Blessin’s: Mega-Rant Fall 2015

So, I think I’ve finally reached the point in my Broke Bitch lyfe when I’m not-so-broke-but-not-so-rich-and-therefore-still-broke. Plus my credit score is still kind of teetering on the fragile line of my drunken whims, so there’s that. I’m at a satisfied stasis where the recognition that my life is pretty sweet runs parallel with the admission that I’m morbidly insane and I’ll still reach for the highest-hanging poisonous fruit because it’s up there and I want it. Hence, I announce my departure from my old self: I will no longer bemoan my life’s circumstances and will instead focus all my attentions and efforts (and musings published on this blog) to appeasing my insatiable need to be like P. Diddy, almost physically burning money off my yacht in St. Tropez and giving less than a single fuck about what I’m doing to the environment. Because that’s capitalism, baby. Where would America be as a nation if she sat on her fat ass and didn’t sweat and claw and booty-clap her way to the top? (I don’t know, I think somewhere in my Introduction to International Relations course circa 2007 I just lost the plot and started stenciling ideas for a full-back tattoo of Orlando Bloom as Legolas, thereby completely missing out on learning what capitalism actually was…)

Why My Life is Awesome

This year, I noticed my genuine aversion to being a slutty carcinogenic strip of bacon for Halloween. I think, since I was 15, I had the default attitude that it was ideal to dress up as a sexy [noun], but for the past couple years all I wanted to be was Spongebob. In lieu of a full, foam box-shaped costume, I had to resort to more pointedly feminine options: La Llorona that one disastrous year, half-skeleton…lady…, Marceline from Adventure Time [but when my devil-guitar deflated, just a vampire with red lipstick]… I’ve been meaning to be Nicki Minaj in her Superbass music video, but I don’t have the ass for it. Then there was that secret, burning desire, all my life, to be Sailor Mars, obviously from the Sailor Moon franchise, but when I eventually learned what ‘yellow fever’ was, it kind of tarnished any express desire I could ever have to associate myself with anything that matches the following search terms: Asian, Asian girl, Asian schoolgirl, anime Asian schoolgirl, octopus porn.

This year, I was a matador. The intention was to be Blancanieves from the 2012 Spanish film adaptation of the Grimm fairytale, but when I got my outfit off Amazon, it was labeled ‘Matadorable.’ So, I was instead ‘Matadorable’ for Halloween. Nothing slutty, even in the presence of red lipstick. If you took away the $9.99 red tablecloth I bought last minute from Bed Bath & Beyond (used for this purpose as my bullfighting…thingy), I was just a Vietnamese mariachi. My dog son was Robin Hood because I didn’t think he would fit into the velociraptor costume I found online. My boyfriend was a dead-fucking-ringer for Vincent Van Gogh – I think I was more proud of how I could dress a fake ear wound than I was of already owning matching shoes for my own costume. #Squaddreamz

Outside of Halloween, my life is pretty sweet, too. I spent this morning feeling bougie af walking my bleach-white dog (for the record: I’ve never used bleach on my dog) out in the neighborhood, wearing an oversized knitted sweater, cuffed jeans, rabbit-haired flats, and a tobacco-colored leather tote from Madewell. I was basically living the dream of an entitled gentrifier dog mom in Brooklyn. Sure, I felt like an asshole, especially when I was among my faux-kin at the new[ish] coffee shop down the street (that caters almost exclusively to the hipster gentry), but…YOLO. This is what I wanted. I wanted to camouflage with the millennial elite, so I got a dog. I hate them, but I want to be them. It’s a vicious existential cycle, and sometimes I get so confused as to who I am and what my values are that I just binge-eat artisanal bread and call it a day. It’s exhausting but exhilarating. Such is the life of a young migrant in NYC.

I’m just kidding. I just felt like an asshole this morning. Bad example. But I do love my dog and the moral of that massive aside is that he improves my quality of life every day, and I’m proud to show him off as evidence that I can keep a clean dog in BedStuy (our bathtime song is a jingle I freestyle titled ‘Cleanest Dog in BedStuy’).

