I’m not an asshole; I just can’t hear you.

It’s true. People get so insanely pissed off when I ask them to repeat themselves or when they think I’m not listening to them.

Angry person: “Hey! I’m talking to you! Did you hear what I said?!”

Me: “Um. No. Were you talking to me?”

Angry Person: “You trying to be funny?”

Me: “No. I just couldn’t hear you. I don’t have all my hearing in my right ear.”

Usually, the person feels awful for getting so worked up. I smile politely and tell them that it’s okay, but secretly I’m laughing inside because now, that person feels like a dick.

This is usually what happens, but the other day at work I got the opposite reaction.

Angry person to my co-worker: “Can you believe her!? I asked her a question! She’s not even looking at me!”

There were a lot of people at the nurses’ station. With lots of noise, talking, commotion, paper rustling, and such, I tend to not be able to locate sound well. So, I just tune out and sit quietly to myself.

However, at this point, all my co-workers are looking at me like I’m some asshole. I still have my eyesight and half a brain in my head. So, although I can’t necessarily hear what’s happening, I deduce that I’ve done something wrong.

Me: “Huh? What’s going on? Something happening? I don’t know.”

Angry person: “Ya! I was talking to you! What’s wrong with you?!”

All eyes are on me.

Me: “You were? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

Angry Person (Getting angrier by the second): “What?! You didn’t hear me?!”

Me: “No. Sorry. What was it you wanted?”

She is now irate and says to my co-worker: “She says she couldn’t hear me!”

Me: “I don’t have all my hearing in my right ear. So, no, I didn’t hear you.”

The nurses’ station’s commotion stops to a dead silence.

This is where most people feel terrible for trying to publicly humiliate me. They apologize profusely and walk away feeling like a real asshole.

THIS IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED.

Instead, this little tidbit about my hearing impairment just sets Angry Person over the edge. She doesn't give a fuck.

Insane Angry Person (YELLING REALLY REALLY LOUD): “Can you hear me now? Hey! Hey! Can you hear me now?”

Everyone is in shock. Mouths open. Speechless.

Me: “Ya. I can hear you.” (We are literally 3 feet away from each other.)

Mentally Unstable Angry Person (STILL YELLING OBSCENELY LOUD): “You can hear me?! Huh?! You can hear me?! Good!”

And then she does a kind of “pshaw” type sound with her mouth, shakes her head, and looks at my co-worker with an incredulous look on her face, as if to say, “Who the fuck does this deaf person think she is?”

My hearing problem gets me in all sorts of trouble. I find myself in situations like these or worse. Because I know how pissed people get when I ask them to repeat themselves, I usually just nod and agree. I try to read lips closely, but if someone (like a boyfriend or some other significant other type person) is turned away from me, instead of asking him to repeat himself, I just nod and agree. But, really: I have no idea what’s going on. I should learn by now that this is no way to conduct relationships, because whatever the fuck I agreed to will come up later.

Oh, yes it will. Don’t think it won’t.

I will obviously not remember anything about the conversation because I never heard it in the first place and the boyfriend will get really mad at me and tell me that I never listen to anything he says.

Which is somewhat true, but it’s because I can’t actually hear the dude well enough to listen.

In most situations, I AM an asshole, but not when I can’t hear you.

So, have mercy on me.

David Sedaris is not Trendy, Asshole.

I had the pleasure of interacting with a bystander in my life that claimed that the only reason I liked David Sedaris was because his books were on sale at Urban Outfitters. I use the term “bystander” to describe people in my life who are like human furniture in the background. They’re around. They’re lurking back there somewhere forcing me to interact with them in a cursory type manner, but they are not real active people in my life. Furniture is interchangeable and so are these people.

In any case, what I wanted to say to said bystander was, “Nice thought, douche, but believe it or not, David Sedaris’s books can be bought at other retail outlets. His work is not solely sponsored by our dear friends at Hipster Central.”

I cringe to think that people may overlook Sedaris’s brilliant work because it happens to be in Urban Outfitters on the same shelf as the picture book of penises, which by the way we shouldn’t automatically judge to be poor literature/art anyway. (This is probably another topic for another post on another day.)

His books are at Urban. So, what? An asshole with his plaid shirt, smug self-entitlement, and skinny boy jeans in the damn store in the first place buying another hip trendy knit cap is going to discredit books that are being sold at the very store that supplies his hipster wardrobe/ forced lifestyle? Contradiction? Paradox? Douche baggery?

Oh, yes. I think so.

Read his essays. They are fucking hilarious. His work inspires me every day to talk more shit.

David Sedaris should be given the acclaim he deserves especially from douches that haven’t even read his work or douches that claim they read voraciously, but actually only look up books on Wikipedia for plot summaries.

You douches suck. Sedaris rocks.

Gym, Rats!

There are only two criteria that go into choosing a gym: hospitality and hotness. The big H’s that go into most decisions that I make in my life. My gym closed and relocated to a farther destination and I decided to see what other gyms were in my close vicinity.

Choosing a gym is a serious decision. It’s like choosing a second home. After several weeks of cautious deliberating, I called ahead of time and made an appointment with a nearby gym.

I walk in and I say, “Hi! I’m here for an appointment.”

The Neanderthal-looking douche bag behind the counter says sarcastically, “Ummm. Could you be more specific?”

Hmmm. Well, let’s see. We are at a gym. I have a gym bag on my shoulder. So, I say, “Ya. I’m here for my colonoscopy appointment. Is Dr. Roto-Rooter in, you dumb fuck?”

DISCLAIMER: I did not say this, but instead I say, “Um. I made an appointment for a gym membership.”

Douche bag curtly says, “Well, who was it with? Jimbo? Dumbo? Tardo?” (Okay. Those are probably not the names he said, but at this point, it should be clear that I do not recall the name of the person I have an appointment with. Naming arbitrary names does nothing to help the situation.)

I say, “I don’t remember his name.”

