So what could have been my one, single moment of Xangalebrity status turned out instead to be a smashed dream one…and also one where I wished I was covered in diarrhea, because at least then I would have had a pretty good excuse to remove myself from an increasingly awkward situation. Forget being mistaken for some other Xangan: I’d just been told by a complete stranger that she was afflicted with the fire piss:

WEIRD GIRL: Oh, you know…*whispers* it’s for pee that burns and kind of hurts.

I have no idea how to deal with strangers who have firecracker urine, but common sense tells me it’s not a sign of good health when someone feels like they’re peeing a stream of acid and cigarettes. Plus, although I’ve never had an STD, I do know that fire piss is a symptom of at least one of them. I’ve seen a lot of those treatment commercials, which means I’m practically an STD doctor.

Anyway, once Weird Girl told me about her prickly piss problem, there was no way I could tell her she had the wrong person without inflicting massive amounts of embarrassment. And how was she going to react to being corrected? She used Mercurius Vivus—which is probably just a fancy name for “KFC’s Secret Recipe”—to cure her vagina. Odds were she was crazy and carried a weapon.

There is no way for me to twist the rest of the story so that I come out looking cool and awesome, so I’ll just say this: I don’t think well under pressure. It takes me a while to analyze problems and rationalize solutions, which is not useful because my first instinct is to neutralize the stressful situation as quickly as possible by throwing out the first idea I come up with. And for some reason, the first idea is usually a really, really terrible one.

Thus, when I found myself unable to get away from Weird Girl, my brain went into MacGyver Mode: must come up with a crazy-ass exit strategy using the useless memories and experiences I had accumulated. If MacGyver could make a helicopter using chewed gum and twigs, then I could definitely think of something to get me away from Weird Girl.

So I’m standing there—trying to think of something—for what I thought was only a few seconds, but must have actually been like two minutes because I then hear:

WEIRD GIRL: Umm…are you okay?

And in a moment of total genius, I responded…

ME: Pookh lod wih le koo. Hach jahj cho-koov-moakh leng-lidge loo-Teb-jahj leng widge-vahd bel rahp shoave dah-nobe-poo-boagh.

That’s right: I busted out a foreign language. I don’t know why because I had just been talking to her in English, but somehow I had forgotten that minor detail when I came up with the brilliant idea of pretending like I didn’t understand what she was saying.

Then, to my horror, someone behind me says:

“Cool! You can speak Klingon!”

…OMG…I was still in that freaking “Warhammer” store. I just spoke Klingon in a store that is probably routinely visited by guys who have adopted that “language” as their native tongue—like the eavesdropper who was standing behind me and totally blew my cover.

For the record: I don’t speak Klingon. I got that line from my favorite episode of “Fraiser.” Frasier’s going to a bar mitzvah and has to give a speech in Hebrew. But he doesn’t know any, so he asks a Trekkie to write it for him. But the Trekkie was mad at him and instead wrote everything in Klingon. Bwahahahaha!

Anyway, Weird Girl makes this face like I’m the weird one, and all I could say was:

ME: Look, I didn’t want to say anything…but I get paid to blog about home remedies. I actually have health insurance with Guggenheimer, which doesn’t exist, and go to the doctor regularly. The only reason why I’m telling you this is because you might have something that requires actual medical attention and not old roots and leaves.

Then I grabbed my cell phone, pretended like I was answering a call, and started speed walking away. Wish I’d done that earlier. I think Weird Girl called me a “crazy b*tch” or something as I left.

The End.

…Hopefully. But if not, I’m definitely going to use all the suggestions you guys gave me. Thank you so much!

We go through life taking many things for granted, but there is one thing so closely tied to our personal lives that to forget its importance is to commit the gravest of sins. It is a necessity we are almost completely dependent upon, comparable to our needs for food and water. It is an integral part of our daily lives–nay, our very existences–and without it, the human race becomes nothing more than soiled victims of its own gluttony. Indeed, my friends, that which I regard in such high esteem is: the gimp suit toilet paper!

Yes. Toilet paper. Paper for the toilet. Every home has at least one roll…which is usually part of a stash of rolls. And maintaining that stash tends to take precedence over other items, especially if you shop on a budget. I, being a serial starving student, have refrained from buying vegetables and fresh meats to save money for toilet paper (and because I don’t know how to cook anything unless it comes out of a box. Hamburger Helper and I are tight!). Regardless, we always have extra rolls because if we run out, the hygiene of certain body parts goes to Hell. And so does everyone’s respect for you…although, I’d actually be impressed at the parade of flies following you around. You’d be Lord of the Flies! (And there goes the last of my dignity.)

