The Long Answer

I really like the way your mouth
feels against mine and I don't care
that you're a wet kisser
because I'm the same.
Judging by how your tongue moves,
I'm confident that feeling it
on any other part of my body
is going to set me on fire.

Insert Annoyed Sigh Here

The novelty of the dating app was quickly lost on me about ten seconds after signing up. I know this. I have gone through this before. I even joined a lesbian dating app. That proved to be more entertainment (I would have to tell you the story in person), rather than functional, but I digress. I am more of a Wooderson than......not.

Reclamation Proclamation

Just when I thought that a broken heart would kill me, my blood sugar and liver levels almost did. Who knew that a sugar and carb-heavy diet along with short alcoholic stints throughout your twenties could do such a thing? Modern science. I did not want to go to the doctor for this very reason —i.e. empirical evidence that your body is in a state of protest, but I cannot die without seeing Tennis live, or going to WWC next summer. Plus, I want to see Kylie live at least one more time. Priorities, man. Anyway, I changed my diet, started drinking more water, and started going to the gym. This is going to be the blandest Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Eve ever. Diabetes and liver aside, my body and my mind are returning to normalcy. In conjunction with taking advantage of Medicare, I think the haircut set off a chain of events. I do not know why I tried so hard to comply with the respectability politics of square presentation. Actually, I do know why: because I was defining myself by my significant other. However, I am woman, I am non-white, and I am heavily-tattooed. Regardless of "radical hairstyles," I will always be a magnet for judgement. Life is too short not to own my douchebag queerness in its entirety.

I finally got my period after not having it for 5 months. Everyone thought I was pregnant.

One of the required texts in my research methods class is Light in the Dark/Luz en lo Oscuro: Rewriting Identity, Spirituality, Reality by the late Gloria Anzaldúa. Parts of it are in Spanish and it does take me longer to read since I have to refer to Google Translate often, but it is incredibly inspiring and therapeutic. I actually do not mind taking the extra time to understand the Spanish. Junot Díaz has a quote about wypipo willing to read books in made up languages like Elvish, but freak out when they see Spanish. But this is America! America that was once Mexico? I digress. At times, I chastise myself for relating too much to the mystical aspects of the text and I become embarrassed. But thems the "intellectual imperialism" breaks, right? Decolonization is exhausting.

I crash my car into a bridge; I don't care.

My personal (de)evolution of caring has ranged from caring way too much, to caring as a means of understanding, to not caring at all, to now caring in the spirit of academia. I was sensitive to what others thought about me to the point of going out of my way to put others on blast and consequently, showed my own whole ass. I took up the mantle of "The Personal Is Political" and fought with anyone who was a heteropatriarchal and classist holy roller. Then I attempted to shift my reactionary outbursts into understanding why people do the terrible things that they do, and why their actions do not align with what they say they embody: Christ's love. It was exhausting and when I hit my thirties, I stopped wanting to understand because excusing garbage behavior with daddy issues, personal insecurities, or willful ignorance under the guise of religious supremacy is total bullshit. I am not here for self-identified grown folks who have toddler tantrums and navigate their lives as mean girls. Maybe y'all need to work out your sociopathy with the assistance of a shrink and perhaps integrate the concept of the apology into your lexicon and personal philosophy. I digress, I am not a psych major.

Where does that leave me currently? Having to care enough about a topic to spend almost a year researching it and then presenting my results in order to complete my degree. Do I side with a topic that I researched last semester that resonates with who I am, but I am kind of burnt out on? Or do I jump into a topic that I am unfamiliar with, but excited about — especially with an ethnographic goldmine rolling into town in the spring?

So what?! Who cares?!

After Midnight We Could Feel It All

I saw Beach House live for the second time. They were louder than I remembered and I left the venue with a face fully melted and my liver in need of replacing. Teen Dream will always be my favorite album and it was kind of a bummer that they didn't play more of it. Minor complaint aside, I can only describe Beach House live as a spiritual experience. There is no other band that gives me the ghost. Coupled with the company of someone that I have missed immensely over the years, this was a nice summer send off — especially considering how hilariously tragic it began. I'm sure there could be some poignant way to end this post, but not without sounding too eat, pray, and love-esque. And that ain't me.

Mayonnaise Be Merry and White

My cousin and I had a brief conversation about our shared attraction to the caucasian persuasion and its roots in a white supremacist and hetero-patriarchal society that upholds Eurocentric beauty ideals as the epitome of hotness. I have a bad habit of overanalyzing. For example: is my tendency to open doors for others or step out of the way connected to the subservient Asian stereotype? Maybe. I consider myself an equal opportunist, however, my track record has been overwhelmingly white. Trust, in high school no Filipino guys were checking for me — maybe because I looked like a junior lesbian instead of a car model. As an adult, the same can be said about any person of color. Or perhaps my brain has been colonized to the point that it created a POC blind spot causing me to gravitate towards wypipo with yellow fever. That's not entirely true:

When I was nineteen or twenty, the Filipino fitting room attendant at the Ralph Lauren outlet store told me I had cute dimples. I bought two polo shirts and continually drove 45 minutes outside of town in order to bump into this guy because I didn't have the nerve to ask him for his number. The thirst was very real and very embarrassing. Also embarrassing is the seemingly decade-long crush on a non-white guy that I cannot shake. I am always doing something stupid in front of him in addition to transforming into a giggly teenage girl at every interaction. In summation, my boner is not as racist as John Mayer's.

In an attempt to decolonize other parts of my body, AKA my ears, I have been seeking out music made by POC. I gave Emily King a break to overload on Yuna. Interestingly, or not, I found King by going through Yuna's Instagram account. Her duet with Jhené Aiko is at the top of my Body Roll Summer 2016 playlist.

The live performance gives me goosebumps. I can't YASSSSS it enough. So much Asian slayage. I hope Yuna releases a video for it involving an '80s themed mall with glamour shots and eye rolling at exes at the food court. Also of particular interest is Yuna's duet with Usher titled Crush. Yuna has been making music for some time, so I do not have a good excuse for slacking. I would like to see her a) live in Las Vegas and b) do a buddy cop film with Esther Quek. Slay, Asian ladies, S-L-A-Y.

Take my soul to where it wants to go.

Radio is easily my second favorite Emily King song. At times I am salty about the fact that I possess no musical ability besides decent scores on the ol' Magic Mic. Most of my cousins on my mom's side are musicians because their parents are musicians. Perhaps what I have inherited from my mom is a real affinity for hoarding.