On My Tumors. And Allergies.

"I have the worst headache ever," I complain.
"Do you have Advil? Are you dehydrated? Did you eat?" He questions and then examines my eyes, nose, mouth, and ears to make sure I won't combust.
"...I feel like death. What if I have an aneurysm?"
"......"
"From a tumor?"
"..."
"And I die."
"Noooo!!!" He screams and shakes me by the shoulders.
I slump over onto his shoulder and hold my breath to mimic a dead person.
"I think you're exaggerating. You don't have an aneurysm. And it's extremely unlikely."

Then he holds my hand and pulls me along, addressing my pain-noises by squeezing my hand.

Variations of this conversation, including eyeball cancer, stomach tumors, and ankle tumors, happen at least once a week and he always plays along but I don't think he, or anybody, actually takes me seriously. I could have a tumor. And die. It could happen to anybody.

Fine, I'm a drama queen and the title is a little extremely misleading but I don't care.

This year, I have probably, most likely, developed allergies. (I hypothesize that I am allergic to spring.) On Sunday I thought I would leak out all the fluids in my body. Which would in turn, cause a tumor to grow and make me die. I Googled this and clicked on the first link. Because that's how I Google-search, betch. This article and its studies may be more than 2 years old but it didn't stop me from reading it. The only thing I really took away:

“People with allergies seem to have less cancer or have fewer different cancer types than patients who don’t have allergies,” says Engkilde. “The reason for this is uncertain but it might have to do with the immune surveillance theory, which speculates that patients with allergies may have a more ready and observant immune system that could lead to earlier detection of cancerous cells.”

TL;DR version: You can still get tumors/cancers whether or not you have allergies. And possibly die.

But that is all besides the point. I suddenly have so much more sympathy for my friends who have been suffering from allergies. My deepest and most sincerest apologies for being such a douchewad when seasons turned on you and I would guilt trip you into coming to hang out even after you refused through five different social media platforms because your allergies were killing you. Sorry.

I'm not a hypochondriac. I'm just prepared.

For the Love of the Game #2

"Are we really going to shovel it all?" I asked.
"Well, at least half," somebody hesitantly responded.
"It looks like a lot of snow."
"We can't afford to play in rec centers and the courts will be full anyway," another added.
"I guess it won't be so bad..."

We looked out from our heated cars, enjoying the last few seconds of warmth before we braved the cold. Somebody opened a door and I felt the wind chill overpower any heat that hung in the car. We moved out, opened the trunk, and pulled out shovels. We walked out to the court, snow up to our thighs (although now that I think about it, it might've only came up to our knees haha), determined to shovel off Mother Nature's dandruff.

* * *
I miss playing ball.

Playing basketball during the winters? Indoor courts were always packed with leagues and tournaments. Despite that, we found ways to play.

Where I'm from, nobody shovels anything. Mostly because they have snow-blowing machines, but because if they DO shovel, it's their own driveway or walkway. I remember one winter, it had been snowing for days and after not being able to get into a rec center, we decided to shovel half of a basketball court by one of our teammate's house. We started when the sun was rising and stopped when the sun started setting at 3pm. Our fingers were cold and we couldn't feel anything. Our shoes and socks were soaked through. We were famished. And even if we tried to run, the cement was still too wet and slippery. And we couldn't bounce a ball on wet cement. I'm surprised we didn't die of hypothermia.

I don't remember if we played. Knowing my teammates, we must have. I do, however, remember one of the girls saying that if it got too dark, we could shine our headlights onto the court so we could keep playing.

* * *
In retrospect, we were so in love with basketball, we were dumb. We could have died. Of hypothermia. Or if we had slipped on ice and cracked our skulls open. Or of hunger. I wasn't even that good to begin with. I always fouled out of games. Why was I out there in the winter cold shoveling half a court?! Hahaha because I loved basketball. I don't think I've ever devoted so much time or energy into anything since then. I wonder why. Was it a collective sort of obsession we had that we were able to bounce off one another? Or was it because I just wanted to wear my reversible jersey all the time? Maybe both.

On Confronting Racism.

I grew up in Midwest suburbia with Asian immigrant parents who were over-protective and inadvertently racist. Let's just say that the majority of my graduating class was white and the people I spent my weekends with my cousins and church friends, who were Hmong.

In high school, my parents rented out an apartment of a building they owned to a single, black woman. She was able to pay all of the security deposit, the first and last month's rent, but wasn't able to pay the second month's rent. Or the third. My dad somehow got her to leave. An ex-boyfriend hypothesized that it's because my dad's the head of an Asian mafia. I doubt it.

