Category Archives: Wtf

It can only get better…right?

Oy, I really wish I could get back to updating this site on a regular basis again but life has been pretty shitty for me.  It’s the kind of shit where you’d actually go to your blog at least once a week to try to conjure something up but all you can write about is how shitty your day went,  and you don’t want to pile your site with shit lest it put readers into a shitful mood.

Nah, I’m not about that, but I do miss writing here a lot.  I just wish I wasn’t such a fucking baby.

But enough of that, so one of the things that’s been stressful for me is not being able to find/get a job.  I’m running low on money to pay for the bills and boy does it suck.

Luckily, my sister’s mother-in-law informed me about a job opening at a medical home for old folks where she works at.  When I found out they needed a Vietnamese receptionist, I declined the offer because my Vietnamese is generally pretty bad. Heck, the main reason why I quit my last job was because the communication barrier between the Vietnamese-speaking patients and I.  It’s a huge thing that I cannot tolerate.

The mom-in-law said it didn’t matter as long as I knew the basics of the language.  All I’m going to do really is to look cute, greet the customers and answer “basic” questions.  Nothing to it. Teehee.

So after a couple of minutes of her pushing me to go for the job, I’m thinking, okay it shouldn’t hurt to go in for an interview, I mean after all, I can understand and speak simple Vietnamese, I know how to say “hi” to people, and hands fucking down I can look cute.

I drive up there and four-five minutes later upon arrival, I’m in the boss’s office to get interviewed.  I find out that his name is Ryan.  Ryan, Ryan, Ryan…I kept repeating to myself,  since I’m terribly…terribly bad with remembering people’s name.

(Kind of off-topic: I use  mnemonic device for remembering people’s names now and it’s been fantastic! Like, for Ryan, he has Seacrest hair. Yup. Message received)

Five minutes later, in comes his assistant, Clark.

(Mnemonic device for Clark: Picturing him to throw his hispter-lickin’ black thick-rimmed glasses out the window and  rip open his dress shirt in a dramatic slow-mo baywatchy manner, revealing the insignia of Superman. Gawd, this mnemonic device thing is fucking amazing!)

So we’re all talking and so far, it’s going fantastic.  There was never any kind of awkward silence, I’m making them laugh, we all share some common things, I mean this ball is pretty much rolling.

Well…that is, until, Clark brings up, “We know that you’re applying for a receptionist job, but we’re hoping that you’d also be our official translator for doctors and patients…you are comfortable with that, right?”

“Yep,” I nodded. I know! Really dumb answer, but I was completely thrown off. I thought this was basic gawddamnit.

Ryan cuts in, “That’s great. Hey…why don’t we bring in one of our Vietnamese worker to test her out.”

“Sure!” I nodded some more. Dumb, dumb, dumb…

A Vietnamese employee was brought into the office to put me on the spot by having a casual conversation with me in Vietnamese as the two men watched.  He spoke really fast, and really Vietnamese that I wasn’t able to catch on most of the thing he blurted out.  He asked me when I moved to the states and I was trying to tell him that I wasn’t born in Vietnam, I was born here.

He turns to the two men and informs them, “She say she was born in Vietnam and move here when she was five.” Five minutes prior to that, I clearly stated to them that I was born in Massachusetts and moved to California later. Gah!

After my failed conversation with him, the man lied for some odd reason and told them that I was an excellent Vietnamese speaker. Ughh (I later found out that that man was a good friend of the mom-in-law. Ha).

After all of that, Ryan tells me that I got the job. Yeah…yay. I’m screwed.  I’m not sure how I’m going to handle with the whole translating for doctors and patients deal…

Doctor, “Tiff, can you please tell this patient that he has respiratory arthritis in your native language?”

Tiff, speaking in Vietnamese, “You’re screwed, dude.”

The next day, on the way to my boyfriend’s place, I got rear-ended.  I was stuck in traffic, everyone was going 5-7 mph, except for the totally obliv driver behind me.

It wasn’t a severe car-accident (thank gawd) but let me tell you, the terrifying part about this was knowing it was going to happen, before it happened. Three seconds to be exact. And not being able to do anything about it.