Considering what parts of us makes contact with toilet paper most often, quality is of utmost importance! It even trumps the benefits of saving money. Because while saving money can lead to some increases in wealth, low-quality toilet paper can lead to hanging bags of butt-meat, i.e., hemorrhoids! 

Therefore, as president, founder, and sole member of Civilians Really Against Poor Toilet Paper (C.R.A.P.T.P.), I am deeming today the Fight Against Really Terrible TP Day (F.A.R.T.T. Day). And to commemorate the occasion, I’m going to rank some toilet paper brands in hopes that poor souls will make better choices when making their purchases.

Ratings are based on a scale of 1 to 5 of these smiling toilet paper rolls: . I’ve ranked each brand according to the following criteria:

Touch Test: how the toilet paper feels on my butt.

• 1  = I’m wiping my butt with gravel.

• 5  = I’m in butt heaven!

 Butt-Bleediness: how many times I can wipe with it before it makes my butt-skin bleed.

• 1 = take me to the nearest hospital!

• 5 = butts can bleed? No way!

I know there should be more factors, but I think those are the most important ones…i.e., I’m lazy.

Kirkland Bath Tissue: 36 Rolls of 2-ply for $ 20.23

You can always tell two things about a person who shops at Costco:

1. They’ve still got 10 packs of bacon left over from the 12-pack they bought a year ago.
2. They’ve got a mountain of Kirkland Bath Tissue.

You can’t deny this; everyone knows how hard it is to fight the urge to pick up a slab of Kirkland toilet paper every time you see the price. It’s almost as difficult as ignoring those rotisserie chickens. You know, the ones that are always juicy and smelling delicious…mmm…

Ninety-six percent of the toilet paper I’ve used was Kirkland Bath Tissue. And I’m sure I’ll be saying the same thing in 40 years because my parents are Costco members, my sister is a member, I’m a member, I plan to marry a member…etc.

Touch Test

It kind of feels like Kleenex, but a tad softer. Yes, even though I’ve been using it for years, it still feels coarse on my butt. But that is probably a good thing: if I were used to the roughness, that would mean I’ve got a callous where one should not be.

Butt-Bleediness

Expect to have some bleeding if you’re having a peanut butter poop day, but it won’t happen until the 7^th wipe or so. And it doesn’t happen all the time either—unlike a certain other brand that is mentioned later on in this post. By the way, what am I eating that makes my dump that consistency anyway?

Charmin Ultra Soft: Thirty “Giant Size Rolls” for $ 19.99

I’ll be honest: I was skeptical that Charmin’s toilet paper was as amazing as the commercials made it seem. How could I be sure that the cartoon bears were genuinely happy with the softness, and not just paid actor-bears? Plus, at 67 per roll, it was too much of a luxury for my low-class butt.

But then! Costco had a coupon for Charmin Ultra Soft, which made it cheaper than the Kirkland brand! And now I’m a believer. I believe those cartoon bears!

Touch Test

It’s thick like a paper towel, but soft like the blankie you had as a baby. I couldn’t believe such toilet paper existed! I actually sat and studied a few squares to see if there were any magical elves hiding in the layers. And there were! And they really hate the Keebler elves!

Butt-Bleediness

Finally, a brand that doesn’t make my butt bleed! Even when I’ve got peanut butter poop! I can use up an entire roll to wipe myself clean without fear of inducing a hemorrhoid!

Ralph’s Everyday Bath Tissue: 4 rolls for 50 cents

No picture available, so I drew one of my butt cells reacting to Ralph’s toilet paper.

Sylvia’s Advice of the Day: You should never, ever tempt fate by allowing your TP rations to dwindle to the point where you are wiping your butt with the last roll. Even if you are planning to go to Costco soon, it is still not worth it. You run the risk of buying Ralph’s Everyday Bath Tissue because you kept putting off going to Costco and now you’ve got dookie booty. Don’t do it.