What else.

I’m in a loving relationship with a man who does some unspeakably embarrassing things for me, which I won’t dare enumerate here. But more palatable examples include: putting up with the side effects of my sleep apnea (snoring, drooling, sudden rapid arm flailing); finding peace with himself for dating the above-described entitled gentrifier dog mom; accepting our arrangement that the only time I’ll let him go out for a smoke break is if he takes the dog out with him, down and up all four flights of stairs; and doing his mortal best to look past my freak fanaticism for Lord of the Rings and Spanish soccer players. I’d like to think that we’re healthy; though, what I just described probably doesn’t make us appear so… we have our faults. I myself am beginning to regret introducing him to two of my favorite YouTube skits on being Asian: ‘Shit Asian Moms Say’ and Buzzfeed’s ‘If Asians Said the Stuff White People Say’. I may or may not have turned him into one of those white people who think they can be racist because they know/are dating someone of that ethnicity. Just perpetuating the shit-churn, Frances. I also suspect that he’s teamed up with his friend (who’s also dating an Asian woman) and started two-slices-of-Wonderbread Asian Enthusiasts members-only club. I imagine them being in the initial drafting phase of their manifesto, with accessorial literature bearing subject matter like, “How to Make Your Yellow, Beige.”

No but seriously, he’s great. And he’s ginger (and soulful!), so that’s like catching an exotic endangered species of fish with your bare hands. (True story: On a family trip to Maui at age 11, my uncle told me that if I caught a fish with my bare hands, he would give me $1,000. I have never forgotten the challenge, nor its symbolism of my personal failure as a hunter.)

Work and life are starting to level out. Despite the fact that we’re approaching the end of the year, which means we’ll be so busy that I anticipate crying nonstop for the next month and a half, I’m able to enforce a hard stop at 6pm to go home, be a [dog] mom, and work on my actual serious writing. Not the hemorrhage of nonsense that I spew here (that’s only okay because it’s kind of funny) but thoughtful efforts toward being a journalist/essayist/poet/prose writer. Otherwise rap lyricist. If for nothing else, I identify as a smart cookie for building a network of mentors. The cool thing about NYC is that it’s easy to do. Humbling yourself to ask someone else, to learn from someone else, is a whole nother kettle of fish, but remember that I have no shame, so I reap the benefits. No shame, just pride.

Areas for Improvement

In addition to being known as a crier among my work colleagues, I am also known as the girl who gets drunk at company-sponsored social functions and wails about how I am a single mother. For the record, I’m referring to my dog, the reason why I now have to skip out early to go home and walk him. No one is really letting me live that down, hence why I suspect no one in the office respects me (one of many, many reasons). They think I’m funny and fluffy, though. Maybe I could work on curbing my alcoholism, a Herculean task coming into the holiday season.

I need to invest good money into clothes and shoes that aren’t made to fall apart after a season. Read: a cold season.

I’ve also noticed that my dog and I are slowly morphing into the same persona: we’re retired from tha streetz, we act like our life is so hard, and we have a freak obsession with food, to the point where we display supernatural athleticism at the very mention of it. My dog can’t pick up on the scent of the other dog he’s about to run straight into if he doesn’t look up while we’re out walking, but he can smell the crumb of food that’s stuck to the side of my mouth from across the apartment. As for myself, I have almost induced whiplash in my neck from turning my head so sharply towards the kitchen when I hear the squeaky wheels of the catering cart from across the [sizable] office floor. Summation: we’re both born to be athletes. We just haven’t tapped into our potential yet. So, I think that should be our joint goal this winter. The obstacle is in the ambition itself: ‘winter.’ Daylight gainings time. How am I going to keep up with this unexplained weight loss I’ve experienced all spring and summer?


Stay tuned for the next episode…

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