absolutangel64

Ah…good times!

So if taking a pill everyday is really the physically and mentally laborious task those birth control manufacturers say it is, then I should turn in my MENSA application right now because I’m a freaking genius.

I just returned from a bathroom break. My professor is currently lecturing about something important, and I should be paying attention—but I can’t. I am way too busy trying to figure out why there was an opened water bottle sitting next to the toilet…like right next to it…by the toilet seat part…where someone’s butt goes…

All I can say is…

I like big butts and I cannot lie! I mean, UGHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Go ahead and call me a germaphobe or say I have OCD—I don’t care (although, I’d prefer something more original). Bathrooms are No Food Territories, and the thought of bringing anything edible into one is extremely disgusting to me. I know what ends up in toilets, sinks, and bathtubs, and it’s definitely not something I would want near stuff I’m going to consume. Therefore, to prevent possible tainting, I keep all my food and beverages away from the bathroom—far away, because once any part of it enters, it is immediately swarmed by nasty particles and becomes completely inedible.

Of course, I know you can’t always avoid bringing foodstuffs into bathrooms. When I’m at school, for instance, I can’t leave my bag of peanut butter M&M’s in the cafeteria while I do my business because someone is going to jack them. And I know this because I had jacked them from someone else earlier. Thus, if I want to keep my candy safe, I have to bring it with me. Luckily, the school bathrooms are pretty big, so there is a lot of open space between the toilets and sinks–which means there are some areas that have a lower risk of tainting than others. I like to think of them as Food Friendly Zones, and each zone’s level of friendliness is denoted by a color:

    Red: Areas that are within a foot of a toilet, bathtub, or sink are Red Zones. Anything within this zone is automatically contaminated by doodoo and pee. It doesn’t matter if the item was covered in plastic wrap, zipped in a bag, and placed in a locked vault made of titanium with Mr. T and Robo-Cop standing guard 24/7. I pity the fool who eats that sh*t sandwich.

    Orange: The Orange Zone encompasses the bathroom stall walls. Hanging things on those hooks (or precariously balancing them, if you’re like me) and placing items atop the toilet paper dispenser is okay as long as they are processed—i.e., full of chemicals and preservatives, and no refrigeration required—and contained in some form of packaging. No fresh food, regardless of whether it is packaged up or not, because that stuff isn’t protected by any butylated hydroxyanisole. However, Orange Zones become Red Zones if the stall smells as if someone’s ass has been rotting in it.

    Blue: Bathroom counters are zoned Blue, so perishable food is welcome to hang around there for a bit as long as they are in closed containers. By “a bit” I mean long enough for you to do your thing and leave. Staying beyond that means you like spending free time in bathrooms…weirdo.

So what was this opened water bottle doing in the Red Zone? The Red Zone turns all food into edible toilet paper. What horrible situation was this person suffering to resort to such drastic measures? Why, [insert omnipotent being], why?!

I think I just asked a question that has an infinite number of answers…and that means:

GAME TIME!

Today’s game is called “So What Was this Opened Water Bottle Doing in the Red Zone?”!

   By the way, it was one of those cute, mini water bottles that I guess are for small kids or people who are just a little thirsty. [Random Thought: have you seen those made-for-kids, tiny cans of Diet Coke? Those are kind of heinous, and makes me wonder what kind of parents are putting Diet Coke in their kids’ lunch boxes. It’s even more disturbing than giving them orange flavored goo-liquid that kind of burns when swallowed—i.e., Sunny D.]

I can only come up with two logical explanations:

    1. The owner of the water bottle was in the middle of taking a dump when a bunch of people came in to use the bathroom. Not wanting to risk announcing that she had eaten a rotten egg by laying one, she decided to wait for the bathroom to clear out before resuming her bowel cleansing. However, as we all know, stopping mid-poop can be physically and mentally draining, and this person was probably suffering such effects. To alleviate the strain, she took a gulp of water, and left it near the seat.

    2. The company that makes Massengill decided to copy Crystal Light by coming out with small packets that can be mixed in water–freshness on the go!
 

If that’s not enough to prove you’re fugly, then I’m a pilot…who flies a 747…made of dried horse sh*t. I’m a Fudge Flyer.

And as for the boyfriend–he must have been dumber than dirt. I mean, what was he expecting from a woman he met on “Second Life” anyway? That she would look like this…?