Touch Test

While I knew a 12.5 cent roll was going to feel as cheap as it cost, I had no idea I just purchased butt sanding paper. Actually, sand paper is probably softer than Ralph’s Everyday Bath Tissue. Looking at the bright side: you can use the money you saved to get yourself some Preparation H.

Butt-Bleediness

How should I say this…? The first time I used it, I think I got two wipes before it broke skin. After that, every wipe—even when it wasn’t peanut butter poop— resulted in ass bleed. It was so prevalent that at one point, I thought I was dying.

Err…okay, so my list is pretty weak. But you can make it stronger by sending me some of your own toilet paper rankings! I’ll add them to the post (just remember: touch test and butt-bleediness). Oh, and as a bonus, you become automatic members of C.R.A.P.T.P.! Hooray for generosity!

Ratings By Other Awesome C.R.A.P.T.P. Members!

Scott Tissue by aznroadrunner

Touch Test  Butt-Bleediness

“Scotts sucks. Scotts is like wiping with cardboard, except that it’s really thin.  It almost makes you think it’s giving you paper cuts.”

Angel Soft by gorman117

Touch Test   Butt-Bleediness 

Cottonelle by charlottegeely

Touch Test  Butt-Bleediness 
 

“…nicest 1-ply ever but falls apart.”

As much as I would love to, I can’t kick anyone’s ass. I just don’t have the requisite body type for it. I’m 5’6″ and 110 pounds of stuff other than muscle. I can’t do anything except maybe cut you with my clavicle. What’s even more depressing is that, despite being Asian, I can’t do any martial arts. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m actually one of four Asians who were born with this genetic deficiency. To my credit, though, I try to hide it by carrying a bo stick around…even though it’s really a broom stick…with the broom still attached…but I call it the “Soul Sweeper”…hey, it’s got a name, and that makes it a weapon, okay?!

To make up for my lack of ass-beating talent, I learned to improvise at a young age by using the next best thing to physical combat: Mortal Kombat. That’s right, b*tch: I don’t need fisticuffs because I’ve got Fatalities.

Therefore, my way of calling people out was by inviting someone over to my house, pushing an SNES controller into their hands, uppercutting the sh*t out of their character for two rounds until I heard “finish him,” and then pulling a “Toasty!” After that, I’d usually say something cool like, “you got burned!” or “charred sphincter says what?” Too bad no one ever realized the message I was trying to send through Mortal Kombat—and why is that anyway? Hello! Fatality = I hate you. How much clearer can it be? Not much, but I nevertheless ended up having to explain why I didn’t like this person, and that I kicked their ass in Mortal Kombat because I was physically incapable of doing it in real life. Talk about super awkward silences…

I haven’t played Mortal Kombat since then, but it’s never far from my mind because there are a lot of stank c*nts in this world. And every time I meet a new one, I fantasize about opening up a can of Fatality and kicking their asses with it. I’ve even come up with my own Fatalities–Syltalities–because some people are just so incredibly stanky that getting chomped on by a dragon is not enough punishment.

For example, there is this girl at my school named Greasy–that’s not her real name, but I call her “Greasy” since that’s the constant condition of her skin. So not joking. There are volunteers in Hazmat suits following her around because they think she’s a victim of an oil spill. B*tch is greasy and zitty, and caked in so much pink makeup she looks like she cooked her face in a rotisserie oven. I’m grossly understating it, but there is only so much the English language can do.

Greasy’s grease face makes it hard for her to get dates–because if she gets too close to heat, she will burst into flames. However, the risk of getting severe burns isn’t necessarily a deal breaker: I’d still hit that if she had a hot body and a decent personality…but she doesn’t. She is flabby and a b*tch, so she’s not getting any lovin’ from me…or anyone else, for that matter.

That being said, you’d think she was accustomed to rejection–but she’s not. And thus, she screwed someone very dear to me out of an academic accolade (which everyone knows he deserved) simply because he didn’t reciprocate her advances when she tried to get on his nuts. Now, I don’t have a problem with revenge, but f*cking with someone’s law school career is totally unacceptable. I take that sh*t personally.

Seeing as how Greasy’s stank c*ntiness started because of her poor skin, I thought I’d help her out by giving her some Proactiv.

That’s right: those are Proactiv shanks!

Oh! And then there was an asshat who was tailing me on the freeway one night. I was going 80 mph, which was already pretty fast, and the lanes around me were clear so he could have switched into one and passed me. Instead, he followed my car so closely that I could barely see his headlights.