My dad applied this experience to all black people. It was always subtle but callous remarks about how irresponsible and dirty they were. (We had to clean out the apartment after she left...and well, she was pretty dirty.)

To make it fair, my dad was an equal-opportunity hater. He almost always had a reason for disliking anybody. I think he secretly dislikes all the guys I've dated because they weren't Hmong. Don't get me wrong, my dad is a great guy. I think his misconceptions of particular groups of people stem from being wronged one too many times.

This sort of ethnocentrism bred in me, a fear of anybody who didn't look or speak the same native tongue as I did. I'm not saying that I was racist. At least, I don't think I was. No, I was just afraid. Of everything, it seemed. Yes, I was that sheltered.

That fear followed me to college in New York.

* * *
I remember seeing their names on my door. One girl's name stared with a Z. I automatically thought she was Egyptian. Probably because there was an Egyptian girl in one of my high school classes and her name also started with a Z. The other girl's name sounded like she was from the backwoods (err..swamp waters?) of Mississippi or something. I was such a derp for assuming such ridiculous things. I want to go back and slap my 18-year-old self.

When I met them, they were nothing like I had expected. They were two energetic black girls. Sort of like Raven from That's So Raven but without the psychic powers. (Yeah, that's exactly what I thought when I initially met them.) They introduced themselves to me and invited me to join them for dinner. I was blown away. They didn't seem anything like the woman who had skipped town on my parents. They seemed...just like me.

That night, my parents called to see how I was doing. I reported that things were great and I had met my roommates. My father immediately grilled me when he found out my roommates were black. He tried to convince me to change rooms. I eventually gave my roommates a bullshit reason about why I wanted to change rooms. I think they told me I could do whatever I wanted to do, but I'm pretty sure they saw right through me.

Needless to say, I didn't change rooms. And I'm glad I didn't. The fear that was originally there, melted away within weeks. I became comfortable. We weren't all that different. We shared similar struggles. We had the same problems with classes and studying. We shared common boy problems. We argued with and missed our families the same way. We had similar fears. We cried and laughed at the same things. We had dreams and aspirations. We were weird in our own special ways. And they've been (to date) the cleanest roommates I've ever had.

They introduced me to their black and Latin friends, people who I probably would never approached had it not been for them. They called me the blackest Asian girl they'd ever known. Before I knew it, they became more than roommates, we became friends.

By the end of my first semester, the most valuable thing I had learned was this: racism and prejudice--it's happens because we're afraid of what we don't understand.

With any people group you'll encounter, there will always be exceptions. The few bad eggs. But that has nothing to do with the color of their skin or the language they speak or where they're from. It's because of that own individual's decisions. Whether in New York City or in midwest suburbia, there will always be good and bad people regardless of their skin color.


Dear Z and S, thank you for not judging the color of my skin or the shape of my eyes. And for seeing past my fears and shortcomings. And also, for teaching me words like "OD" and "wallin' out." But most of all, thank you for not being ashamed of who you are and for teaching me likewise. I love you both so much!

On Sharing Food With Your Significant Other.

I don't know how other couples do it. When L and I go out to eat and we decide to split something, it never ends well. Usually, I end up letting him eat more because ...well somebody has to piggy back my lazy face home. And that person needs all the energy he can get. But if we decide to get two dishes, he'll either devour both of the dishes or we will have leftovers that goes to waste because we forget about it in the fridge.

Either way, I'm hungry and he gets hungry by the time we find his car to go on our next adventure. No one ever really wins.

* * *
The first time L and I met, we shared a mac and cheese. More specifically, a mac and cheese with lobster. It still is the single most delicious thing either of us has ever tasted. Heavenly good. So good it would've been possible for both of us to die because our lives would've been completed. (I like to think that it's the most delicious thing we've tasted because the day I we entered his life each other's lives was a game-changer and it enhanced the way we saw the world and tasted foods was suddenly so much more enjoyable. hahahahhaa aaah...)

We would have also shared fries but the bartender said that they didn't have any.

I distinctly remember taking a bite of the scrumptious mac and cheese before returning to try to convince the bartender that they should and could make fries for me. My logic was that since their menu offered baked potato, their kitchen was more than equipped to make fries. It's basically the same thing. All they needed to do was cut up the potato and use a deep fryer but he just shook his head and told me they couldn't make fries. Maybe they didn't have knives.

I may or may not have made a big deal out of it.

I eventually gave up and decided all that talk wasn't worth anything. When I returned my attention to the lobster mac and cheese, it was gone. So gone that the plate it came in didn't even have any grease left. I dragged my fork across the plate to try and scour any leftover grease or cheesy lobster bits but it was literally demolished.