Hello! When you go to the “Spaghetti Factory,” you know you’re going to get spaghetti; likewise, when you go to the “Fug Factory,” you know you’re going to get a fug! It would be totally ridiculous to expect otherwise because hot chicks don’t need to troll “Second Life” to get some lovin’…and they also don’t dress like slutty drag queens.

What this dumbass should have expected was to end up meeting a female version of himself–i.e., a pathetic and desperate loser with a vagina. And that’s what he got, right? Too bad she also came with a bag full of crazy.

But let’s be fair: I have never played “Second Life” because I’m too busy trying to succeed in this life, so I admit I have no idea what the rationale is behind devoting any time towards making sure your little avatar maintains a stable job when you are still unemployed and living in your parents’ basement. What does it matter if you eventually save enough “Second Life” money (I bet it’s called “Douche Dollars” or “Crabby Pube Coins”) to buy a private island? Nothing! No one cares! Just like no one cares if you’ve got a reputation there for being the pimp of pimps, or if you’re so rich you’re practically crapping gold nuggets. We want to whore ourselves to the real deal, especially the person who poops gold…now that’s someone I’d let R. Kelly me any day.
 

I used to think that having black hair and slanted eyes was enough to make me Asian, but then I actually went to Asia and discovered I was kind of wrong. Sure, having certain physical features was enough to get me through the door, but from a cultural standpoint my Asianness was pretty watered down compared to the residents of the Motherland.
 
 …Yes, I said “residents” instead of “Asians” because I know that citizenship is no longer limited by continental boundaries (say “yes!” to globalization!)–i.e., you don’t have to live in a certain place because of your race (say “yes!” to rhyming!). Only people who live in caves think otherwise…they also eat twigs and make friends with wall paintings.

Anyway, this epiphany got me thinking: if my Asianness is watered down, then there has to be someone whose Asianness is more concentrated (hmm…suddenly I feel like having some orange juice)…so what makes someone hardcore Asian? Besides never knowing that “99 Ranch Market” had a cereal aisle even though he or she had been buying groceries there for centuries. There has to be some common factors amongst the more-Asianness community, right?

I decided to snoop around my friends’ and relatives’ stuff do some very scientific research and found 10 things that make someone more Asian (I’m 100% sure there are more than 10 things, but I got really lazy…please feel free to make suggestions!). It doesn’t matter what your race is; you’ve got some Asian in you if you do any of these things:

1. There is a bag of dried shiitake mushrooms somewhere in your kitchen…most likely near a bag of tiny, dried shrimps.

2. You will never be seen buying a bag of rice that doesn’t weigh 20 pounds.

3. You can eat street food without ever getting explosive diarrhea (how I envy you).

4. Tea bags are for the weak! Your drink of choice is dried plant matter swimming in hot water.

5. It’s not “stomach lining;” it’s called “tripe.”

6. You are lactose intolerant.

7. You are a badass when it comes to eating fish and chicken: you chew from one side of your mouth while spitting out bones from the other.

8. You knew who Edison Chen was before he became famous for being an avid beaver photographer.

9. You know what “boba” really means—and it doesn’t have anything to do with brown tapioca balls.

10. Just because it smells like ass doesn’t necessarily mean you won’t eat it.
 

Here’s a message I received today that I guess is a response to my most recent post. I’m not going to reveal the writer’s identity because he has taken the pussy route and enabled Xanga Lock, but I did leave all the spelling errors and bad grammar intact—a huge sacrifice as I am the queen of grammar whores.

Silivia,

I was originally going to respond to this message privately, but changed my mind after I remembered that I’m not the type to pass up on an opportunity to publicly humiliate someone. Yes, crapping on someone’s self-esteem is already pretty entertaining—but whatever joy I experience is exponentially increased when shared with others. And when more people feel joy in their lives, the world becomes a happier place. Thus, when you think about it, by deriving amusement at someone else’s expense I’m really doing something good for human kind.