This is where douche bag gets really upset by the complicated problem he is faced with and with no credible solution to solve this challenging conundrum, he grunts, shakes his head in annoyed frustration, and stomps away.

I’m not fucking kidding.

Then the pudgy girl behind the counter steps up and says, “Oh. You must be here for Jimbo’s (who knows the name?) appointment. He’s not here. Something came up. He won’t be in until Monday. I’m covering for him.”

Silence.

I say, “Okay.”

She says, “What did you want?”

“A membership! I want to join a gym!”

She says, “Oh. Well, it’s going to be $39.00 a month.”

Silence.

More silence. And she’s staring at me.

Now, I’m completely in shock. This is how you sell shit to people? A blind, deaf, dumb, mute, semi-unconscious chimpanzee sells shit better than that.

I say, “That’s it? That’s what you’re going to tell me? This is the membership meeting?”

Her response: “Yup.”

No one shows me around the gym. No one tries to tell me about any specials or deals. My membership meeting was over in 30 seconds.

This is when I turn around, get in my car, and drive the extra 15 to 20 minutes to get to my relocated gym.

On my drive over there, I replay the incident in my head. I may have been more lenient if the gym staff had been hotter, which finally brings me to the second H.

When I walk into my gym, I want to see hot smiling people behind the counter. The gym staff should, by visual cues alone, encourage the rest of the gym to strive for a better life full of hotness. If you’re going to be a lazy incompetent dick, you better be smoking hot. It’s almost acceptable. If I see people behind the counter with worse bodies than my own, I will not be motivated. I’ll turn the fuck around and speed to the nearest Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.

This is what I was faced with: two non-hot inhospitable assholes.

Remember the two H’s: Hospitality and Hotness. It’s important for these important life decisions.

(I’m still searching for another gym.)

Support Paul Walker Weekend

I've been busy lately and haven't been following Paul Walker closely enough. Apparently, he has a new movie, Takers, coming out this weekend. I only saw a 15 second clip while I was watching t.v. with my peripheral vision, but I recognize a Paul Walker flick when I see one. Beautiful people. Action. Paul Walker's abs. Girls in bikinis. Fast cars. Shit blowing up.

Is it going to be Inception? No. But it is a hard boiled caper flick. Robbers. Cops. A femme fatale. Devious plans. Blah. Blah.

I could give a shit.

All that matters is: Paul. Walker.

Takers has an extra special treat: Hayden Christensen wearing a fancy hat.

Uh huh. That's right. Two hotties running around doing shit- who cares exactly what. There are other people in it, too. Matt Dillon. Jay Hernandez. Avatar girl. T.I. Michael Ealy. -Even more hot people doing shit. (Just try to ignore Chris Brown.)

They basically had a casting call for all the Hollywood pretty boys. You know who's missing? Mmmhmm. Matt Damon. Just kidding. He's probably making another Bourne movie or something.

Let's get real. It looks terrible as far as plot, character development, dialogue, blah, blah. But so does porn, right? And we all watch that so..... Buy your tickets. Paul Walker needs our support.

Check out the trailer for yourself. The movie should be renamed: Pretty Boys Doing Shit.

Inception Spoiler Alert, Bitches.

I literally cleared my schedule to see Inception this week before anymore assholes talked about it. CNN won’t stop posting stories about it and dickheads won’t stop posting hints about the plot in their status updates. So, I made time in my 80 hour work week to see the 2 hour and 28 minute masterpiece.

I was blown away. Mouth open. Eyes glued. Nails bitten. I loved it. Loved it!

Ensemble cast. And not just any ensemble cast. They actually picked talented actors instead of throwing any big name no talent assholes onto the screen.

The story is intricate and confusing, but also simple and unambiguous at the same time. It’s an action adventure with love, a heart wrenching Love in the Time of Cholera kind of love. -The kind of love, that when I walked out of that theater, I hoped I would never find in my lifetime. Because that’s the kind of love you lose your mind over, take impractical risks for, and can only dream about.

It was beautiful, visually stunning, unnerving, thought-provoking, and just fucking spectacular.

Christopher Nolan wove together a complicated concept, but cleverly kept the driving motivation of the film to a simple universal emotion, love. You thought you were in store for a macho action-heavy caper flick and before you knew it, you just watched one of the greatest love stories ever written.

Brilliant.

Video Calls Will Destroy My Game (And Yours)

I just saw a disturbing commercial for video phone calls for iPhones. I do not want this to catch on. I like talking on the phone when I look like shit. You mean to tell me, I'm going to have to put a damn shirt on just to answer a phone call. Nonsense! Absurd!

Not only that, how many times have I been on the phone with a dude and I'm rolling my eyes the entire time. How am I going to control my eyes from doing this? Video calls will eliminate the freedom we have from doing whatever we want on the other end.

How about when you're with your boyfriend and your husband calls? You won't be able to pick up the phone. You're just going to have to let it ring and deal with consequences of not answering later.

Video calls will destroy us all. We will have to be more honest people or we will all have to take acting classes.

I am boycotting video calls. If you want to keep your husband and your boyfriend, I suggest you do the same.

Just Because You have a Dick Doesn't Mean You Know How To Use It

Through my travels in life, I have unfortunately happened upon dudes that are so arrogant that they claim to be an authority on everything. Or at least an authority over anything that I can do. It doesn’t matter what it is. I could be an astronaut and dude could be a bartender, he will tell me the ins and outs of NASA, as if I wouldn’t already know about it.

It’s always a treat to run into these dudes. They come in all sizes, shapes, and ages with the same irritating attitude that they are the best. I am unsure if this behavior is further compounded by the fact that I’m a woman. Maybe these guys are arrogant pricks to other dudes, too. I don’t know.

My point is that if you are an articulate and intelligent woman these dudes are at a loss of how to act. They are supposed to wear the pants and women are supposed to acknowledge that. They do what they can to tear you down, insult you on the sly, and assert their dominance over the given situation.