I looked at L and he looked at me and then he shrugged. He shrugged at me. HE SHRUGGED. With the hugest puppy eyes and pouty lips I've ever seen on a man. It was like he knew he had done something wrong without the intention of making me upset and he didn't know how to diffuse the situation because it was the first time we were hanging out.

This should have been a sign that homeboy has a black hole in his stomach and that I should have stayed away if I didn't want to die of starvation. But of course, me being me, I couldn't. Those lips!

Inside, I was seething. I was starving and seething. I wanted to stab his eyeballs with my fork. But I didn't. Instead, I think I started crying and to try to hide my tears, I ordered a round of drinks to hide my sadness...and hunger. I think he ended up drinking both our drinks.

* * *
I've tried to keep up. I think I do a pretty decent job but sometimes I just give up and let him consume everything. Like Kirby. That's literally how he eats and drinks. He inhales everything. Everything.


We've come to a semi-compromise. We each order what we both want to eat and when it comes out, we give the other person just a little bit of what we ordered and then we race to see who eats the quickest. He usually wins and then he'll sit beside me and stare at my plate of food and keep ordering drinks for himself. I usually push my plate towards him and tell him (in my Mortal Kombat voice) to "finish him it." (Which btw, didn't you hate it when you were able to "FINISH HIM" and you tried to do a combo but then you just end up low-kicking or punching your opponent? Ugh.)


And when I'm REALLY hungry, I've even ordered food that contains things he's allergic to or doesn't like eating just so he won't touch anything on my plate. Whatever people, you would too if you wanted to survive.

On Dating A Writer.

I recently showed my boyfriend a love letter my friend's boyfriend wrote her. Afterwards, he made a smug comment: "I know, deep down, you wish I’d write you a cheesy letter like that. If he wrote me a love letter, it would go like this: Dear X, Thanks for moving to New York 7 years ago. Thanks, L. Even though he's intelligent and as sharp as a corner of a Lego when you step on it, he’s the most articulate (and quite frankly, the best) when he's trying to teach me something technical.

* * *
He was a writer. An actual writer. Who got paid. For a living. Something I once aspired to be.

His writing consumed me. His prose captivated me. His characters became friends and enemies. His plots and conflicts were simple yet deep. And at the end of each read I'd find myself in a withdrawal, thinking it could not possible for me to read anything so meaningful ever again.

In retrospect, I was probably more enthralled with the idea of him and his writing, as opposed to who he really was.

One night after dinner, we decided to walk the 20 blocks back to my apartment instead of taking a cab or train. Within 5 blocks, it started pouring. It was a full-on springtime monsoon. As if the clouds decided to explode on the earth. The kind of rain that only happens in kdramas. I did the only thing I thought was logical. I ran. I sprinted down Broadway and finally stopped when I reached shelter under some scaffolding. I waited and caught my breath while I searched for him through the waterfall-like rain. When he finally appeared, he was soaked from head to toe. "You know, you don't stay any drier if you run in the rain," he said when he reached me. I wanted to challenge him but judging from the way we were both soaked, he probably wasn't wrong.

We walked the last couple blocks. It was cold and painful, unlike the kdramas and Hollywood films that have brainwashed me to think otherwise. A block away from my apartment, he stopped me. I stared up at him under the pouring rain, shivering, teeth chattering, makeup dripping down my face. He tucked some loose strands of hair behind my ear and leaned in, reminiscent of that one time I thought a cyborg spy was trying to kidnap me.

"What are you doing?" I stuttered through my chattering teeth.
"Shhh...just let it happen." His eyes were still closed.
"But why? What if I don't want to let it happen?" I asked. His eyes opened immediately.
"Why not? It's romantic."

The pressure in my ears rose as I continued to be drenched by the rain. It suddenly dawned on me that the entire time I had known him, everything had been planned, scripted. Honed to perfection to satisfy to his imagination. He had this idea of how we should have been together and I was too blind and/or pathetic to see it.

"I'm freezing! I'm drenched. And this is far from romantic." I held myself and walked away, leaving him in the rain.

When he called a few days later, it was to tell me I had ruined a moment and if I hadn't, it would have been a classic kiss in the rain scene (think: Breakfast at Tiffany's) and we could have had something deep and meaningful. He truly was a master of words because the things he said hurt deeply, whether or not I deserved it.

* * *
Maybe it was his quirks that caused us not to work out. Or maybe it was because I wasn't ready to share romantic-filled moments with somebody. Or maybe it was because we both really only needed the company and critique of another writer, and when we had it, we confused it for something it wasn't.

I can't date writers. I won't. Not because I don't want him to draw inspiration from our conversations or time shared together. I'd be flattered to know that he finds the moments we spent, worthy. I won't date a writer because I need somebody to balance the writer in me.