Now generally, when I see someone speeding unnecessarily I assume it’s because they really have to go to the bathroom–something I can definitely relate to. I was once in the middle of traffic when my bowels decided it was the perfect time for me to take a massive dump. It did not care that I was in my car or moving at snail speeds: the poop wanted freedom, and it was going to get it regardless of my inconvenience. I ended up going to a gas station–which I won’t describe, but let’s just say it would have been way more sanitary for me to crap my pants…and then roll around in them…and then eat a sandwich without washing my hands beforehand.

Anyway, the point of that flashback was that I usually don’t care when people are speeding. And I had initially given the guy tailing me the same benefit of the doubt–until he high beamed me. Oh hell no! Hell no! Did you just give me the car equivalent of a b*tch slap? I think you did, you stank c*nt, and now I don’t care what your reasons for speeding are. I’m kicking your ass anyway!

Eat sh*t and bricks, b*tch!

Remember those old Mentos commercials that always showed some person experiencing a mishap at the most inopportune time–and then, when it appears that all is lost, the guy pops a Mentos into his mouth and suddenly has an epiphany on how to solve the problem? Of course you do. They’re classics!

…They’re also extremely antiquated. I haven’t seen a Mentos commercial that wasn’t filmed in the 90’s–which is pretty sad considering how much more can be milked out of that tired ass Mentos-saves-the-day formula. Did the commercial writers think that society only suffers from broken high heels, getting ditched by your friends at a crosswalk, or not being able to sneak backstage at a rock concert? Well, they’re wrong! And to prove just how wrong they are, I came up with my own Mentos commercial that is both modern and hip-and-with-it!

It doesn’t matter what comes, fresh goes better in life, and Mentos is fresh and full of life.

Nothing gets to you…

…staying fresh staying cool, with Mentos, fresh and full of life.  

Fresh goes better, Mentos freshness, fresh goes better with Mentos, fresh and full of life!  

Mentos, the period-stain-patterned-dress fresh maker!

I totally did this entry just so I could say “doo doo.”

I have to confess something to you all. Although I’ve been portraying myself as a 26 year-old woman, the truth is I am a 62 year-old dude. There, I’ve said it. I am actually a man. I have an atom’s apple, a huge dong, and a pair of tentacles. I am totally manly.

That was supposed to be my April Fool’s joke, but I couldn’t post because I went blind after seeing pictures of that disgusting FIA president playing with his hookers. And let me tell you: I have never once, in my entire life, ever regretted being born…but I do now that I know what wrinkly, old man ass crack looks like in a thong. Acid! Where is my acid?! I must soothe my eyes!

I chose the “I’m a dude” joke because I know that some people would have believed it regardless of my purposeful malapropisms. For some reason, out of all the questions I have been asked on Xanga, the one that comes up most is “you’re not really a girl, right?” The second most common question is “you’re really a man, huh?”

Not sure how most girls would react when strangers inquire about the existence of their vaginas, but I love being asked because it gives me the opportunity to say “va-jay-jay” and “hey-naner-naner.” I don’t care what anyone says: if you get the chance to say those phrases without looking like a wart bag turd, you take it. (I should totally write fortune cookies.)

However, I’m becoming increasingly curious as to how you can determine someone’s gender based on the text in their blogs. Being that I am the spokesperson for my fallopian tubes, ovaries, and uterus, I thought everything that came out of my mouth was unquestionably feminine. Seriously, what’s more girly than telling you that a woman’s period smells like a seafood buffet? And that yeast infections are insanely itchy and smell like death?

Unfortunately, this vast knowledge is not enough to prove I’ve got taco, so I did some research into what makes a blog “girly”–but by “research” I mean that I asked other people to find out for me (I’m not going to read them on my own, are you kidding me?! Those posts are chock full of gibberish like “whatevs” and “lates”!). They listed several characteristics, but the most common ones were: relationship problems, dieting, and fashion…coincidentally, the most wer-wer topics in the universe.

I’m definitely not above discussing those things, but I would rather stab myself in the eye with a rusty nail than write about them. 

