pizza, hated myself, and then watched Star Wars: Episode IV. And that's Sunday.

peer pressure + voluntary torture

Against my better judgement and every natural instinct my body has ever had, I let a friend of mine talk me into trying a spin class. You see, I'm going to be on a beach with thousands upon thousands of gay men in less than a week. In addition to their bad spray tans, skimpy swimsuits, and vodka-filled blood streams, these queer-bombs have human kind's most powerful weapon: judgement.

So, vanity and peer pressure lured me to my near demise...

I was actually excited about the idea of it. I mean, bikes are awesome! Right?! I figured it would be like this:

Turns out, it is A LOT more like this:

Like meth or prostitution, my curiosity was nurtured and I was lured into a false sense of security by the mystique of comfort. First, a kindly older gentleman was the instructor. He helped me adjust my bike seat for optimum torture settings and began playing Adele's empowering power ballad 'Rolling In the Deep.' For a second, I thought I was on cloud nine, or at the very least, a decent gay bar with stationary bikes strewn about.

Ten minutes in, Kelly Clarkson's 'My Life Would Suck Without You' came on, and I almost climaxed. It was the best fake race and climb of ever. The music empowered me while I adjusted the tension knob that might as well of had a skull and crossbones on it. I was all, 'Look at me having it all, world!'

Then, the imaginary hill we were biking up suddenly turned into a terrifying, jagged cliff. A Rihanna song came on, and my left leg started cramping to crap. Holy, sweet baby Jayden Spears! It hurt so bad that I seriously debated 127 Hours-ing myself right then and there.

I got off my death machine and stretched it out. Just as I was debating leaving, the mic wielding, a**-hole bike tour guide instructor called me out. Then all of the sets of the eyes in the room focused on me and their judgement forced me back on my bike... This is the peer pressure D.A.R.E. never warns you about!

I somewhat survived the rest of the hour, and the sadist was nice enough to cool us down with another Kelly Clarkson hit.

The moral of the story is thrice:

1) If you have any reservation to go to a spin class (or any other terrifying physical activity), don't do it! Stay at home and watch The Voice.

2) If and when my metabolism slows down, rest assured, I will be fat and pursue a career as one of those catty drag queens. Stage name: TBD. I'm thinking a play on everyone's favorite Cheers train wreck, Thirsty Alley, perhaps.

3) If the Zombie Apocalypse really does happen this weekend and my only means of escape is a bike, I will eat all your brains.

PS - I'm fairly certain Auschwitz had spin classes. You don't hear about that s**t in history class!

This idea started as a series of facebook statuses that I feel must be readdressed and/or expanded upon.

Problems range from social faux pas, fashion disorders, and apparent aversions to hygiene.


Needless to say a lot my coworkers are slowly eroding my faith in humanity as a thing that should still be around. 


So, instead of doing more posts or a series, I decided to expand my destruction of the Internet by creating a tumblr account... page? site? 


Stay tuned... follow? like?


I'm 99% certain I have NO idea how tumblr works.


Whatever, here's the link: http://dear-coworker.tumblr.com/

UPDATE: I am probably down to 80% certainty, I figured out how to let anyone post a Dear Coworker! Let the venting begin, y'all!

Childhood Trauma: Part VIII - Walmart + Xanax

*This post is long and contains lots of words for you non-reading show me picture types (me). But this story cautionary tale is totally worth it. Like waiting in a long drive-thru line of cars at Whataburger for their delicious breakfast taquitos at 2:30 AM.

Walmarts terrify me. No, not just because of the poor people on the prowl for Rollback Savings. No, not the fact that I think this corporation is destroying America with their intentionally confusing store design. But for very, very personal reasons...

I grew up in a small town. The main activities available to high schoolers were the $2 movies and driving back and forth between the two Sonics while chain-smoking Kamel Red Lights. As you can imagine, you had to be really stupid or creative to entertain yourself further.

In my case, you can be a dangerously toxic combination of both.

One night my sophomore year of high school, my best friend and I got bored and decided it would be fun to try and steal from our small town's local mecca, THE Walmart. Yes, in small towns, it is called "THE Walmart."

I guess it was for the rush, out of sheer boredom, or possibly a dare from an upperclassman. I honestly don't remember, my body was full of nicotine and Route 44 cherry limeades.

We weren't in it for the loot or the glory, so we went to the cosmetics aisle... That's right, I got busted for walking out of THE Walmart with a $4 tube of COVERGIRL mascara. Proud moments.

We were 'interoggated' by the 'Loss Prevention Manager' and he was not pleased so instead of letting us go, he called the cops. Have you ever walked very slowly from the very back of a Walmart Super Center, past electronics, past the registers, all the way through the front door... in handcuffs?!

It is not fun.

In fact, it was probably the most embarrassing moments* of my life.

*I have yet to actually void my bowels in public, but I'll let you know as soon as this perp walk gets dethroned as the #1 most embarrassing moment in my life. (FYI - 2nd place is currently held by the time I let out the loudest fart heard this side of the Mason Dixon Line in 5th grade... while we were taking the Reading portion of the TAAS test.)

Anyway, back to my arrest. Handcuffs? Really?! I was a 135 lbs gay, Asian who stole mascara. What was I gonna do? Did the cop think I was gonna give someone a makeover on the way out of the store?!

I was taken away, prints were run, mugshots were taken, and parents were called...

Should you ever unsuccessfully shoplift at a Walmart, you should know, they hold grudges. I was banned from that location for 4 years. Going back on property would have been a felony or something.

Being the borderline mentally disabled 16-year-old I was, I thought this was a bluff and returned about a month later.

You see, due to my high level of activity in local school/small town events, I was pretty much a local celebrity and highly recognizable I was the only Asian in town. There in the electronics section, I came face to mustache with the Loss Prevention Manager who was not happy to see me.

As I was actively praying for God to strike me dead, LPM pulled me aside and said, 'I know you are a good kid (see local celebrity/lone Asian status), so I'm only gonna say this once, I never want to see you again. Turn around and don't come back into my store until you're in college.'

I did and I still haven't gone back to that THE Walmart since.

Even though I am WELL out of my banning period (and I have no permanent record), every time I walk into any Walmart (which is, thankfully, a rare occasion), my heart beats a little faster and my butt cheeks tighten up like a tight rope walker on a windy day or ANY Columbian entering the US. If and when I go, I refuse to talk to or look the employees in the eyes no matter how much I need to find wiper blades, a tennis racket, or jumbo tampons. I just wander in absolute terror fighting of anxiety attacks. I would take a Xanax, but I can't even look the friendly pharmacist in the eye to get the Rx filled.

Now, I go to Target and Kroger where I have yet to have been arrested for the any number of legal infractions I have committed in said establishments, their parking lots, and/or dumpsters.

Want more? Want to catch up on Parts I-VII? Just click these awesome links, y'all: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, & 7!

picking your battles

Constantly living in a world full of things and people that I am certain would be better if done my way has led me to live with a lot of disappointment. Click here. As I get older I have resolved to either accept the unwavering deficiencies of the people around me or try even harder at changing them.

Growing up the youngest of five has taught me life is all about picking your battles, like abiding by standard "shotgun" rules in the family minivan or who wields the remote control on Friday night. Under ideal circumstances, this battle's end usually involves me standing atop a pile of defeated corpses holding a remote control watching TGIF.

Drawing this at work probably disturbed some/all of my coworkers.

Years later, I apply this picking of battles to avoid a coronary at 34. There are plenty of things that I have given up on. I have learned that it's just easier to suck it up and do that which feels completely unnatural or just stop caring...

For instance, no matter how many dirty looks I give them, my coworkers will not stop wearing hideous, work inappropriate attire to the office. If you're going to break the dress code, at least do it right. Wearing flip flips, hoodies, and/or the same thing multiple times in one week: Wrong! Looking like you stole the top you are wearing from a stripper during a meth deal gone South: Right!


Speaking of crazy people, trying to have an intelligent conversation/debate with one is probably the most frustrating thing ever. I have learned that trying to steer them towards the road of reason veers you further off course and forces you to merge onto the Bat-$h!+ Crazy Interstate. Blatantly pointing out their crazy will only get you to Business Bat-$h!+ Crazy Interstate.

My best advice is to nod, smile, and if they initiate a tension breaking joke, laugh at it. Laugh at it like you're a stoned frat guy and they're Dane Cook and you've both traveled back to 2004.


Finally, my most practical realization and most important battle is of a personal nature.

No matter how tired, hungover, or sick you feel, wetting and/or crapping your pants (even though you are home alone and no one would ever know) is eventually going to be infinitely more work than pausing Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, getting up off the couch, and walking to the bathroom.

Granted, I have never had this happen, I have, before, spent nearly a half hour contemplating it... Which turned out to be worse. During said 30 minute internal debate, my need to pee/poop did not go away and it lead to me scrambling down the hall in absolute terror.

parks + recreation

I woke up Saturday morning absolutely furious at my roommate. Did he drink the last of my milk? No. We drink different kinds. Did he stay up late while I was trying to get my beauty sleep? No. That's usually my cohabitation faux pas. He did however insensitively forget to bring me drunk food!

Well... sort of.

So, my friends and I were all out drinking at a public park next to our house and shooting shotguns. It was a blissful and beautiful Spring day. I mean what goes better with beer than deadly weapons? Possibly potato chips, but I'm pretty sure guns still win.


Anyway, throughout the course of the day, my roommate not once, but TWICE, left the group and brought back hamburgers to soak up the alcohol in our system. As he arrived with drive-thru treasures in hand, the group was elated. He would then divvy out the magical contents and everyone but me had a been brought a meal.

So, I was still hungry, and getting more angry with every bite my friends took.

I didn't realize just how mad I was until I started making coffee that morning. As every second passed, I thought about his insensitive actions and I was sure I wouldn't have the hangover I was currently experiencing had he been nice enough to ask me if I wanted a Whopper. I had half a mind to storm into his room and give him a piece of my mind. But I decided to drink my coffee and think of the best way to handle it.

As I then drank said coffee, a few things occurred to me...

1) It is completely illegal to drink and shoot guns in a public park.
2) My roommate's drunk food of choice is and always has been Taco Bell.
3) It might have all been a dream... and,
4) Taking Tylenol PM on a stomach full of Miller Lite on Friday night makes for an interesting and emotionally draining Saturday morning.