I’m too old and too tired for that bullshit. Just because you have a dick doesn’t mean you know how to use it. Doesn’t mean you’re the best at everything. Doesn’t make you an authority over anything a woman can do simply because you're a man. My womaness doesn’t prevent me from being talented, ambitious or intelligent. You need to grab that dick of yours and accept that there are women out there who are better at some things than you are.

Heed my advice because we (men and women) all just think you're annoying.

For the love of God, my obsession with Matt Damon must stop

I have this habit or hobby rather, to collect Matt Damon look-alikes. It started Spring Break 1998. He was from Boston and he was beautiful… like Matt Damon. I can’t even remember this kid’s real name because he will forever be imprinted in my mind as my first Matt Damon. Kids, you can laugh, but you can’t make this kind of shit up. I unintentionally collect Matt Damon look-alikes as real life boy toys.

I often even lie to myself and tell myself that I don’t even like Matt Damon. I protest up and down whenever one of the Bourne movies comes on tv, but I secretly am enamored from the corner of my eye.

Throughout the years, there have been more Matt Damons, regardless of whatever I try to tell myself to do. Take a room full of guys. I will make a beeline for the dude that somewhat somehow kinda sorta maybe a little bit resembles from afar Matt Damon. It’s true. Dear God! It’s true!

It’s time for me to face my problem. I often carry on in ridiculous entanglements with guys simply because of their Matt Damon-ness physical qualities. Dude could be a narcissistic capitalist Republican and I would overlook this because of what he looks like. I fear that the only way I will get over this obsession is to actually nail the real Matt Damon. Is this going to happen for me?

Probably not.

So, what do I do? Nothing. I guess collect more Matt Damons. Maybe I should switch to Ben Afflecks…

Nah. Now we all know that is pure nonsense.

Seriously? You work at Hooters. What did you expect?

This chick employed by Hooters was told by management in her yearly review that she needed to lose weight. Her story has made national headlines.

First of all, she works for Hooters. Did she think a business called, “Hooters”, aka Big Titties, would evaluate its employees based on non-aesthetic work standards? Similarly, actors are asked all the time to lose weight or gain weight for roles. So do dancers, boxers, wrestlers, professional cheerleaders, porn stars, etc. Is it fair? I don’t know. But, in this case, this chick works for HOOTERS (aka: Big Titties Restaurant.)

I understand the pressures of being a woman and society’s need to dictate to us what our bodies should look like, even in the workplace. I’m a nurse. In the hospital, I prefer to wear baggy scrubs. I’ve been told by co-workers (male and female) that I should wear more form fitting scrubs. When I’ve been seen outside the hospital, I’ve been told (by male and female co-workers), “Wow. I didn’t know you had a rack!” True story. Every time. Very annoying. Every time.

But, here’s the thing: I’m at work. I don’t want to appear sexual, sensual, or attractive. I’m a nurse. I clean up shit and bodily fluids. The hospital really isn’t the time to think about what I look like. That’s just me. If I wanted to be judged and valued for what I look like in the workplace, then I’d be a stripper or a housewife. (Kidding. Housewives, relax!)

In this Hooters chick situation, she works at Hooters. HOOOOOTEEEERS! When you are a patient in the hospital, you could give two fucks what I look like as long as I save your life. And when you go to Hooters, you could give two fucks what the food tastes like (Seriously. It isn’t fine dining.), just as long as it is served up by a good looking chick with a nice set of hooters on a trim body.

Some of you may attack my claim of being a feminist. Go ahead and waste your time. The chick works at Big Titties Restaurant. Think about this before you start writing me e-mails about what a bitch I am.

Big. Titties. Restaurant.

Now, if I were to open a restaurant called "Hawt Dawg!", my employees would need to have huge bulges dangling from a rock hard body. I mean: I'm naming the place Hawt Dawg! (You entrepreneurs out there, don't you dare take my restaurant idea.) Would I have great food? Fuck no! Would I have hot dogs with hawt dawgs! You bet your hooters I would!

So, once again remember: if you work for Big Titties Restaurant and have profited off your big ol' titties in the past, don't be shocked if your job is on the line because you're starting to look a little chunk by some arbitrary standard.

Never forget that you chose to work for Big Titties Restaurant to begin with. This isn't Thailand. You weren't forced into a sexually objectifying job. Deal with it.

Thanks.

You don't like Jack White? Really?

I confessed to my friend of my borderline unhealthy obsession with Jack White. (It’s not really a confession since I’ve written about it in newspaper articles, my blog, status updates, etc.) But she was shocked. She said, “Why would anyone be obsessed with him? That’s a weird person to be obsessed with.”

It hit me that not everyone has to hear his voice at least once a day, in order for the day to feel complete. (True story.)

So, for you, my dear friends, I have compiled the top five Jack White performances/videos that, if you aren’t already, worshipping him as a musician and overall eccentric quirky talented person, you will by the end of the fifth video.

Enjoy.

1. Jack White in It Might Get Loud making a guitar


2. Live performance of Ball and Biscuit


3. Live performance of Jolene


4. Video of Treat Me Like Your Mother


5. Live Performance of Bang, Bang

CNN Doll Studies: Asians, Latinos, Indians, etc. not included... Again.

CNN did a pilot study to determine the status of children’s “racial beliefs, attitudes, and preferences.” This study is similar to the doll studies done by Kenneth and Mamie Clark in the late 1930’s and early 1940’s. CNN has found that white children have a bias toward lighter skin dolls and black children do as well, but not to the extent as white children do. In the Clarks’ study, they found similar results in that both white and black children associated “good and pretty” with white and “bad and ugly” with black.

The Clarks’ study was done in the 1930’s and 1940’s. It’s 2010. I would have hoped that CNN would make their study more timely and a reflection of what race relations are like today. 133 children were chosen from Northeastern and Southeastern regions of the United States: 75 African American and 58 white children. Asian, Indian, Arab, Latino, etc. children were left out of the study.

