The Almost 23 Year-Old Virgin

Life sucks.
Nobody is willing to watch "Snakes on a Plane" with me...
The Discovery Channel in Taichung doesn't have audio... (speaking of which, did you know there are these kind of wasps who inject their eggs into butterfly pupas so the new offspring would have a ready meal when they hatch?)
Wasps lay eggs into butterfly pupas...

And I just recently got setup with a blind-date.

Since when did my love life stoop to the level of blind introductions--and by my bi-centennial aunt?! (sorry auntie) Oh yeah: I'm almost 23 years-old, and the only dating action I've had is via Final Fantasy XI... whoring a computer-generated catwoman to similarly pathetic (but surprisingly horny) gamers for online currency. Ok, so my love life is sad. But blind-dates-sad? That's going too far.

Still, I swallowed my pride (or what's left of it) and went anyway. And let me tell you. I looked good in my new black Neil Barrett shirt (yes I got new clothes for the occasion) along with my usual slick $200 jeans. I was hot hot hawt. No doubt about it. And I was charming. Ok, maybe I wasn't particularly charming, but I was a perfect gentlemen. I opened and closed car doors for a woman for the very first time. Fred Astaire would have been proud.

But alas, the only sparks that flew took place on the candlewicker across our table. It wasn't that she was boring (or that I was, God forbid), it was just that while I talked about Snow Patrol, Edinburough, and the economics of social security, she talked about unattentive waiters, throwing eggs at world-cup paraders in Swiss, and annoying mainlander accents. Mainlander accents are annoying, sure... but first-impression, blind-date-conversation-worthy? I don't know about that.

So life sucks. There are unattentive waiters... world-cup paraders in the middle of the night... and those oh-so-annoying mainlander accents...

Being a single, almost 23 yr-old virgin doesn't sound so bad any more, does it?

Diss-cuss-ions

I've never been too picky about my friendships--such is the privilege reserved for drama-majors and models with Olympian bodies and faces. As for hypocritical, bitter whiners like me, I am left to happenstance and my dysfunctional pheromones--to the detriment of not only me, but i'm sure, of also my acquaintances.

Jimmy (aka Jimbo/Spiky/Silent-Bomber/Pkyal/Japanese Woman) is such a "fortunate" individual who had the unfortunate opportunity to become one of my closest friends (aka verbal-abuse puppet). Fondly employed as a foil to my forsaken divine superiority, Jimmy is often called upon (and then mentally manipulated) to participate in "discussions" that are really "diss & cuss" sessions wherein my insatiable ego throws sticks and stones to his seemingly indeflatable self-esteem.

While this may sound incredibly cruel on my part, but as you will soon see, it is completely natural and necessary at times. Sure, it may have been slightly sadistic of me to make Jimbo repeat his word "mum-sole-liam" 5 times before revealing the correct pronunciation of mausoleum, but if you had been eavesdropping on our "discussion" of the movie Brokeback Mountain, surely you would understand my penchant for mockery and sympathize with my fragile nerves.

Jim: Oh btw, I saw Brokeback Mountain
Me: So, what did you think of the movie?
Jim: I was like, 'Wow! Gay people can love!'
Me: ...................................... *hurls silent insults in his direction*
Me: Um...... *still baffled at his apparently primitive understanding of love*
Me: .....wtf? Are you serious?
Jim: Yeah
Me: ......I mean...even animals can love....what the fuck do you mean.... omg...
Jim: NoOoo! They can not!
Me: errr... YES THEY CAN! Just take Emperor Penguins, and their tremendous devotion to their partners and offspring.
Jim: That's just reproduction! They aren't even monogamous for life (Ok... i'm paraphrasing here... Jimmy probably doesn't even know how to spell "monogamous", let alone pronounce it)
Me: They are monogamous for 1-2 years before the cycle repeats! Besides, who says love must span 20 years? So are you saying relationships that don't last particularly long aren't ones based on love?
Jim: Yeah...
Me: So the thing you had with Ms. Whatsherface wasn't love? You didn't love her? You led her to believe you were in love with her so she would date you for so long, wasted all of her time, when in reality you didn't love her?
Jim: ............
Jim: Fine! Damn....
Me: *smirks*
Me: ....What else? What else did you think about the movie?
Jim: Um... what else do you want to hear? All right!.... I was like, 'I'm glad I'm not one of them'
Me: .......................................*hurls more silent insults in his direction*

By the end of the conversation, we had concluded that Jimmy actually did enjoy Brokeback Mountain--more so than any other movie in his recent memory. Yet inspite of his high rating (4 out of 5 stars), his only comments were: 1) wow, gay people can love! 2) i'm not one of them! and 3) the char development was good.