With relationship problems, I am not someone who finds solace in typing them out. In fact, I actually end up feeling worse because I’ll have thought about the issues multiple times in order to reduce them to text. And I don’t want to relive the time I kicked some guy’s ass with a cactus because he beat me in “Bust A Move.” It was my favorite plant! *cry*

As far as dieting and fashion are concerned: I eat junk food and live in my sleep clothes, the end. What is that? Like a Mini-Pulse? It’s not worth the two seconds it takes to read it.

Is there anything else that makes a girly blog? Because so far it’s looking like the only thing I can rely on is my profile picture.

Anime people have Otakon, comic book people have Comic-Con, and Xangans should have XangaCon (not to be confused with Xanga-cons, i.e. convicts who blog on Xanga). I think it would be a really convenient way for me to kidnap you all at once fun way to meet fellow hardcore Xanga users. And we can go dressed up as something Xanga-related in the same way anime fans wear cosplay outfits. I’d go as a bald, pantless, stick figure wielding a waffle cone and staring morosely at a scoop of pink ice cream on the floor. Totally badass.

Oh, but you know what would be an even better idea? Dressing up as the literal interpretation of our usernames. My costume would look like this:

Get it? I’m a 64-year-old bottle of Absolut vodka with wings! What hotness! I’d be putting the “sex” in “sexagenarian.”

Of course, conventions are a lot more than dressing up in cool outfits…I think. I’ve never actually been to one, so I’m pretty much basing this entire entry on random Anime Expo pictures I found online. It appears that you can do other things besides taking a million group pictures, like visiting booths or participating in scheduled activities. I don’t know what you guys would want at XangaCon, but I for sure want to see a musical reenactment of Xanga’s history–with costumes and an orchestra. Ooh! And the opening scene of “The Lion King.” How does that not make sense? Do you know that the Xanga people didn’t go to Africa to celebrate Simba’s birth? No, you don’t, so sit yo’ ass down!

You know, I might actually put up a booth of my own: an art exhibit for my awesome Paint pictures…? Seminar on blogging etiquette…? Teaching hot Xangans the joys of putting a chloroform-soaked handkerchief to their noses and waking up in my cave all naked and covered with nacho cheese…? (Sidebar: why do people call handkerchiefs “hankies”? Shouldn’t it be “handkies” or “handies”? Whatever, perv! That’s not what I meant.) Endless possibilities!

You guys would go, right? Forget for a moment that this is probably an elaborate scheme to get in your pants.

XangaCon! XangaCon!

 Does this look familiar to you?

I know you guys have all seen this kind of stuff before. Someone posts 100 pictures of themselves at a social event, with each photo showing the same people in the same poses except that maybe strands of their hair have shifted. And the massive volume of pictures slows down loading time so all you can see for 10 minutes are blank spaces in between captions–assuming you even wait that long. Whenever those ominous empty boxes appear on my screen, Death shows up and tells me that he’s going to cut my life short since I’m obviously wasting my time. And of course I close the window immediately because, honestly, he’s super ashy and the longer he sticks around the more skin flakes he drops all over my carpet. I keep telling him he is really nasty, but he’ll just be like, “get a Dyson.” And I’ll be all like, “you get me a Dyson!” And then he’ll be like, “I can’t. I am still paying off my scythe.” I knew this was going to happen. Death has really bad credit, but he still insisted on buying the expensive scythe–the one that Ron Popeil claims can “slash life and wheat with ease!” “I’m going to need this when I retire and start my dream farm.” Retire? Hello! You’re Death!

…Where was I going with that? That’s right, another blogging etiquette lesson.

Lesson 3: Posting Pictures

Although I am a huge fan of words, I admit that there are moments where they are just not enough to convey thoughts. In those circumstances, then, it is acceptable and necessary to put up a picture or two to help illustrate whatever message you are trying to get readers to understand.

Unfortunately, your partying life is not such a message. It is pretty clear to everyone that you had fun at some party when you write “I had fun at some party.” And yet you think it is necessary to put up hundreds of pictures of this party anyway.

Why am I singling out boozy party posts? Because those are the ones most likely to have a ridiculous amount of unnecessary pictures. Albeit I’m sure getting wasted with your friends was really fun for you, but viewing tons of pictures of you getting wasted with your friends is fun for no one. I understand that you might feel the need to give a shout-out to all your friends by putting up photos of them, but let’s keep something important in mind: a picture is usually worth about 1000 words or so, right? So for every picture you put on your blog, you’ve added 1000 words, i.e., 3 single-spaced pages, to your post. That’s a lot of stuff to expect anyone to get through.