Once again, racial issues are only limited to white and black. The rest of us? Who cares?! We don’t matter.

CNN made a good half-ass effort in bringing us some groundbreaking news, but in 2006, filmmaker, Kiri Davis, did an award winning documentary, A Girl Like Me, replicating the Clarks’ Doll Studies. She also found similar results.

I would be curious to know the racial beliefs, attitudes and preferences of children of other ethnicities. We’re here in America, too.

I want to know what would happen if we included other races and ethnicities in the study. Like, if I were a kid (By the way, I'm Filipino.) and asked “Which one is good at math?” Well, I would try to pick the doll that most resembled an Asian kid. Or, “Which one will most likely grow up to be a doctor?” I’d try to pick the doll that most resembled an Indian kid. And after the recent crowning of the smoking hot Miss USA, if I were asked, “Which one is most likely to be smoking hot?” I’d try to pick the doll that most resembled a Lebanese chick.

Of course, I would not be invited into the study, nor would my children (that I don’t have.)

CNN is advertising their report as a “landmark” study. Um. I don’t think so. They're just repeating something that most people didn’t know was already done over and over again.

Sex and the City 2? Everybody loves a train wreck.

I'm probably going to catch a lot of heat for saying this from female tv/movie watchers, but I am not a Sex and the City fan. I don't hate the franchise, but I didn't run out to see the first movie and I won't see the second (unless there will be alcohol beverages on hand). SATC feigns to be a show about female empowerment and individuality when in close inspection the show purports 1950's values dressed up in designer clothes. Fancy Ferragamos don't fool me into thinking that the characters on this show are strong independent women. Nice try.

Each character's main focus throughout the run of the series was catching a man, maintaining a man, keeping a man, putting up with a man, etc, etc, etc. Tiresome. Banal. Trite. The series tried to pull out story lines of the characters exhibiting sexual independence, but each foray into sexual empowerment ended with the character, in truth, wanting a man or wanting something from a man. Sexual fulfillment really had nothing to do with it at all. Tiresome. Banal. Trite.

From Carrie to even Samantha, these characters would toss away career opportunities, meaningful experiences to fulfill themselves, and anything else that would contribute to their personal enrichment for a man. In Carrie's case, she is more than willing to endure the trials and tribulations of a dude that pretty much treated her like an insignificant piece of furniture since their introduction. But, in the end, Carrie won over this sack of shit who, in real life circumstances (not in pretend tv/movie land), would probably only have stayed with her simply because any other woman who cared and respected herself wouldn't. Mr. Big is really not a prize unless you like unreliable and selfish men. (Some of you do. Yes. You do.)

And I won't get into the show’s blatant display of neoliberalism. As a feminist, a Marxist, an anti-capitalist, and an anarchist, SATC can kiss my ass. I’ve watched episodes of the franchise. I have to admit it is good fun to dismantle and uncover the “feminist” ideals of the show.

So, don't let me stop you from watching SATC 2. Everybody loves a train wreck. The women of the City are back to have "sex" just as long as there is male validation involved.

Yawn. Yawn.

Straight? Gay? Bi? Undecided? None of your business?

Obama’s nomination of Elena Kagan to the Supreme Court has brought on, for whatever reason, speculation of Kagan’s sexual orientation. Some have reasoned Kagan is gay because she played softball. (So, playing softball undoubtedly means you’re gay? Right. Sure. That makes sense.)

The problem with all of this is: What does that have to do with Kagan’s ability to function as a Supreme Court Justice? Nothing. This is an obvious answer.

The next question that comes to mind is: What is sexual orientation and sexual identity?

It’s a personal matter. A friend of mine once said, “There’s nothing you can do about it, if someone thinks you’re gay.” This is true. There are situations where a “gay” guy sleeps with women or a “straight” guy sleeps with dudes. This does not necessarily signify that each individual is gay or straight.

People have sex for various reasons: lust, love, companionship, boredom, curiosity, money, security, conformity, loneliness, comfort, drugs, bus tickets, moon pies, etc. The act means less than the intent and the true meaning of the intent is determined by the individual.

Does all of this matter? No. It’s semantics.

Sexual preference/orientation/identity is a subjective experience. For outsiders to conjecture about what a person is and isn’t, is time wasted. It’s a meaningless exercise.

In the end, labels mean nothing.

As in the case with anti-gay activist, George Rekers, who hires male prostitutes, he may honestly think he's not gay even though he may have sex with men. Who knows? However, in Rekers case, his acts and intents are hypocritical, convoluted, manipulative, and indicative of malevolence.

Once again, labels mean nothing.

Is Hillary Pimping Out Bill?

It’s no secret that I have a mad crazy crush on Bill Clinton. I get this e-mail this morning from “him” with the e-mail subject: “Join me in New York.” I hurriedly clicked open the e-mail just in case it was actually Bill answering my fan mail/love letters. (Just kidding. I don’t really send him love letters...... Or do I?)

It was, of course, not an e-mail directly sent to me, but a mass e-mail sent out to past Hillary supporters asking for donations to help pay off her campaign debt. If you donate $5 or more, you are eligible to be chosen to spend a day (night?) with Bill Clinton.

I did what any chick with an insane crush on the former president would do, I sent him five bucks, a head shot, a body shot, and some other tasteful photos.

With the prospects of meeting my number one crush over sixty on the near and hopeful horizon, I have to ask: Is Hillary finally pimping out Bill? -For only five dollars? -And for the second time?

Who cares?

I’m in.

The Freeze Out

Sorry is just a four letter word... with y on the end. -Eric Cartman

I've done some pretty fucked up things at the end of some of my relationships, but nothing takes the cake like the freeze out. I've never actually done the freeze out to anyone. I'm more of a fade out kind of chick. The fade out is where you gradually decrease the amount of time and attention you give to your significant other and before he/she realizes it, the relationship is over. The freeze out is more abrupt. Like a punch in the face, if you will. One minute the two of you are together, making plans for the next day or whatever, but then BAM! He/she just doesn't ever talk to you again. He doesn't return calls and texts. He vanishes. Disappears. Without an explanation. Without a good-bye. Or even a fuck you.

