grapes

At the behest of my readers, “Angry Asian Man” updates will be continued. Although thanks to my teachers, who semi-lounge all year and cram three chapters in the last two weeks of school, there won’t be many of them. I’ve been on a writing hiatus because of school and I can’t wait for summer. Frankly, however, I’ll probably end up surfing the Internet all season and wondering where my time went when BAM junior year hits me in the nose and ruins my precious family heirloom.

I guess the changes I came up with in my state of fluffy-brain and foggy vision are pretty odd. I cringe just thinking about all the sunshine and butterflies in that post. That’s not to say I don’t still believe what I wrote.

Yesterday and today I ran into two of our old gang. God that sounds so white. No offense, white people. In fact, I represented you on Friday during International Day. And if anyone is familiar with our school, it is that white people need representation. We have many Asian children who think they are very white. Stop looking at me.

White people talk differently than Asian Americans. Like “our old gang”. How eloquent, as opposed to what I would say, “my old group of friends.” Stereotypical much, fatteh.

At any rate, twas a poopy group of friends and we have since kablammed. I like sound effects today. Kablammed meaning split up. And thank god, because when I was with them my life was like a bad preteen novel that pretends to know what being a teenager is like. Honestly it’s not the teenagers with the hormones it’s the preteens, when you don’t know much better. Teenagers don’t know much better either but it’s more than preteens. After all, what right minded teenager would blast “Shut Up” by Simple Plan really loud so that their mother could get the message?

I only know one person my age who has even the tiniest appreciation for Simple Plan, and she has a smelly dog and a foggy fish tank. The fish tank doesn’t bother me, because I can’t smell it. And it doesn’t eat my food. And it doesn’t snore during movies, and it doesn’t roll around the floor or tackle me out of nowhere. Most of all, its stench doesn’t sneak into my mouth when I’m pulling an all-nighter hundreds of feet away from it.

Out of the four of us, and we have moved away from the topic of the smelly dog, only two remain at my school. And although the one that remains still pleasantly annoys me with her stubborn ignorance, I am a fairly happy camper. There, another white person phrase. Does spice up the writing though, doesn’t it? Although I shouldn’t be one to talk, because I say fatteh and poop.  

Saturday was the MUN conference at our school and old buddy number one was there. I snuck a glance at her feet in the poomps, excuse me, pumps, and they still look like tree bark. Sound bitter? Yes, I was. But as she walked across the floor I felt peace in my heart. God, I should stop taking my happy pills. I did not feel the urge to go up to her and rant about all the horror she’s ever done me from third to eighth grade. I did feel the urge to go and share my life plan with her, but I’d like to do that to everyone. It’s my favorite topic, what I plan to do, and that’s unfortunate for my sister, because she’s at the age when she doesn’t know at all and hates it when people ask her. I love to ask, because that leads to a discussion, and oh joy what fun blazooie.

Then real-fatteh said, “I like her.” And I immediately replied, “I don’t.” But I didn’t even mean it, I was in fact feeling nothing at the moment. It was left over from years of resenting her. Later she said hi to me and I just said hi back, as if I were trying to give away free bags of promotional flyers at a fair. Which I did, a couple weeks ago. That “hi” where your voice lights up and your eyes brighten and you smile like a flight attendant. Not meant to be artificial but not meant to be sincere either. It’s like, “I don’t know you but I wouldn’t mind getting to know you.”

But I’m glad that finally, I can see her and not get that feeling of “one day I will be famous and then you will see!” It just shows that I’ve got my priorities straight, and my motivations for wanting to be a filmmaker. The difference, I think, between my desire to be a filmmaker and my desire to be an actress is that the former is constant and the latter is sometimes only awakened when I’m acting, or when I read an interview with someone in a Johnny Depp movie and they describe how cool it is to work with him. Hopefully taking Theater Lab will help me figure that out.

Today at Wal-Mart I ran into the other one that moved to Houston, the one that introduced me to curse words and not wearing underwear. The latter I did not imitate, thank god. For the sake of all those who might accidentally have seen something. With this old buddy I never hated too much, except when I was her buddy.

It’s good that she introduced me to all those bad words, though, because having been her friend I’m a lot more lenient now. It’s contributed to my whatever, it’s your business attitude. Otherwise I would be screaming “Scandalous!” right and left, and meaning it.

After reading the fifty hundredth article on birth order, I’d just like to point out that not although some only children are loyal and lonely and nice and wonderful, I have only met two that were nice. Almost every person who has ever irritated me to no end was an only child. I think that siblings enhance imagination and creativity, rather than, as the article says, criticize and take away from it. When I think about having kids, and yes, it does happen, I’m a little bit afraid of having an only child. Parents mean well but it doesn’t always turn out as they expect. Then again, childbirth also scares the crap out of me so having a sucky kid versus tearing your vajayjay (LOOOOLLL) multiple times. Scandalous.

Look what I just dug up.

“Johnny Depp
No wonder heartthrob Depp has found himself called to the big-screen role of rebellious Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean—his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather William Depp was an early rebel as well, fighting against the British during the American Revolution.”

That’s not to say it’s true, because the author looked them all up on ancestry.com. Shame about his name, though. He’s welcome to the barbecue, nonetheless.

I would also like to announce that I can make the Star Trek sign now. But only with my left hand, and with some help at that. Woe is me.