.......................................*hurls even more silent insults in his direction*

Bubba will be condemned to hell for his insidious mind and tongue, and it's all Jimmy's fault.

A Case of Vocab-Deficiency

There are two things I can count on while I'm back at Columbia: 1) crappy asian take-out and 2) self-induced stress from severe procrastination. While my stomach has slowly accustomed to the former (by accustomed, i mean not eating), I am still fruitlessly trying to overcome the latter (and by trying, I mean reading a line or two during tv commercial breaks).

Life (really by no fault of mine) has thus become hectic. As I can no longer escape the prospect of graduation (only 1.5 semesters to go)--and subsequently, idling musings of what to do with my life post Columbia--suddenly, I found myself in a bulky grey suit ( complete with an unmanageable belt...and even more unmanageable hair), interviewing for Bain & Company (a consulting firm that must've been stoned to give me an interview in the first place). Jittery from all the Ricola cough drops I've been sucking, I approached my interviewers with firm hand shakes and hearty introductions; from there, all went blank.

Interviewer: According to your resume, under your interests, you have listed, 'prescribing pseudo-psychiatric solutions for distraught friends'. Could you please elaborate?

Me: Um.. yes. I have been known to be a... *searches for correct word*... "mediator" of sorts among my circle. Yes, that's right... I like to think I can help... *searches for correct word*... "allevi-ameli-orate" their problems....

Interviewer: Okay...... let's move on to a case, shall we?

--Strike One--

What am impression I must've made. I responded the interviewer's question by just rewording what I have already written in my resume. To make matters worse, the best words I could come up with after the dreadful long pauses were "mediator" and "allevi-ameli-orate". The second isn't even a word... a semblance of "ameliorate" at best.

Nice going Bubba.

The Bubba Show

Yes, I am 21 years old; yes, I don't have a driver's license; yes, I still don't have a girlfriend; no I am not gay (I blame my slender waist and occasional lisp); and yes I do not have any fucking privacy.

It's hard enough to be back at home...with people... after being accustomed to spend hours of solitary confinement in my tiny dorm room @ Columbia; but coerced social interaction (what can I say... I need the free food and shelter) AND an invasion of privacy? --Now that's going too far.

Like any other pathetic loser in his 20s with a computer, staying awake past midnight is as a whore to STDs: Inevitable. Don't mind I have a tiny msn contact list--and even fewer people who care to talk to me--but there are still tons for me to do in the wee hours of the morning. There's FFXI, porn, more FFXI, more porn, and um... more FFXI. So what if I decide to spend precious sleep time engaged in these unhealthy activities (although I do remember reading from somewhere that masturbation is good for you...), the point is I am 21 years old (months away from 22... /sob), and I should have control over my time and my schedule.

Apparently, I am deeply mistaken. Living @ my parents house in Vancouver means they have full rights to enter my room (to check if I am asleep and yell at me if I'm not) at any hour they please. Though they have yet to catch me with my pants at my ankles, I have been caught red-handed, oogling at my hawt mithra's ass on FFXI on more than one occasion. What follows is a series of nasty threats, at which point I have learned to tune out but nod my head knowingly in their direction. I got the gist of it though: It's either my computer or my hair... or my limbs (I think?)...but something has/have got to go.

It's been almost 2 weeks now, and I have yet to get a full nights rest. My parents, of course, blame the computer and FFXI, but I suspect otherwise. The reoccuring nightmares about losing my hair, arms, and legs can't be good for my sleep. Sure I can start going to bed early and end the hostility altogether....

Or I can get a lock...

I think I will go with the latter.

My Witty Brilliance

It's 4 am, and the morning air is cool and crisp like summer watermelon. For the past 2 hours, I have been lying in my bed, unable to sleep... which is unusal, as it IS late...and I had signed off Final Fantasy XI earlier in what I thought was weariness taking over. Now I wish I had stayed on a little longer...

Wow... I hadn't realized how sad my life was until I read what I just wrote. That's right: FFXI is and has been my life lately. Needless to say, my social vein has long been bled dry, declared dead, and buried in room for a fabricated online existence; a world in which names like "Mrbiginpants" and "Yourmom" are just as dignified and simultaneously insignificant as any other.

*Mrbiginpants readies Pentathrust on Yourmom*
*Yourmom is defeated by Mrbiginpants*

Ok... so maybe they are not very "dignified" personas, but they sure roam the cyber reality with their characters' heads held upright (betraying little of the annoying grinning faces of their users, whom I imagine, are perpetually chuckling at their seeming display of witty brilliance). If only when I slap their characters with mine, the stinging pain can travel up their overwrought fingertips and settle on their sun-deprived, pimply cheeks...