Nope. Not even a fuck you.

What is most humiliating about the freeze out is that your ass doesn't even know you're being frozen out. So, you carry on with normal everyday activities as if you two were still together. You text. You call. You expect that plans you made two days ago are actually going to happen. Since you had no idea that your significant other broke up with you without you knowing it, you give him the benefit of the doubt that he is just busy or his phone is on the fritz or even that he got hit by a car. What other reason would there be that this relationship that you thought was going splendidly was, in fact, over.

It's not until day 3, you start to worry. You call your friends. You ask around. Have you seen him/her? Maybe he/she is really dead? Maybe he/she is lying in an ICU as John or Jane Doe and no one knows he/she is incapacitated. You think that there is no way that your dude/chick is just not calling you back. Impossible!

But then, a friend of a friend of a friend will inform you that your boyfriend was spotted out on the town last night alive and well.

“Did he have any scratches, lacerations or bruises that would indicate he was in some sort of traumatic accident?” you ask.

“No,” your friend of a friend of a friend replies.

“Did he look like he was suffering from amnesia from an accident that possibly did not leave any visible marks?”

“No.”

Oh... Well. Fuck.

So, you commence to have conversations with yourself because your boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend, you guess) will not call you or even acknowledge that you existed in his life. You try to achieve closure with yourself through your long truly pitiful discussions with just yourself. You start to think you have multiple personality disorder or that there is something wrong with you because these long drawn out conversations last for hours. You maybe try one more time to contact him through e-mail, text, or a voicemail. You even consider hiring a skywriter or sending a telegram. But these efforts go unanswered. You have been frozen out, honey. And it's fucking cold.

Throughout the next week, you will suffer through the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and then acceptance that this person you spent time with had really no respect for you at all. -Not enough to even let you know that you have been let go. And you run over your mind the last time you were together. You are embarrassed that you trusted this person.

After all this, self-probing and wretched humiliation, you come to the realization that this person can go fuck himself.

And this is finally your closure.

You thaw yourself out from the freeze out and move the fuck on.

The declining intellect and literacy of Gen Y and Gen Z

I am currently in a relationship with a Gen Y’er. I am very much a Gen X’er, stumbling through the technological age of faux social connection – texting, facebook, myspace, and twitter. I remember the days when if you connected with someone you were forced to put actual effort into it with a phone call or a physical visit.

I also remember the days when if you wanted information about something you had to look for it. These were the days where the Dewey Decimal System was something you had to actually pay attention to and journal articles were not available on-line. You had to march your happy little ass up to the library, buy a copy card, find the journal via Dewey and xeorox the article. There wasn’t a google. And there certainly wasn’t a twitter to complain about it to everyone.

I told him: you and the generation after you will be the end of us. Not him particularly. I’ve welcomed him into the safe haven of Gen X simply because he is, in fact, intellectually solvent. (Yes. I have the power to adopt worthy individuals into my generation if I feel like it. Don’t you worry about that.)

“You’re too hard on Gen Y and Gen Z,” he said.

“I think not,” I replied.

We let the debate rest because it was much too late for me to bust out my Power Point slides on how I was right, but today I have adequate proof that my observations of the up and coming generations are right on point.

Scrabble has changed its rules to attract more individuals of the younger generations. The game that is supposed to test and stretch your verbal creativity and vocabulary is now allowing proper names.

Some of you may be thinking: Who cares?

You are probably one of the Gen Y and Gen Z’ers I was talking about. -The doomed, People magazine reading, reality tv devouring, ignorant lost souls that have no idea about current events, sociopolitical ideologies, and anything that half resembles real newsworthy news. Your news is on E.

So, if this is you, don’t worry your pretty little head, my dear. Keep sipping your PBR and flipping through US magazine while texting Veronica and Betty about what an asshole I am for writing this.

The point is, kids, this is real capitalistic proof based on careful marketing strategies that Gen Y and Z are a bunch of nearly illiterate lazy people. If a corporation has to make changes due to sagging profit margins, then you know there is truth into what I'm saying. Mattel had to change the rules to entice the younger, less verbally skilled generations to partake in a game that is solely based on verbal acumen.

So, if all a person can contribute to in his/her everyday conversations are the names and whereabouts of celebrities or wannabe celebrities he/she loves, then he/she has a chance at competing at Scrabble. “Words” like: Heidi Montag, Snookie, and J Lo are now acceptable. We can now just use People and US magazine as “dictionaries” for Scrabble games.

Roll this over in your mind for one second. Take a deep breath.

We are doomed. The generations leading us into the future are more versed in nonsense than words. Words!

Although we are arguably more socially connected by rapidly communicating via various technological advances, we are doing so using very little verbal skill. LMFAO! OMG! WTF!

This is our future.

wtf.

Everyone discriminates. Even me.

Discrimination- (n.) Treatment or consideration based on class or category rather than individual merit; partiality or prejudice

If you read my last blog entry and thought that I was possibly insinuating that racism only happens to a particular race, this blog entry's purpose is to address that miscommunication.

A reader of this blog commented to me that racism exists for everyone and even Caucasians endure discrimination. No doubt. Of course. Everyone discriminates and everyone is discriminated against in some kind of way.

I am a Filipino American woman living in the Deep South. When I speak of racism, sexism, classism, ageism, etc, I only speak of it from my perspective. Did I intend for my last blog entry to imply that I don't think other races, Caucasians, for instance, experience racism? No. How would I know what the every day lived of experience of a white person is like?

As a student of post-colonial theory, which addresses issues of identity and specificities in vantage points in different people, I wouldn't feign to know what it is like to be a Hindu in Colorado, a Filipino living in Australia, and even, yes, a Caucasian living next door to me.