But you’re not the type to consider such minor details. The only thing you overly sensitive, self-righteous assholes care about is making society bear the burden of someone else’s responsibilities. When a kid does something violent, you don’t blame his parents for failing to teach him basic moral principles; you instead blame the companies associated with television shows, movies, and video games that depict violence. It doesn’t matter that the kid hasn’t seen any of that stuff; you believe the companies should be held accountable because if it hadn’t been for them, rotten children wouldn’t exist—although that doesn’t explain why a majority of kids manage not to rot despite all this violent media threatening to poison their minds. I wonder if it has something to do with most parents realizing that their children are their responsibility, and not society’s…

Naturally then, it’s not the individual’s fault they have body issues—it’s my fault because my blog had the words “diet pill,” “Alli,” and “eating disorder.”

Seriously, instead of fighting battles that aren’t there, why don’t you do something productive like shoving your douche baggery up your butt? And after that, you can learn how to read and write properly…because if anyone should be ashamed–I mean “ahsamed”–it’s you for being a walking turd.

People who have successfully dealt with “One False Move Moments” tend to have better analytical skills, and can quickly find the correct solution out of the trillions of incorrect ones. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people for I tend to choose the worst solutions imaginable. Going back to my outfit example, if I were caught in the nightmarish situation of having to tell a woman that her attire makes her look fat, there is a 99.9999% chance that I would say, “you look like a sausage being choked to death by its own casing” instead of “that color does not do you justice.” I’m sorry, but I can’t ignore the obvious when it is parading in front of my face. I’m cursed, I tell you, cursed!

Anyway, I experienced another awkward situation while having lunch with one of my friends–let’s call her “Friend”…and while we’re at it, let’s call me “Creative Genius at Coming Up With Fake Names.”

ME: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

I uhh’d for about a minute; that’s my go-to plan whenever I find myself on the verge of saying something that is either offensive or could easily be interpreted as such. Although doing this makes me look like a dumbass, it has saved me many times…well, no…that’s not true. It actually prolongs the agony.

FRIEND: What?

ME: Because….

Maybe I’m wrong, but if I ever saw myself buying diet pills I’d immediately think “eating disorder” instead of “she’s buying it for a friend.” 

Since I didn’t feel like being scrutinized that day, I therefore didn’t feel like doing her that favor. But saying it outright would have been rude; it would’ve instead been better to say something like “‘Alli’ makes your butt leak oil” or “exercise is more effective than diet pills,” or maybe even “I heard ‘Alli’ is manufactured in sweatshops and the secret ingredient is feces.” And I would have gone with any of those three choices had I been blessed with a couple more IQ points–but I wasn’t, hence why I said:

ME: You would probably do better getting it on your own. It makes more sense.

Threat neutralized! I am awesome!

FRIEND: What do you mean by that?

ME: You’re on a diet–and “Alli” is for dieters. So…?

I am screwed!

FRIEND: Are you calling me fat?

ME: No…but…uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

I ended up agreeing to help Friend out because, as expected, I offended her with my piss-poor attempt at conquering the “One False Move Moment.” And guess what happened when I went to buy those freaking “Alli” pills…

The “Street Fighter” references I made in my recent posts got me reminiscing about a time when I thought that game was the best thing ever. I started playing it when my parents took my sister and me out to dinner at a restaurant that had a “Street Fighter II” arcade system, and after spending $2.00 getting my ass beat, I was totally hooked. I ended up buying an SNES specifically so I could play that game.

And of course, like every other female gamer, my character of choice was Chun Li. Why? Because she was the only one with a vagina. Back then, there was no Cammy or that dyke version of Ryu who had a severe cocaine problem (hence why she was always playing with her nose). So if you wanted a girl fighter, you had to stick with Chun Li or the other feminine character, Vega.

Chun Li was almost like my Capcom-created twin because she was Asian and female…key word: almost. The problem was that her signature moves were horrible–i.e., only better than Balrog’s. The fireball was disgustingly slow, and too hard for me to pull off. I think I only managed to use it twice, and that was because I wore a sock over my hand to help my thumb glide over the controller buttons. And that Whirlwind Kick was useless against the computer; all it had to do was kick me to dispel it. The only way that move could be successful was if you were playing against a pervert who was easily distracted by nonexistent panty shots.

What was left was the button-mashing-friendly Lightning Kick, but even that was a turd pile. I mean, as useful as it was, Chun Li would keep kicking a few seconds after I stopped button-mashing and thus could not defend or evade. And people took advantage of my momentary immobilization by jumping over me and then kicking my ass from behind.

Pfft! You suck, Chun Li!

And yes, she’s speaking Chingrish!