*Bubba slaps Mrbiginpants and Yourmom*
*Mrbiginpants and Yourmom are defeated by Bubba*

--I grin at the thought, my pale and pimply cheeks stretching to bare my shiny retainers.

A Male Erin Brockovich

For those of you still in the dark as to what I have been up to this summer (besides playing online games and perfecting my thumb-twirling uberness..), I have been working as a summer intern in this advertising agency in downtown New York. At first, I welcomed this new responsibility with haughty disdain and mild curiosity... but after having to wake up 9 am everyday (I work from 10-6), and share stuffy oxygen with too many a farting new yorker in the subways, I decided it was too much; correction: my body decided it was too much.

Last wednesday, I came down with a nasty flu that attacked my throat and joints. Though physically debilitating, I was, thanks to my illness, privileged to become acquainted with the sweet words, "sick leave". No waking up to my fucking alarm clock... no more silent bombs in the subway... I was, in short, flying in heaven.

The nyquil-nasal-congested-dry-eyes-sore-joints existence was addicting. I went back to work two days later sporting my cold symptoms with the pride like an ex-veteran showing off his collection of shiny medals. As far as I was concerned, I was a hero enduring through harsh times and even harsher responsibilities. I was a very sick person at work. I was a male Erin Brockovich.

My coworkers, though, were not amused. One in particular made it very clear I was not the selfless hero I assumed to be: "You shouldn't force yourself by coming to work, Edwin, because not only are you suffering, you're putting all of us at risk."

Oh how I wished I had a gun.












As my superior walked away, I imagined myself detonating a gas bomb filled with highly contagious flu bacteria right there in the kitchen. Fuck Erin Brockovich, I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to all to breathe from their mouths as they phone into a near empty office the next day, painfully uttering, "I hab a code..."

Of course in the last second (in the frantic race against time), I ousted my evil thoughts with the "Omph" and "Kapowie" a la Batman & Robin, saving everyone from an otherwise horrific castastrophe.

Damn I am heroic.

The Delicate Art of Thumb Twirling

For the record, there IS such a thing as the "Art of Thumb Twirling"--and I would know, since I am the official founder of the "Edthumb Method" (I am still working on the name...). Anyway, I thought I would share my secrets with all of you, sitting mindlessly at your computers, lost as to the meaning of life. Lemme tell ya, I've been there (thanks to my current internship at DeVito/Verdi), and I have finally discovered life's best well-kept secret:

Thumb-twirling.


Sure, it doesn't sound very impressive... but you would be dead wrong if you were to underestimate the intricacies of this hush-hush activity. As a matter of fact, just two days ago, I had to explain how mentally taxing the presumed "simple" task was to a friend over msn. Needless to say, he was not at all prepared for the apparent demands of this form of meditation:

jawz@home, working says: oh help me find some stats...
jawz@home, working says: this one is hard to find... ><
jawz@home, working says: malaysia's monthly life insurance premium since april, 2004
me: >.>
me: you do know I too have work to do while I'm at work <.< [note: Here by "work" i mean thumb-twirling, of course~]
jawz@home, working says: no u don't.... [note: Never underestimate the art...]
jawz@home, working says: u're just twirling ur thumb [note: "JUST"?! The nerve!! ...and apparently he's psychic]
me: twirling with grace, I might add...
jawz@home, working says: yes now... please gracefully use ur graceful fingers to search for the figures for me...
me: I'm sorry. Twirling my thumbs takes up all of my fingers'time
jawz@home, working says: but u know... u need use some of ur other fingers too... or else they'll be numb... so might as well give ur graceful thumbs a break
me: My other fingers provide the necessary anchor and stability for my thumbs to twirl ever so gracefully
jawz@home, working says: they're not moving...
jawz@home, working says: hence numbage
me: and they should stay that way if my thumbs were to continue to twirl gracefully
jawz@home, working says: but u know they want to know the insurance premium for malyasian life insurance sooo badly
me: unfortunately my brains are not located in my thumbs
me: ...and yes, I have multiplie "brains"
jawz@home, working says: er
jawz@home, working says: i dun get it ><
me: I don't know what that means either >.>
jawz@home, working says: keke
jawz@home, working says: so u found it already?
me: you wish
jawz@home, working says: ah u fool
jawz@home, working says: go away lol

Indeed, practitioners of this art are often ignorantly labelled as "fools". Us thumb-twirlers must bear the scorn of society as our fingers dance in the shadows of corporate offices everywhere.



Therefore, my dear friends, if you ever get a chance to hear more about or, by golly, witness this delicate art, consider yourself blessed. Jawz@home, working had that opportunity slip through his fingers (EDIT: literally).

That was his mistake.