And yes. I, too, discriminate against people. In my last blog entry, I addressed John Mayer’s comments regarding his preference for white women. I have my own preferences as well. Unlike Mayer, I don't discriminate against a particular race or ethnicity, but...

I admit that I discriminate against non-hot stupid people. There. I said it.

1. More likely than not, if you don’t have a six pack, I’m most likely not going to date you (or date you for very long.)

2. If you don’t have a particularly pleasing face and overall physique, I most likely will not date you.

3. If you are not a well-read person and cannot hold an intelligent conversation about topics other than Jersey Shore, American Idol, or any other bullshit pop culture fad, I most likely will not date you.

4. If you can’t hold your own in a conversation about sociopolitical ideologies… Well. I most likely will stop talking to you mid-conversation. I might even walk away from you shaking my head in disgust.

I have to say though that I've been open-minded enough to try to date non-hot stupid people, but only came out with terrible results. But at least, I tried.

So, yes. Everyone discriminates on any number of different things. Even me.

(If you are a non-hot stupid fat person, my deepest apologies and condolences. I admit I am an asshole on this topic. People are allowed their preferences when it comes to romantic partners and these are mine.)

The Thing about John Mayer

I’m going to write about this as a person of color. John Mayer let out what he really feels and so will I.

Mayer told the truth. He usually prefers white women

He said, “"My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I've got a Benetton heart and a fuckin' David Duke cock. I'm going to start dating separately from my dick."

He used the word, nigger, and talked about how he had a “hood pass”, meaning (I think) something about being cool in the black community.

And my big question to you is: YOU ARE SO BAFFLED BY THIS?

I’m Filipino and usually not part of the race relations conversations because most focus on white and black. Even in reference to this interview, most commentary focuses on how Mayer dissed black women. MAYER DISSED EVERY KIND OF WOMAN EXCEPT WHITE WOMEN. (Latinos, Asians, East Indians, Arabs, Native Americans, Eskimos, Inuits, aborigines, Pacific Islanders, mixed-race women, etc.)

This is the type of behavior I encounter all the time in everyday life. You befriend a white person, who appears to be cool, open-minded, and seemingly not preoccupied with race, but then you get to know him/her and they will drop hints that they are, in fact, racist.

Am I being sensitive? No, asshole. I’m being real.

Want some examples:

-I have white friends who perpetually comment on how different we are because I’m Asian. If you are constantly bringing up I’m Asian, you are a closet racist.

-Or if some guy prefers me over a white girl it’s because dude has an “Asian fetish” and they discount that I may have some great qualities about me that have nothing to do with being “Asian” or not. (I just may be better than you, bitch.)

-I once asked a friend if she thought this non-white guy was hot. (He is Latino.) She said incredulously, “Me? No! I’m a WHITE girl. Duh.”

-A white girlfriend of mine admitted to me that she isn't racist except when she dates people.

So, Mayer did what other white people do. (I didn’t say all white people. So, don’t get all pissy.)

I am not shocked.

This is coming from a girl, who has been told, time to time, throughout her 31 years of life that I’m “pretty… for an Asian chick” by closet racists, of course.

Thanks. I guess.

I guess that makes the person who says this “open-minded… for a white person.”

You dig?

You don't like that? Well, stop reading this sh*t.

Yes. I swear on my blog. I use bad words. I even, at times, throw in an occasional swear word on my facebook updates. This causes quite a stir in some people.

Children could be reading my blog and my facebook updates!

First of all, why are young children on facebook, for fucks sake? There is problem with childhood obesity in this country. Shouldn’t your fat ass kid be on a bike somewhere?

Secondly, it’s not my job to make boundaries for your child about what she/he can or cannot read. Isn’t that your mother fucking job?

It goes the same for t.v. I heard someone complaining about how South Park is confusing for children because it's a cartoon with adult content.

It’s not Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s fault your kid’s a dumbass and can’t figure that out.

Maybe I was a precocious kid. Who the fuck am I kidding? Of course I was a precocious kid, but I’m pretty sure your kid is not that bright. So, all those adult innuendos on South Park and other animated shows simply fly right over your stupid ass kid’s head and probably yours if you’re complaining about the laxity of censorship in the media.

There is a lot of violence on t.v., too. Or haven’t you noticed? I think that may have a bigger impact on the well-being of your child than my occasional cock, fuck, and shit in my writing.

Some people say, “Your opinion will change when you have your own children.”

I don’t fucking think so. My children are going to be half my brilliant genetic makeup, giving them already more intellectual ability than your dumbass kid. I will also (maybe you should try this) teach my kid how to deal and understand with adult material when he/she comes across it, because you can’t shield your kid forever from all the fucks, shits, asses, and bitches, in the world, right? These words will find your children one day. OH. YES. THEY. WILL.

Others say it’s not ladylike for me to cuss so much.

Do you even fucking know me? My blog is 20% content, 10% shit talking, and 70% swearing.

If you don’t like how I write, stop reading it. If I offend you with my swear words, then go back to reading your Harry Potter books.

And if you can’t delineate reality from humor and satire for fucks sake: Walk away from the computer right now!

Please and thank-you.

Now that I'm feeling better, why don't you go f*ck yourself.

I’m a nurse. An ICU nurse to be specific. I was previously the local hospital’s critical care bitch and would float to all the ICU’s and ER’s in the hospital including: MICU, NSICU, STICU, CCU, CTICU, and DDICU.

I also should be a NP if it weren’t for the racist powers that be at a state university, but I dropped out before the academic lynching. (If you dispute this fact, you can take a look at my stellar transcripts and my thesis that earned me two awards.) So, I know a little bit about diseases, diagnosis, and physiological processes.

However...

Despite all this education and experience, I cannot jump out of myself when I am sick, examine myself, come up with a diagnosis, and treat myself.

I am not House, M.D.

And even House couldn’t do this, which is why he ended up with a bum leg.