Forgive me for inadvertently giving you all the silent treatment. I have been in China for the past few days to check out mail-order brides and train for the Olympics. I’m trying to get a gold medal in the “How Long One Can Survive a Public Bathroom in a Chinese Mall” competition. What do you mean that’s not a sport? Using a public bathroom in China (and Taiwan, for that matter) requires the power of steroids, er, strength of mind and body or else you will never be able to survive the suffocating smell of old, rancid urine. It’s an endurance sport, I tell you! Endurance! visit friends and family, and unfortunately Xanga is one of the sites the Internet always has trouble connecting to. Must be because the government knows democracy can be purchased with Credits.
 
Anyway…
 
While I don’t consider myself a violent person, when I feel like I am being taken advantage of, it really makes me wish I could have a Michael-Corleone-bathroom-gun-scene moment and punish that person like a total badass. I would even go so far as to give up a vital organ if it meant I could get the chance to make mashed potatoes out of the nuts of some jerk who thought he could profit off my vulnerabilities.
 
For example, this asshat cab driver I came across in Shanghai. I was having a late dinner with my cousin and a friend, and by the time we were done the subway had stopped running for evening; it was also raining pretty hard. Apparently, when these two factors occur, it gives cab drivers the right to inflate their fees. Thus, although the cab ride from our hotels to the restaurant was only 30 yuan (about $4), it was going to cost us 130 yuan ($18) to get home! 
 
Luckily—and I use that word very, very loosely—we managed to get a cab to take us back for a mere 100 yuan ($ do the math yourself). This was after we had been trying to find a legitimate driver for almost half an hour, while at the same time fending off the many shady weirdoes who offered us rides. So by the time I was finally able to get into a cab, I was not only tired–I was also incredibly pissed-the-f*ck-off…so pissed that during the entire ride home, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to ninja star the cab driver’s face, or Wolverine one of his ears off. Imagine how badass I would be if, right when he dropped us off and demanded his money, I Hadoken’d his dumbass and then beat him with a rubber hose covered in lice. Oh man…sometimes I turn myself on!
 
But…knowing me, it is better that I lack the power to badassly punish people since I’d most likely end up using it in situations were badassing would be excessive and completely unnecessary.

Bad Fast Food Badassing!

Bad Hygenic Gym Behavior Badassing!

The superficial portion of society (i.e., 100% of it) seems to harbor a common ideology about boobs (“Boobieology”): the bigger they are, the better. And as long as a woman’s rack conforms to this standard, it does not matter if her breasts are Blessedly Beautiful or Silicone Sexy. They could probably even be inflated with bags of beef stew and still be appealing–more so if the implants were filled with “Dinty Moore”. Can you imagine how great the world would be if that were an option? I’d totally get myself some double-D’s, and have two extra boobs implanted next to them. Then I’d have four beef stew breasts! That’s not just awesome, that’s awesome⁴.

Anyway, when viewed according to society’s Boobieology, my chest would probably be considered pretty pathetic. I wear a 32 B, which is not much considering the bounty of larger sizes plastic surgery has to offer. But I don’t care simply because as a 5’6″, 110 pound, Asian woman, my body is only built for 32 B’s; anything more would just make me grossly disproportionate. In other words, when viewed as an entire person, my chest–pathetic as it may be–starts to look pretty damn good. So screw you, Boobieology!

…And if you disagree, you can go eat a dick! You’re probably someone who paid money for mutant mammaries anyway (I sense a new “X-Men” character!).

Let’s not take this out of context though: I’ve got nothing against implants. I watched Howard Stern’s show back when it was airing on “E!,” and the women who would try to win free boob jobs had abnormally small breasts–to the point where if you showed someone a picture of a contestant’s chests and a picture of a prepubescent boy’s chest, they wouldn’t be able to tell which one was female. In other words, these chicks had negative boobage.

What I am against is when girls with bodies that are perfectly suited for gently-sloping hills instead opt for massive mountain ranges. How is having a proportionate body with proportionate breasts be a bad thing? If you’ve got the figure for an A, you’re going to look hot with the A. But if you decide to move to a B or C, you stop looking hot and start looking more like a hot mess that was conceived in a toxic waste dump. At that point, you might as well go all the way and have your plastic surgeon transform you into Blanka from “Street Fighter.”  I so cannot be the only person out there who thinks this.