This is basically my thought process when I looked at my rear-view mirror:

There is a big black SUV charging at me. *Whiplash* Fuck.

Your face is a LIE!

About a week ago, my friend, Jules, used me as a model for her mom’s jewelry store.  I never had such proper treatment before.  And I never had that much makeup being put on to one single face…my face.

Jules, a MAC makeup artist, did a great job regardless.  It was crazy! I never knew that my own dork face was capable of such impeccable hotness, all thanks to Jules and her fine makeup artistry.  Here are some photos of the shoot, some of them are “actual” shoots and others were from our regular cameras mostly for fun:

Boy do I love makeup.  Isn’t it great how putting a little can accentuate features?  And putting lots of it on can really altar a woman’s face in drastic measures, capable of deceiving men? And speaking of men, I wonder if they–who are attracted to women that always wear caked-on powder, caked-on lipgloss, caked-on eyeshadow, and whatever other form of cosmetic they’d put on to their heart’s content–are aware of what might be underneath the cake-laden face.

After a couple of hours of shooting, I drove home with the makeup on.  On my way there, some guy driving next to me stared and whistled at me, and made flattering remarks.  Usually, this doesn’t happen.   And this whole time, I couldn’t help but to think, “If he only knew…”  If he only knew that the glossy lips, the rosey cheeks, the long lashes weren’t hereditary.  If he only knew that I really don’t wear makeup unless I go out for a special occasion or that I’m with my boyfriend (sorry Matt!).

If he only knew that he was actually whistling to this:

Lol

Proof, if proof were needed.

WOAH! Haven’t blogged in a while.

(Blame it on summer break. I’ve been taking complete advantage of it.

Blame it on my newly fresh boyfriend. Kind of weird to say “my boyfriend” now since I’m a noob at being a first-time girlfriend.

And blame it on the goose. That is all.)

I don’t have time to update my blog with the usual lengthy entries…but I do have time to post that picture in Vegas I’ve been wanting to post!

To make a long story short, I went to Vegas with a group of girls I didn’t know (except for one) for a bachelorette party.  One of the girls, the oldest one of the bunch, didn’t like me at all.  She would sometimes say some pretty insulting things to me, but would translate them into more of a funny and joking manner so the rest of the girls wouldn’t think any of it.  I wouldn’t find it rude had she did the same to the rest of the girls, but I noticed I was the only one who was getting picked on by her.

I don’t know what the reason is, but shit, who cares, I found an amazing photo that proves she wants me out of the picture (literally) and it’s pretty funny:

So the broad who doesn’t like me is the one who is taking the photo.  How do I  know this was intentional and malicious?

1. She doesn’t like me.

2. She was sober when this photo was taken.

3. Look how much negative/extra space is at the top. I could have easily been part of the photo if she would just angle it down like a normal human being should.

4. And most importanly, it’s how she took the photo:

If you look closely, at her reflection, you can see how retarded she looks at attempting to “unintentionally” cut me out of the photo.

Notice where the camera is positioned from her head. Notice the angle of her face. Notice how far she is bending her neck back so that she is facing the ceiling instead of the group of girls.

Way to go asshole, this is the dumbest photo I have ever seen. Even a monkey with down syndrome can take a better photo that logically makes more sense.

Be Cautious of the Wedding Singer

Last Saturday was my brother’s wedding, and obviously everybody had a blast.

However.

One of my brother-in-laws, Vincent, got really drunk, and after the reception, I walked outside and and found him sitting on the curb, with his head down, waiting for chunks to come out.  My sister (his wife, Asia) and my other brother-in-law were there trying to comfort him, they were talking to him, patting and rubbing his back and then out comes the Wedding Singer holding a roll of paper towel.

“I got him, I got him,” The Wedding Singer sat next next to Vincent, patted his mouth with the paper towel roll, and started to rub his back.  My other brother-in-law starts to back off. “I take care of him.  He need to sit here for a while before he can get into the car.”

More back rubbing and massaging ensues, the Wedding Singer looks up at me as I stare in utter confusion and then frantically asks me, “Water. He need water. Can you get it for me?”

