Thirty, Flirty, and Dying

Guys. I’m 30. Holy shit. Prepare the lamb for blood sacrifice.

I chant over the carcass.

I need to rebrand this blog “Stale-Ass Broke Bitch,” or “Perma-Broke Bitches Only.” Or, better yet, “This Shit Is Baked Now.” Just spitballin’.


I am at liberty to go to bed at 9:30pm every night of the week without all y’all groaning about how boring I am. I am entitled to being boring, and also to my afternoon naps of no less than 60 minutes. I will creep on the young bloods, then wildly freak out when I find out they were born after 1999. If a bouncer or bartender asks for my ID, I will say, “Makes me feel young again.” I may take up smoking just so that I can hold a limp cigarette carelessly between my index and middle fingers in one hand, and a glass of wine precariously balanced in the other. “Busy being antisocial” is now a perfectly valid reason for not participating in public life. I am absolutely justified in preferring the company of animals to humans (humans = trash). I get to jump on my soapbox whenever I damn well please because I’ve officially lived some semblance of a life and have seen some shit, enough to preach about it. Ready my congregation. And, last but not least, I get to do whatever the fuck I want with my life.

Since I moved back to California, I’ve been going home to Orange Country at least once a month, and my old man, Papa Panda, the guy whose caretaking I invariably abuse (I usually request that he meet me at the airport or train station with In N Out* or Vietnamese coffee because, you know, I’m an asshole), tells me, at least once a day, “When are you going to get a stable job? You need good health insurance.” He also says that he thought he’d be “in my good hands” by the time he retired, and now he’s afraid he’ll be taking care of my ass until one of us dies (not entirely untrue).

Ok, so first of all, the planet is either gonna implode or be hit by an Armageddon-esque asteroid by 2030, so I don’t think retirement and health insurance are my immediate concerns right now. Second, is there a cliff nearby I can jump off of?

Fare thee well, hoes.


Trying to explain to my therapist why I reach for suicide so quickly when I disappoint my parents (or, shit—anyone’s parents) is so difficult because she didn’t grow up with real fear in her life. Once, my father made an attempt on my life because I came home with my first C. I was in the second grade. Even then, I’d rather be beaten mercilessly than live with the guilt of my parents surviving war/imprisonment/displacement and having to start life from scratch in a new country, only to have their daughter bring home a C in, like, simple addition or whateverthefuck. That shit stays with you well past the age of 30, friends.


But I do console myself with knowing that I belong to a tribe of Asian Americans whose parents hate them because they chose to follow their dreams. This is a real thing.

So, yes, the life decision I made this year as a *third-decade gift* to myself—to move back to my home state and pursue writing full time in order to save my soul—was and remains at great cost to my father’s wellbeing. So, I need to get rich ASAP; otherwise, you know, suicide. And that’s the goal for my thirties: get rich or die tryin’.

By the way, freelancing sucks. That’s what I’ve been doing instead of writing for this blog for the past however-many months (that, and the regular fuckshit I do on the daily, like spend absurd amounts of money on dining out, books, skincare, wine, Madewell, and vacations I haven’t earned). I’m submitting essays, pitching, writing op-eds, editing—I even submitted a pilot script for my “my mom as an immigrant vampire” television series idea (this is a true story, and Ron Howard was not impressed). Needs some work, but the concept, I believe, is solid gold.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s exciting and rewarding to produce shit and put it out into the world, but, sometimes, it’s like going through nine months of pregnancy, obscene hours of labor, and a complicated birth … only to try to sell your baby and find out that no one wants it. Like, what? My baby too ugly for you? The face can be fixed, but the intelligence and sexy humor are there, and they are bountiful! It can be a little defeating, but if there is one thing I have stamina in, it’s beating a dead horse until it turns into vapor. So, best believe I’m still gonna be churning out this pyrite and trying to sell it to you as a blood diamond.

I’m also considering writing a collection of poems titled “Revenge Body,” which has nothing to do with whatever fuckery Khloe Kardashian is involved with, but maybe. The only thing is I’ve never written free verse poems before, and I generally don’t know wtf I’m doing most of the time. These are minute but significant details.

What else, what else… I started back on yoga again, which is always heartbreaking and hilarious. But, this time, I’m committed to treating my body with a little more respect than I would an abandoned lot with overgrown weeds and trash strewn everywhere. I want to start swimming in the ocean as exercise (and not have a shark mistake me for a sea lion), and I want to learn freediving so I can eventually just turn into a mermaid. Like a hot one, though. Not blob-maiden.


Anyway, so, long story short, I think my thirties are gonna be lit. In this next decade, I hope to marry rich, star in a non-speaking role, publish a book of hoodrat poetry, and finally be able to touch my toes again. Cheers to me.

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Coming up next: I will tell you about this tattoo I got that I immediately regretted.


*Not anymore though because they’re bigger assholes than I am.

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