On Not Messing With My Candy Crush Skills.

"What are you playing," scoffed the kid next to me on the train. I heard his voice through the music flowing from my earphones but I ignored him. My cold shoulder didn't stop him from looking at my phone screen. After the round ended, I gave him a death side-glance-glare.


"Whoaa...calm down. I just want to know what you're playing. It looks like a bootleg version of Candy Crush."

I turned down the music to tell him, "It's not. It's Pet Rescue."
"Pet Rescue? Sounds stupid. Why don't you play Candy Crush."

OH NO WHAT DID YOU SAY HOMESKILLET?


When I didn't respond, he continued. "You have a puzzle of candies and you make combos to break the candies so you can bring down certain ingredients or break jellies."

If I didn't know what Candy Crush was, I would've probably told him he was an eejit.


But of course, I had to defend myself. "I've played Candy Crush," I nastily said as I straightened my back so I didn't seem so lame. Then more coolly, "They're definitely not the same thing and one or the other can't be described as a bootleg of anything. Pet Rescue is much more difficult and requires way more strategy."

"Oh yeah? Cool! What level are you on?" Maybe the kid was trying to be friendly but what I heard was a challenge.

"I'm not sure...I haven't played in a while." And it's the truth. The mobile version doesn't go as high as the PC version. And I'm at the highest on both. But I was totally trying to give this guy an out. Because I didn't want to show off. *flips hair*


I guess that was an invite to compare levels because he pulled out his phone. "Oh yeah? I'm the furthest on my friends list." He tilted his phone screen towards me. Level 460. Okay, cool bro.

I opened Candy Crush on my phone, ready to bust out some shut-chur-mouf on him. I don't know what possessed me to say what I said next, but I did. And it was with all the condescending effort I could muster from my body. I could have stopped. I should have stopped. I should have just been the bigger person by letting him think he was further along than me.

But I didn't. I fed the fire.


I thumbed through the colorful map with the striped candy cane roads and they glowed up at me as I triumphantly showed him my screen when I reached the top of the map. Level 530. And try to rub salt into his wound, I added, "And on the computer, I'm even further." Real proudly, too. Like a little kid who has just solved some complicated long division - neat but not impressive. Complete with the "I'm sooo much better than you" tone. Without missing a beat, I felt the need to add, "Yeah, I just keep Candy Crush on my phone because I'm getting three stars for all of the levels." *flips hair*


Because I'm real mature. -___-

And then we started arguing. He told me I was cheating but I told him that he was crazy because I didn't need to cheat. I'm Asian. And I'm good at ALL computer and video games (not true because FPS games makes me super dizzy and RTS games move too fast for me and I didn't have the patience for RPG games--it took me five years to finish FF7). That wasn't my argument but I really wanted to use it. I told him I only used what was given to me via gifts or through the spins.

And then I did it.


I told him I would beat his stupid level for him. And guess what...I did. With four lives. But I freaken did it. However, this isn't new to me. There have been a couples nights when I've drunkenly offered to beat a Candy Crush level for some unassuming sober train rider. Once, LH started told me I should stop offering to help because some kid might stab me because they might be jealous of my mad skillz.

It wasn't until I got off the train that I realized how stooooooopid I had been. I just had a verbal disagreement with some random person on the train about...CANDY CRUSH. (!?!?!?)

What has my life come to? Who am I? Why do I not have more important priorities?!

On What Children Think of Me.

It wasn't until I started working in the Museum that I came into contact with kids. And it's not even direct contact. I actually avoid all eye contact and ignore everything and anything they say. Why? Because they're grade-school kids: the most terrifying kind of species known to man because they have developing brains and can talk and question you and everything they know nothing about. And worst...they know how to judge you because almost all of them have no filter.

* * *
Once you start commuting in New York City, you learn that you can't wear nice shoes every day. You're constantly standing, walking on pavement, walking up and down stairs, and/or getting stepped on by other commuters who are always rushing to their next destination. Sometimes people spit on your shoes. And you can't ignore all the dog shit that seems to be everywhere now that the snow is melting away. Everywhere. So because I'm a problem solver, I started wearing sneakers. I've been wearing sneakers for the past couple years because:

1- they're comfortable,
2- they're practical,
3- and it's a sign that you don't give a flying fuck what others think of you because you're a muh-fuhking thug.

And anybody who says otherwise can shoot me an email and we can fight via interwebz. Like idiots.

School groups visit the Museum in the mornings. And that's fine by me because I rarely ever have to walk around the Museum in the mornings. However, one morning, I had to use the copier machine located on the other end of the Museum. As I walked past one of the groups, a little girl spins her head to watch me walk past then whispers, loudly to a few of her friends,


"OH-MAI-GAWSSH THAT GIRL'S WEARING SNEAKERS WITH HER DRESS."

All the other little kids:

The few seconds it normally takes to walk through the gallery felt like slow-mo on slow-mo. The sneakers that should have helped me run away from those little judgmental New York-chic kids failed to do their one job: to quickly get me from point A to point B.


And before you get all pompous and ask me why I didn't just take off my shoes like an adult should have done when she first got to her desk, let me remind you how comfy sneakers are compared to heels or wedges or any other thing doesn't elevate half your foot. (Flats make my legs look stumpy.)

UGH. On the way back to my desk, I had to walk through the same gallery and of course, the same group of kids were still there. And this:


I get it. I'm not the most fashion-forward person and I don't claim to be but got-dang homies, CAN'T I LIVE? Apparently not. I don't have the confidence of an 8-year-old who grew up in Manhattan. I sometimes wish I had the balls to be like:


But then I remember they are children and if I did that to them, their parents would come after me with their diamond studded knuckle rings and I would probably cease to exist. Instead, I hold it all inside because I know that when they grow up, they may one day become my underlings. And until then, I will remember to change into my work shoes so they won't be able to cast another judgmental look at me.