However, to be fair, I’ve never been in any position to augment my chesticles, and maybe my negativity stems from my ignorance. My guy friends always tell me to stick with what I’ve got because fake boobs have a weirdness about them that actually turns them off. They admit they used to find them mesmerizing–having also been followers of Boobieology–but that changed when they actually had the chance to feel a pair. And whatever it was they experienced was enough to make them say “no” to the unnatural.

(Question: do any other guys feel this way?)

But I am the exact opposite of my guy friends: I don’t think very highly of plastic boobs even though I haven’t had the opportunity to test them out. Thus, there is a possibility that my opinions could change if I squeezed a few chemical casaba melons. So…any fine ladies feel like getting felt up? I promise to be gentle.

(But seriously…what do fake breasts feel like?)

Because I don’t have much of a conclusion, allow me to end with the story that started it all…

I try not to go out whenever I am home for the summer because there is a very, very good chance I’ll run into a few of my high school classmates. It’s always awkward and uncomfortable because I haven’t really seen them in 8 years, and having to act cordial towards people who thought they were too popular to acknowledge me really puts a strain on my already sub-par acting skills. Oh, I get it: you were better than me when you were on the varsity football team and I was just some lowly nerd taking AP classes. But now that you’re a professional gas-pumper and I’m working on my JD, we’re equals! Thanks…

Unfortunately, my desire for Cinnabons was too great and I wound up exposing myself to “Threat Level: Classmate” when I went to the mall recently. And, sure enough, I ran into one of the class skanks taking a smoke break right next to the Cinnabon store. We did the “hi, how are you?” routine…I think. I’m not really sure because I was totally distracted by her huge boobs–and by “huge,” I mean “elephant tits.” But that’s what they looked like, people. This girl is about 4’3″, maybe weighs about 100 pounds, and has boobs that are almost as big as her own head. At some point, I bet I started talking to one of her breasts because I got it confused with her face.

And then Giant Jugs said, “Yeah, I got new boobs. I had to, though, because of a deviated septum.”

…Okay…

Even though I’m a girl, there are some things girls do that I honestly do not understand–and it is seriously causing me to worry that I’ve got a penis hidden somewhere in my body. Can someone, anyone, explain these to me so that I don’t have to go through an identity crisis? Those are rather inconvenient, and I’d like to avoid wasting time on them if at all possible.

1. Toilet Seats

I know one of the biggest gripes we have about men has something to do with a toilet seat being left up, but I’m not quite sure what it is I’m supposed to be mad about. Is a toilet in stasis supposed to have the seat down? Is the threat of falling into the bowl greater than I imagined? Maybe I am too preoccupied with the need to rid my body of all that accumulated waste before it ends up in my pants, but I’ve never had a problem with how a toilet seat is positioned. If it’s up, I’ll put it down–or tip the seat down with my shoe if I’m in a public bathroom (wait…why would a toilet seat be up in a women’s bathroom though? Hmm…). Either way, it’s not an issue that requires much energy from anyone.

The only thing I can think of that would slightly irritate me is if the toilet seat was up and exposed a poo-poo rim–or, worse, seeing that the underpart of the seat itself had diarrhea splatter (which is why you should always do a thorough inspection after an anus explosion!). And then, since I’d only be slightly irritated and not in a furious rage, I’d ever-so-calmly seek out the culprit, grab him or her by the face, shove it into the doodoo stains, and demand that they clean that sh*t up…with their teeth.

2. Cuddling After Sex

Another thing I’m aware of girls getting mad over is when a guy doesn’t cuddle after sex because he’s sleeping. When a guy falls asleep after sex, I tend to feel relieved rather than resentful. The man deserves to rest after putting in all that energy and effort into giving me a memorable experience–okay, that’s not really why I don’t care. The truth is: so what if he is too tired to hold me in his arms? Those things are covered in sweat anyway! And so is the rest of his body! I already dislike being covered in my own sweat, so the last thing I want is for someone else’s sweat to be drying on my body. But that’s what would happen if there was after-sex cuddling, isn’t it? Cross contamination!

Besides, how else am I supposed to sneak away without making him feel like I just used him for his body? I mean, yes, my intention was to love-him-and-leave-him, but it would be rude to say that to his face. I do have a conscience, you know.

Insight, please!