In any case, I presented with a fever over 3 days, severe head pain, neck pain, neck stiffness, and photophobia. Along with my other symptoms associated with strep throat: exudate on tonsils, fever, throat pain, and ear pain.

Let me repeat: I had no idea what I looked like and could not examine myself.

Was I worried? Ya. Was I experiencing the worst headache of my life along with the inability to turn my head? Fuck yes.

The ER nurse asked me, “What? Did you think you had meningitis?”

I replied, “Well, I’m having the worst headache of my life, neck stiffness, and photophobia. I tried to assess myself for the Kernig's sign or Brudzinski's sign, but you can imagine how hard this is to do on myself.”

She laughed. Most probably because as much as she wanted to come off like a know-it-all nurse, she HAD NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT.

Listen. I wasn’t feeling well. Did I think I seriously had meningitis? I doubted it. Did I think that something else besides strep throat must be causing the head pain, neck pain, and dizziness? Fuck yes, Sherlock.

The nurse then snidely says, “Oh. Was meningitis something you read about? How long have you been a nurse?”

Me: Six years.

Nurse: Where?

Me: Medical Blank of Blank Blank.

Nurse: Really? I used to work there. I don’t remember you there? Are you sure?

Am I sure?

Not only did this bitch criticize my nursing critical thinking skills, which by the way, I don’t suggest anyone apply to themselves when you’re sick, she questioned whether I was lying about where I worked.

Seriously?

I also informed this nurse that narcotics make me nauseous.

She replied, “Oh! You’ll be fine!” as she pushed IV Dilaudid.

So, after dry heaving, crying, and asking the nurse three times for something for my nausea, it took an hour (my brother can confirm the time I waited) for another nurse (not my original nurse) to bring me an antiemetic.

So, now that I’m feeling better, I just have this to say to that nurse that took the time to insult me while I was sick, but did not have the time to bring me something for my nausea,

Go fuck yourself.

"You Speak English Well."

I often am reminded that I am not viewed as an everyday ordinary American at the most inopportune times. I abruptly got strep throat Monday evening, which really put an emergency break on all my activities, jobs, work out schedules, and other events on my calendar for the week. I woke up early Thursday morning at 3:30 am with unbearable head and neck pain. (For you medical people: on a scale of 0 to 10. It was an eight.)

I couldn’t pick my head up off the pillow without excruciating throbbing pain. I took Advil and told myself not to be a little sissy baby about it, but I could no longer stand it and worried that it may be something else going on instead of the run of the mill strep throat.

I called my brother and he drove me to the ER. I work nights in the hospital and I didn’t realize how goddamn bright the hospital is unless you are so sick you can’t open your eyes to the ever calming and soothing fluorescent lights.

I hung on to the check-in counter with my elbows, eyes closed, hair matted with grease, sweat, and sick nasty shit that usually gets washed away (but I've been too weak to stand in the shower the past three days). Little did I know that I was undergoing a citizenship test right there.

Registration lady (R.L.):
Your name?

Me:
Imelda Cuison.

R.L.:
Okay.

(Pause)

Is that Cush-in. Or Cuss-in.

Me:
It’s Quee- sawhn.

R.L.:
(Laughs)

Quee-sawhn?

(Laughs)

Okay. Sure.

She went on to ask me a number of interesting and intriguing questions about where I live, where I work, my occupation, my phone number, my work phone number… Basic questions when you check in to the ER.

Before she let me go to sit back down in one of the stained chairs in the waiting room, she commented nonchalantly, “You speak English well.”

I opened my eyes and looked up through the window.

Me:
I’m an American citizen.

R.L.:
What state were you born in?

Me:
Connecticut.

R.L.:
Okay. That will be all. Thank-you.

I left five hours later after Rocephin IV, NS at 75 cc/hr, Decadron IV push, Dilaudid IV push, Zofran IV push , CT scan of the head a neck with and without contrast, dry heaving into an emesis basin, Phenergan IV push, Phenergan IV push again, a diagnosis of tonsillitis, and a reminder that no matter where I was born, what I do, who I truly am, how much education I attain, or how many accomplishments I achieve…

I will always be an outsider in this great American land.

Thank-you, registration lady. I almost done well forgot what I learned from all these here years living in the U.S. of A.

Strange can clear your mind.

I’ll be viewed as an asshole for saying this and I’m not disputing that I’m a bona fide dickhead for practicing this philosophy at times, but there is nothing like strange to clear your fucking mind.

The kind of strange that’s 21 years old with a six pack, a GQ jaw line, and a very limited range of vocabulary. This isn’t the strange to leave your one and only for, but this is the strange to leave your dude for one night.

I think about all the day to day bullshit of a long term relationship.

The miscommunication:

What did you mean by that? –your significant other

Huh. I didn’t say anything. – you

Why do you always do this?! – your significant other

What? Do what? - you

Do you even care about me? –your significant other

What? What just happened? -you


The repetitive sex as interesting as brushing your teeth:

You wanna have sex? –your signficant other

Um. Sure. Why not? -you

Okay. –your significant other

(Long pause)

Oh! You mean right now? Can we wait until House is over? -you


The long boring conversations about the act of eating food:

What do you want for dinner tonight? - your significant other

I don’t know. What do you want for dinner? - you

I don’t know. What do you want? -your significant other

I don’t know. You pick. - you

No. It’s your turn. You pick. -your significant other

(This conversation will go on for another 10 minutes.)

And the other countless predictable interactions you have with the one you love. Please don’t get me wrong. When you love someone, you tolerate these banal activities with your sweetie. It’s comforting. It’s home.

But sometimes a nice piece of strange lands (literally) right into your lap. You could harmlessly be walking along and then bam! That shit slams right into you. You either pick yourself up and keep walking or let that mother fucker carry you off into the sunset (just for that night).

It’s up to you.

These occasional strange encounters have nothing to do with the person you have a life, a family, and relationship with. I stand by this: Absolutely nothing.

How can that be?