However, you can showcase your photography without forcing it upon the rest of us by creating a photo album. I will use Xanga’s feature as an example because that’s the only one I know how to use…since I’ve been  to Xanga for years…*cough* badge me *cough* 

Click on that!

Wow!

You can thus create a photo album dedicated to whatever party you went to, and put all the pictures into it. Then just pick one or two pictures you really like to put on your party post, and include a link to the album for those who want to see more. People like me will thank you for keeping Death and his gross skin flakes away, and people who went to the party will thank you for showing them what happened after they passed out.

Some of you may have noticed that the little light bulb shows up next to my username quite often, and yet I have not posted a thing since Wednesday. That’s because I am too busy looking at all your profile pictures and drooling over you sexy things. There are a ton of good looking guys and girls here, and I know you gorgeous Xangans are just dying for me to sexually harass hit on you–despite the wave of nausea you experience whenever you think about being the target of my PMS (pervert macking skills). You’ll get over it eventually.

Unfortunately, it’s a little difficult to showcase my smoothness when most of you are nowhere near me. It’s not that I have a problem with traveling to your areas and showing up at your doors in the middle of the night with a nylon stocking over my head (keeps the mosquitoes away)–but I am a little sick of paying for airfare, flowers, and candy when all I get in return is a face full of bear mace. That’s so uncool, you guys; regular pepper spray would have been just fine. And what the hell is up with bogarting the Russell Stovers but leaving behind the gross, nutty ones? Those are the worst!

Thankfully, Xanga has made jocking on you distant hotties easier by providing me with Credits to lavish and impress you all with. My theory is: since affection can be influenced by money, and Credits are like money, then I should be able to influence your emotions with Credits. In other words: I’ll be big pimpin’, spending C’s!

There are two things you can buy with Credits: Minis and Premium. However, I am just going to stick with the Minis because giving Premium seems so…commitment-ish. You can’t just drop 4000 Credits on someone and not expect them to interpret that gesture as a marriage proposal. The extra storage space alone is enough to make someone want to have your babies. Imagine what they’ll do when they find out their sites no longer have ads and that they can upload 99 profile pictures! You’re going to be featured on the next installment of MSNBC’s “Lockdown” series: “Lockdown: Matching Baby Blue Tracksuits.”

Anyway, in order to effectively use my Credits to buy attention from you beautiful bloggers, I shadowed nasty, old businessmen to see how they use money to entice younger lovers. The only rule is to blind prospects with expensive bling so that they no longer notice your liver spots or old man smell. This was actually Rule # 2, but it moved up to replace old Rule # 1: become governor and join the Emperor’s Club. That one was tossed out for obvious reasons, i.e., it is way too hard to become a governor.

Applying this rule to Xanga, the first thing I must do is damage your eyesight with expensive Minis. I have already spent hours researching the entire list to find the ones that most closely resemble bling, and have come up with these options:

This one is gold and fairly shiny, and therefore constitutes bling. However, it only costs 5 Credits–that’s not really going to help me blind you with my wealth. It might make it easier for you to ignore the shag carpet on my armpits, but not the crust underneath them. I can’t just wash it away! That stuff is food for the microbes living on me! If I get rid of it, the colony will starve to death and I’ll be a murderer. I don’t want that on my soul.

I’m going to have to pass on this one too, because it only costs 100 Credits. That’s not enough to get me any gold diggers. At most, I’ll get a bunch of gold panners–and everyone knows gold panners are ugly.

Check out the shiny sparkles! This is so bling it’s not even funny! And it’s also the most expensive Mini available. Wow, just seeing it now makes me fall in love with myself! What sasquatch armpits? Those are tendrils of sex appeal!

Now I just have to infect you with the pink eye of love by going around to all your blogs and giving you this Mini. I probably won’t have time to read your posts and give you any actual feedback because I’ve got a lot of sexies to visit. But I hope I don’t give you a Mini on a post where it would clearly be inappropriate:

Hmm…yeah, I don’t think anyone would find me attractive for that…

Once I’m done decking out your comment sections and making you hot for me, I’m going to feel you up:

(Where is that hand going?!)

And then I’ll lose interest immediately after I have my way with you, and will leave you for another hot Xangan:

It’s inevitable. But don’t worry, cuties, you’ll always have something to remember me by: