Last Thursday was my very last day of Vietnamese language class. I sat in the hallway, right outside of the classroom, with about ten other of my classmates as we waited for the teacher to test us on our Vietnamese dialogue individually.

As we were waiting, I was telling half of them about a story how I was asked out to lunch by a 50 or 60-year-old man on school campus last year, and how it grossed me out. It grossed them a little out too (I am 21 years old for those who don’t know). Few minutes later, one of the classmates, Caucasian man in his late 40′s-possibly early 50′s, walked out of the classroom, looking refreshed as ever now that he had gotten his finals done and over with.

He walks towards us and says, “Well, I’m done, it was a pleasure having you guys in my class.”

“Yeah, thanks, you too,” The four of us replied (not in the exact words and time of course).

He turns to me, not looking quite refreshed as he was a minute ago, and starts to blink excessively.

Please don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Please.

He opens his mouth, and after a few stutters, he ask, “Do you-do you think I can get your information?” He hands me his notebook and pen, “I want to keep in touch. And you wanted to take drum class…and so do I.”

I was right. My worst fear of taking this class with him always sitting next to me came to reality. He asked for my number. And not only that, it was witnessed by everybody in my class, whom I just informed–just a few minutes ago–about the other old head who asked me out to lunch last year.

Fucking-a, can this get anymore awkward?

I sure as hell did not want to put my number down for him, yet at the same time, I really didn’t want to embarrass him in front of our classmates either. He’s actually a nice guy. If he was a perverted, horny, dirty-mouthed little fuck, I wouldn’t give a shit. But he isn’t. And I didn’t have the balls to give him back his notebook with an empty page.

Okay, think. Think. Think. I was given a notebook and pen without a gotdamn choice. What could I possibly write down in his black book that would benefit both of us?

I scribble my information down and handed him back his notebook. He looks at the page, his facial expression didn’t change.

It was my email address.

“Well thanks,” he stares at the page, then begins to study it as if it was an encryption to my phone number. After realizing what I had written down for him probably wouldn’t suffice, he takes his wallet out of his back pocket and hands me his business card, “here’s my card, call me.”

Boy I sure hope there’s a working block feature on Gmail.

I wouldn’t have written that recent incident if it didn’t happen that often, but it does, and I’m sad. The average of a young guy (20-30 age range) hitting on me irl is equivalent to getting flu shots: once a year (exaggeration not included). However, the average of a 45+ older white man is, believe it or not, roughly five to eight times a year. *Also, I hope I didn’t offend anyone but I say white because they have always been white..and older.

I don’t know why I attract them, older men. I probably smell like death, or the complete opposite, I exude some kind of magical scent of Asian persuasion that only works on 45+ year old males. Still, I’m perplexed.

Maybe it’s because I talk too much. I’m known to carry very long conversations with strangers of any age, size, and ethnicity as long as the topic interests me-but the strangers I talk to are always a lot older. I guess old people got a lot to talk about. And I guess, the longer you’re willing to listen and converse with them, the more they think you’re attracted to them.

Then again, I tend to display subtle hints or signs to show that I’m not interested…but then again, I don’t think men, of any age really, is capable of reading hints from the opposite sex anyway.

Have I dated any of them?

Yeah, twice, it was weird.

Just kidding.

In all honesty, I can’t date a man who’s old enough to be my father, simply because I don’t think I can relate to somebody who has already gone through at least 20 years of life, 20 years of life of which I haven’t even lived through yet.

Even if they were talented, rich, sexy man beasts like Brad Pitt and Viggo Mortensen–gawd are they sexy–I still wouldn’t do it. I just can’t relate. To relate, ‘least for me, creates connection and bonding, therefore I can’t date older men.

Also, if they had a daughter around my age, there’s a chance she and I would end up becoming one another’s BFFs. Kiss and tell would be a little awkward.

I find the phrase “imo” or “in my opinion” to be annoying sometimes. I’ve said it very few times in the past, but I don’t like it. I usually don’t like restating the obvious, restating the obvious can make you sound really slow, or sometimes, it can make the person you’re talking to think that you think they’re slow.
When you add “imo” to your sentence, you might as well mention that the grass usually comes in a nice green color if you take care of it, gravity doesn’t let us fall out of the earth, and putting crackers and cheese together happens more frequently than substituting stress balls with cow testicles.

I was able to tolerate the phrase when people have said/typed it to me in the past (by not pointing it out), until today, until somebody who I don’t really like used it.

So here’s a quick background bonus story:

There is a girl, oh let’s call her Hortense (because the name is as disgusting as her heart), who sits next to me in one of my graphic design classes. She has been very rude and disrespectful towards me because the work that I create is more advanced than her’s, and she admits it.

Jealously was the original reason why Hortense acted so offensive towards me. Whenever she looked at my work, she would never say anything good about them, instead she’d say only “sarcastic” things such as, “Oh why don’t you just drap the class?”, “I’m sick of you”, “Please make something bad for a change so I can feel good about mine”, “Dude, just stap already,” etc (she had a funny accent, the kind that would say “bax” instead of “box”).

I’m OK with that kind of stuff, but she just kept on doing it, with every piece I made, to a point where it just became annoying and insulting. My policy for that kind of shit is if somebody is clearly jealous of you or your work and they can’t respect it, brag about whatever they’re jealous of. That’s right, rub it. Rub it all in. Rub cow testicles on their faces if you must.

And that’s what I did. I rubbed cow testicles on her face until she could savor the taste in her mouth (not really). When she would glance over at the projects I worked on, I made sure to tell her it was the best damn thing I’ve ever seen, and she gagged every time.

When she tried to make those stupid sarcastic comments about my work, I would cut her off to tell her how much time, effort, and skill I’ve put into it thus rendering them worthy enough to make love to, and she believed everything I said.

By the time she was fed up with my pretend cockiness, she asked, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“God’s gift to graphic design,” I proudly declared.

“Ugh, YOU’RE gad’s gift graphic design?” She rolled her eyes at me, “I can’t believe you just said that..blah blah blah”

She just never shuts up.

But back to the point, haha, today in class, I was talking to one of my classmates about how I’m going to decorate my bedroom after the renovation, I wanted the walls to be pink, but I wasn’t allowed to paint it to said color anymore.

Hortense hears my conversation, she rudely cuts in and says, “pink’s nat a really good choice for wahlls in my opinion.”

“Well…no shit it’s your opinion,” I responded.

She looked at me in a sort of sad, did you just say that? expression, and then opened her mouth as if to answer, but snapped it back. I almost felt bad. Almost.

Case in point, using “imo” is retarded. To hear it come from her is even worse that I had to be rude about it. What good does it do besides pissing me off and filling up empty spaces on your ten page essay? “Imo” is a very snotty yet convenient way of saying, “everything that comes out of my mouth is infallible…with the minor exception for every ‘imo’ I add at the end of my sentences.”

But the problem is, anybody who uses “imo”, probably uses it randomly! They only say it when they feel like it and it makes me wonder…

You say, “this pizza doesn’t have enough pepperoni imo,” and den you say, “red doesn’t suit Kathy.”

Now since there’s absolutely no “imo” to be found in the second sentence, but there’s one in the first sentence, does this actually mean that it is of actual fact that red actually doesn’t suit Kathy?

BAH, I fart on your fact!

To reduce the confusion and the inconsistent sloppy usage of “in my opinion”/”imo”, there should be a specific rule.

From here on out, for those who will continue to reuse the phrase, make sure to always point out that it is your opinion for every opinion that you speak of. It is also required that you back up your “facts” with credible sources. I accept textbooks, documentary videos, and magazine and newspaper articles. Websites, ehh, aren’t as trustworthy as the other ones aforementioned. Sorry.

I just kind of realized how immature I am.

Like, farting is hilarious. I always get a kick out of listening and telling true fart stories to people. Farting and then passing it to your friend via waving-hand motion is really satisfying.

Naked artsy people make me giggle–but I try to giggle on the inside since it’s not really nice to laugh at naked artsy people. I took a life drawing class last year, and it took me a while not to look like I was trying to hold my breath (from laughing) every time a model disrobed in front of the class.

I like pressing buttons, more specifically, unfamiliar buttons, buttons I’ve never pressed before (omfg), just to see what it would trigger. The anticipation is the best part, but sometimes the outcome of pressing a button can be really anticlimactic, aka the one’s that doesn’t work.

And the worst of all (I cringe as I begin to type the inevitable), I own guns…toy guns. Though uh I really don’t feel like explaining what I do with them.

Oh yeah true story, when the workers were cleaning out my bedroom for renovation, the cute younger one came up to me with a box and asked, “Did you want to keep these with you?” Confused, I glanced at the box and noticed that he was holding a box of my toy guns. If there was ever a time I wanted to kill myself, it would be that time.

And the point of all this? Nothing really, I just don’t want to work on my finals. Carry on.

PS – I am still screwed.