My First Period

It was not a dark and stormy night or some shit like that,
Nor was it the middle of summer while we were so quietly
yet so loudly in our own ears
dreaming our daily dreams.

Nah, my first period
was every morning at 8AM, and I was never late, usually
sometimes
maybe.

My first period was dirty.
The kids were loud and abusive to the high school teacher they only
vaguely respected,
and listened to even more vaguely,
whatever that means.

It wasn’t an English class.

My second period happened during my first period, when I got call from you.

Driving over, I knew that I had to do right by you, girl,
cus, something or the other told me so.
Well I skipped my first period cus I had to deal with my second period, your period.

I bounced to no music in the car,
swaying my head so much
that my neck was confused,
and beseeched me in its sweet neck way,
“Don’t break me, Andrew.”

So I didn’t.
I never do.
Necks are important.

We need them to nod our heads when you ask us if we love you.
We need them to shake our heads with vigor
when you ask us if that other girl,
who was smokin’ hot,
was hot.
We need them to hold up our craniums
jam-packed with jams
from the early days when compact discs ruled the music industry.
You remember. The things between cassettes and digital music.
CDs happened during the transition from hard music copies to soft music copies.
And you, my dear, during my first period, called me over to deal with your period.
It was our first period together, and well, I certainly showed it.

I didn’t bring the ice cream you asked me to because,
well,
I didn’t remember you asking me.
You scream something loudly which I kinda hear.
I should have already known you wanted strawberry ice cream?
Is that what you said?

I wish I could say sorry for not listening
but you’d ask why,
and the only answer I have is
that I was saving this conversation mentally
so I could share it with other people later.

My first period, my second period, our first period
lasted a week.
A period of a week.
That’s a lot of crazy to deal with in a week,
and I’m sorry you had to go through that.
Next time, I’ll know better.

Vanilla, right?

"You make me so happy, and that is why you make me cry."

Each breakup is a bullet. Sometimes it's a surprise, and sometimes you see it coming, but no matter what, the pain is numbing and oftentimes, unbearable. And for some people who've taken bullets before, if they go too long with experiencing that pain, they are not as wary to risk it again. They can convince themselves that they are impervious to the pain.

"I've done it before, so it'll be okay this time. I know what to do."

But it's not, and you don't. Bullets still hurt, the metal maggots eating you from within, and each new bullet hurts with the same extreme intensity, albeit in a different way than other bullets. Breakups are similar in that regard. They are all different, because there are different relationships, but they can hurt with an immeasurable intensity that can only be described by comparing it with similar intensities, such as other breakups. There is sadness and pain that eats from within.





So don't take things lightly, good friends, because when you care, you can hurt.

Pretty Good

“You speak pretty good for an Asian,”
is what I heard surrounded by las montañas in Montana,
the air more frigid than the glare of a jilted lover,
the snowy peaks sharp and steep like hoods.

“You speak pretty good,”
is what he actually said.
I added the extra prepositional phrase (that he implied),
but I still didn’t know where the restrooms were.

I wanted to say to him
with the vitriol of a burning cross,
that blacks and latinos,
and jews and assorted asians, for that matter,
are not the only minorities.

There are homosexuals, and the sterile,
the biology majors,
the policewomen,
the entomologists,
the yoga teachers and zookeepers
and chimney sweepers.
How many of those do you know?
We are all minorities in some form.

And that is why we congregate;
We want to be left alone,
but we don’t want to be alone
against-
the majority who doubt our abilities,
our ability to work,
to drive and to jump,
to speak.


But I will not be silenced by a stereotype.
I will speak, and I will speak well,
and I will speak loudly and use big words,
like gregarious and gesticulate
because they sound pretty good to me,
and are relevant when I speak.

So when you say to me,
“You speak pretty good [for and Asian],”
It is neither socially,
nor politically
nor grammatically
correct,
but I’ll let it slide -
since it’s technically correct,
ain’t it?

Dr. Dre - I Need A Doctor (Explicit) ft. Eminem, Skylar Grey

Hm, Dre's new song has some serious undertones of gayness to it.

"All I see is Slim
Fuck all you fairweather friends
All I need is him."

It's obviously not a big deal, but I mean, "All I need is him" sounds pretty intimate, even for BFFs.

And if you're unsure if Dre's gay or not, I also have his new lyrics, fresh off the track:

"My name is Dr. Dre,
I'm a G, as in gay.
Lookin' out for me to get equal rights one day."

Good shit, Dre. Good shit.

Vegas in Parts 1

I haven’t actually been able to describe my daily goings on in a long time. It takes a certain determination, a certain drive to blog about yourself on a regular basis. In high school, or younger, that drive stems from the emotions of growing up, angst channeled into words, digitalized for the world to see (but in reality it’s just your 4-5 friends).
But I just went to Las Vegas.
So here it goes.


I took the bus from San Jose to Westminster Thursday morning. I got picked up by Brian when I got there, and we hung out for an hour or two before I had to get dropped off at Naman’s, where’d I’d be spending the night. I noticed a few things about Orange County as the bus pulled into its Bolsa Avenue stop (Xe Do Hoang is kinda awesome).

Primarily, the traffic is monstrously more coagulated than in San Jose. I make this observation every time I come down to sunny southern California (the land of fame and excess. Am I gonna fit in?), but it still boggles my mind how many people, and as an extension, cars are here. I have said often that the only thing stopping me from settling down in SoCal is the crowdedness of the place. It’s crowded from coast to Inland Empire, from Pomona to San Diego, and that’s just not my scene.

The second thing I noticed was that in fewer than 24 hours, I would be in Vegas, but for now, I’d have to settle for Orange, California.

Eventually, Naman and I went shopping. Apparently we needed slacks, and I needed to buy dress shoes. Dressy shoes are key to get into classy clubs. Lesson learned. We also went to Costco in order to pick up a few things, namely alcohol and…alcohol.

“We have tow handles of Captain Morgan so far, Jen,” Naman said to our group’s de facto planner. “I know you like Crown, so should we get it? Also, we want beer. It’s a 36 pack and it’s Costco so…yeah, cheap beer?”

“I don’t think you’re gonna want beer,” she told us. “You’re going to want to drink fast and get to the clubs.”

Naman and I looked at each other. No beer? As far as college students are concerned, that’s blasphemy, but we acquiesced. We also got that handle of Crown Royal because more alcohol is always (not really, don’t think like that) a good thing. So off we went back to Naman’s house, to watch the Denver Nuggets game before heading to sleep. To be honest, I couldn’t have asked for a better pre-Vegas lull. Good basketball and a full night’s rest before we jumped into the neon-lit abyss in the desert.