Well, for starters, I unofficially hold the Guinness World Record for first and only person to walk out of a ZARA fitting room chewing (shopping off Broadway on a Saturday is an energy-depleting undertaking, so me, being the little smarty that I am, was packin’ Clif bars, bebe).
Last night, I had a very minor, no-cause-for-alarm meltdown after discovering that my older sister has more than twice the Twitter following that I do. The ‘content’ she shares (photos of my niece—aka heiress to my throne, so understandable—and hybrid emo/hipster quotes from invalidated sources) is uniform across her Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, which goes against the social media marketing bible that I was forced to imbibe in my profession. I, on the other hand, populate my Twitter stream with updates on Syria and the population’s mass exodus into, often, territory that is just as dangerous; reproductive rights; tech innovation; sports for social development; the NFL painfully signing what soul it had left to the Devil after its pathetic address of domestic violence; and the mistreatment of foreign correspondents. My sister can LITERALLY sneeze her annoying and totally unnatural (as in, not how she was born sneezing) sneeze and KAPOW! 50 new followers.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my sister. I’ve looked up to her my entire life, even when we were young and she so often violated my human rights by trying to kill me, making me her backup singer when we’d attempt to harmonize to The Lion King soundtrack, always leaving me the shitty grape-flavored candy in our Asian gum pack, and making me Kathy Najimy whenever we role-played Hocus Pocus. She is the true unconditional love of my life.
Having said that, the fact that she has more followers than I do really just chaps my ass. My roommate reasoned it thus: “Miley Cyrus has more Twitter followers than Ban Ki-Moon (the current Secretary-General of the UN, FYI).”
Other sister: “Maybe you should get pregnant.”
Two things wrong with that:
- That would mean I’d have to find a suitable male to fornicate with me to produce a child. New York just so happens to be a cesspool of freaks, sociopaths and man-children who make six figures but can’t manage to sustain a mature relationship (let alone with a mature female).
- A kid would really cramp my style.
Have yet to find rich adult male as suitor. Sure, I’m up to my eyeballs in sexy men at my hot-new job, but half of them are married, and the other half won’t give me the time of day, so obvious conclusion is that they’re gay, and I can’t fight anatomical incompatibility.
Why don’t I join Tinder? Because my roommate is on Tinder, and I would projectile-vomit violently if he ever came up in my search. Plus, the crazies find me JUST FINE without the aid of technology.
Why don’t I sign up for SugarDaddy.com? Because I’m planning on joining CougarLife.com later in life and I feel like I’d be a hypocrite if I signed up for both.
Millionaire Matchmaker? As much as I love Patti Stanger, her clients are freak-a-leaks. All of them. I don’t want to end up chopped up and eaten by my beau. (My roommate is in a snorting-fit of laughter at the thought of me auditioning, by the way…)
If all else fails, I suppose I can rely on my aunts to find me a completely inappropriate match, one who’s most likely their age; fat Vietnamese male with steady income, Vietnamese so as not to muddy the bloodline, will pay for my breast augmentation somewhere down the line … and Vietnamese (did I mention Vietnamese?).
Plan B (not that kind of Plan B): I will officially be returning to London for Thanksgiving. That’s four days to find an exotic foreigner who’s down to score a kimono-clad hottie (me) and a sweet-ass U.S. greencard.
Plan C: suicide.
Danish roommate: Is same-sex marriage legal in New York state? …Because I need a greencard *winkety wink*. Oh these sly foxes I live with!