Because when it’s all over, you realize that strange doesn’t love you, won’t have a family with you, and won’t be there with you to experience life together.

Like I said: There’s nothing like strange to clear your mother fucking mind and remind you of the significance of your significant other.

Just keep it clean and don’t get caught. Or you might lose your significant other for good depending on how forgiving and understanding he or she is.

I am on the forgiving side and understand that shit sometimes happens to all of us. If I happened to leave someone on account of a one night mistake, I was lying and just waiting for a chance to hit the door and run.

From the words of wisdom of Chris Rock: Commitment will give you a headache every now and then, but new pussy will always clear your mind.

New Pussy Can't Cook sound bite  Chris Rock: Bring the Pain sound bites

New York, New York... Big City of Dreams -If You're into That

I’ve been to New York City on several occasions. I even seriously considered moving up there, but after this last trip, I have made an official declaration that I will never move there.

On most trips to NYC, I’ve been a tourist, a wayward traveler, just hanging out and partying with friends. This recent trip was similar, only it was more of an abbreviated excursion due to time constraints, the holidays, and the need to spend time with someone in a very limited amount of time.

You know the New York Minute people talk about? Ya. It’s a lie. It’s actually equivalent to 15 to 50 minutes depending on the day of the week, weather, or some unforeseen event like particular unavailable subway trains that you had no idea would be unavailable until you took 3 trains to get there. Fun.

When you’re milling around, taking in sights and bullshitting on your vacation, who gives a fuck about travel time? But when you are trying to get errands done in a time efficient manner, you might as well go fuck yourself, because the city will fuck you before you get a chance to cross even one thing off your to-do list.

To make the trip more annoying, it was too bitter ass cold. -Too cold to do anything on public transportation. Is this not a PC/ Go Green thing to say? Well, fuck you. 17 degrees is goddamn cold. I’m not one to be lazy and not want to walk somewhere, but I’m sure as hell uncomfortable walking through wind chill that's piercing through my face and my numerous layers of clothes.

Not to mention all the fucking people. No matter where you turn, there’s a mother fucker in your way or you’re in his. I’m not what you call a “people person” and all that non-stop human interaction is not something I can deal with 365 days a year, especially in winter.

On second thought: an addendum to my previous declaration is that I’ll move to NYC, only if I’m a millionaire. Rich New Yorkers don’t ride the subway, deal with hordes of people, or live in unsavory locales. Meaning: if I’m established enough as a writer and get to live in a swanky abode in Tribeca next to Jay-Z and Leo DiCaprio, sign me the fuck up! But until then…

New York is only for vacations.

(I always digged the West Coast more than the East Coast. Take that for what you will.)

2009 - The Year of the Douche Bag

As 2009 has come to a close, it's not just an end of a year, but an end of a tumultuous decade. A decade of fear, rapid advances in technological communication, and the detached human relationships that have evolved from such activities. 9/11 in 2001 started the panic and Homeland Security enforced the legitimacy of fear in 2003. We spent most of this decade searching in vain for weapons of mass destruction while George W. Bush (who I like to call, G Dub) repeatedly reminded us of the War on Terror. Terror. Terrorists. Fear. Fear mongers. War mongers.

In this decade of terror, digital communication evolved rapidly. Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, text, and e-mail use grew to enormous proportions due to our constant state of fear and the irrational need to stay connected. These tools of delayed digital communication simulate "connectedness", but in reality, only bring us further apart as we text away on our LCD screens in public places or stay glued to our computer screens in the privacy of our own homes. We now prefer quick messages instead of engaging in real time conversations with people face to face.

Even sex is curtailed and convenient. Booty calls from the 90's have disappeared and been replaced with the 2 AM mass text "Hey" and whoever answers first, wins! No more drunken drooling voicemails after a night of drinking. -My god! That's just too personal. Convenience is at its peak enabling people, like Tiger, to carry on with dozens of women in the same time frame. A commentator on CNN asked, "Where did he get all the time?" It's easy. You don't have to talk anymore; you can just mass text chicks the same heartfelt message. It saves time and minimizes actual emotional connection.

On a personal note, digital communication has resulted in "The Year of the Douche Bag." Why? Because, I don't ever take the time to have actual conversations with these people or attempt to connect to them on a personal level. I don't have to. Texting and facebook messages are so much easier and simulate that I really care. Before I know it, a year later I'm lying in bed with someone I don't really know, want to know, and have barely ever really talked to.

Anyone can make themselves witty, interesting and highly intelligent through texts. People now have the time to look shit up, re-read text messages 50 times before they press send, spell check, or ask their buddy what they should say. As a result, I plowed through douche bag after douche bag because I just didn't have enough time to get to know them. (Who has the time?)

It's the start of a fresh new decade and I hope for no more arrogant pricks, beautiful dudes that harp on the fact they're beautiful, dirty capitalists that pretend they're anti-capitalists just to go out with me, dudes that call 24 times in one night, little boys that cry (I have the voicemails to prove it.) when they don't get their way, and all other forms of trifling pieces of shit. Good-bye douches. 2009 was your year, but 2010 will not be.

What will the new decade bring? More fear? More ways to communicate in a delayed fashion? Will we become buffoons in real time conversations unable to respond in fast paced dialogue?

As a result of this menagerie of fear and quick piecemeal communication, will we all evolve into douche bags who can't communicate personally, but anxiously feel the need to communicate impersonally through outlets such as Twitter, Facebook, or whatever else comes out?

I hope, my dear friends, that the next decade will not be "The Decade of Douches." It's catchy, but not something we should shoot for. As a member of Generation X, I found the next generation, Generation Y or the Millenials, an interesting, extremely detached and unmotivated bunch, but what will we expect from the next generation coming up, the Gen Z's? All they have ever known is the easy accessibility to instant messaging, text messaging, internet communication, google, WOW, wikipedia, YouTube and cell phones.

Good luck to us all as Gen Y and Z steer us into the age of digital "connectedness".