1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?
Holy shit, what a great year. I went to New York, Ho Chi Minh, Busan, and Seoul, and let it get awkward with a really pretty lesbian backstage at the Bowery Ballroom (Me: “You’re really pretty.”, Her: “…Thanks?”).
It should come as no surprise that the most miserable people I know are also the most codependent; the ones who seek validation in the opinions of others and tie their worth to numerous associations and relations. Bloodlines in so many ways.
It should come then as no surprise that the failure of an institution to remain relevant can be traced to its failure to adapt in the midst of an undeniable shift; by stubbornly clinging to archaic definitions of words that are as ambiguous as “home” and “family”; by stubbornly insisting on these terms as absolute, infallible, and forcing standards where only discussion should suffice. Continue reading “Where there are homes and families”
What you’re tasting is a derivative of masala chai, and if it sounds Indian, that’s because it is. You can trace tea from its current incarnation–the one co-opted for apple green interiors, sealed packaging, and wide straws–back to its roots in China and India (both of which are HUGE, making it difficult to retrace any exact origins, but it definitely wasn’t a European invention), where it was one of the main exports of the East India trading co (both British and Dutch). “Tea” is “te” or “cha” in any language, making it easy to order in any foreign country. Is tea a byproduct of empire? Who gives a shit about overthinking any of that when empire tastes this good.
People: my first boyfriend, but before that I think there was my first non-boyfriend. Going to a co-ed school grants these kinds of benefits, and you’d think that later it will no longer surprise you. As if getting your foot (or in this case, hand) in the door is something you can actually master over time (and in the case of some, it actually is), but it’s different every time. So there was my first boyfriend with whom I held hands under the table in grade school. Yes, grade school. You can go puke now.
And now for the double-dose of feelings: when did it become easier to talk about needing to get laid than needing to just hold someone’s fucking hand? Do I need to use “fucking” as a modifier at this point? I don’t know. The last person I went out with in the semi-serious, good Filipina girl way also held my hand under the table. I remember looking at him and he was sort of staring into the distance, as if he didn’t want any emotion at all to register on his face, because that would mean giving something away. And somehow, to give anything away at all is unthinkable in this day and age. When did this happen?
After that were the not-so-serious ones, the ones with immoveable deadlines which were usually set for the end of the night or the next morning. But what came with them was this earnestness that literally makes your face crumple.