“Yeah,” I answered.  I ran back to the restaurant looking for water.  The waiters seemed very occupied cleaning up the area so I grabbed the nearest and cleanest looking glass of water from one of the tables. I walked out of the place and found the Wedding Singer in the middle of a conversation with Asia.

“Everyone go! Go! I take care of him!” He takes the cup out of my hands while talking to my sister, “He my friend. I will help.”

“I’m his wife,” Asia giggled, trying to make the situation less awkward, “And I’m not going anywhere without my husband.”

So we all stayed, waiting for Vincent to puke, while the Wedding Singer caresses his back some more and uses the water to help clean his mouth.

During this time, NOBODY thought of anything.  We just thought the Wedding Singer was being really, really helpful and really, really weird, until…

*BLERHHHH!!!*

Barf galore, barf on the ground, barf on the curb, and barf on the Wedding Singer’s arm.

“It’s OK. I take care of him.  Everybody go,” he motions his hand suggesting us to go away.

He was ok with it. He was much more concerned with us going away so that he could be alone with my brother-in-law then his arms, covered in the thickest, smelliest smellin’ shit puke ever.  And that’s where it hit me and my sister.  We looked at each other, mouth wide open, and we knew exactly what we were thinking…

This guy is dead horny and he wants my sister’s husband, badly.

After the puke fest and realizing the Wedding Singer’s disturbing motives, my sister and I both helped Vincent up.

“Thanks for helping my husband, we’re going home now.”

“Wait, he should sit here longer.  It’s not good to bring him into the car rye now,” The Wedding Singer grabs a hold of Vincent’s shoulder, “You guys go. I do it myself.”

“Dude, you’re not getting ass tonight. Sorry.” I told him.  Without saying a word, he released his grip, and that was the last of the Wedding Singer.

Geez, what a creepfuck.  If I had taken a photo of him, I would have most certainly posted it here to warn people, like what people do when they find sexual offenders, because I have no doubt in my mind that he does this in every–if not most–weddings. I mean, the guy was already equipped with a roll of paper towel, how strategic can you get?

So I have to warn any Vietnamese people from Orange County who are planning to hire Vietnamese wedding singers/bands. I know that there’s a shitload of them out there in this county, but if you HAPPEN to hire a band and one of them has buzzed hair, wears glasses, and speaks terrible English…keep an eye on him after the reception.

*shudders*

A Tattoo Nightmare

I know. There are stars on her face.  Cute, right?

Well, maybe if  they weren’t permanent.

18-year-old Kimberley Vlaminck decided to get supposedly three stars tattooed on her face, but she supposedly fell asleep in the process and woke up with 56 stars. What a moron.

After her new face was revealed to her father and her boyfriend, Kimberley decided to sue the artist for the cost to remove all 56 stars, however the tattoo artist is making claims that she actually wanted all of those (tacky) stars.  He even mentioned that she looked in the mirror a few times as the procedure was taking place (more info  here).

Two questions that comes to mind:

-How did you manage to fall asleep when someone’s stabbing your face with a needle?

-Can I call you Starface? Like Scarface the movie, but uh only not?

I’m not buying her story.  If she was telling the truth, then this was how it probably went down on the night she got her tattoo…

Kim: “Hi I’d like to get three stars on my face, just three.”

Tattoo artist: “That can be done, just have a seat.”

Tattoo artist: *begins to tattoo a tramp stamp-I mean star*

Kim: “Hly cow that really hurts!”

Tattoo artist: “The face is one of the most sensitive areas to get tattooed ya know.”

Kim: “I see. Well, boy am I tired! Mind if I sleep until you’re done? It seems like a really good time to get a good night’s rest right now.”

*snores*

Tattoo artist: “One down and 55 more to go…”

Any tattoo artist would make absolute sure on what their clients would want for a tattoo, especially with something so awfully drastic and bold to be put on their very own face.  And Any tattoo artist wouldn’t throw stars at random places without the client’s compliance.

Despite her bullshit excuse–which I’m sure she was insanely drunk when all of that went down–I feel a little sorry for her. If it was already on a person who looked like a freak, I would be indifferent, but Kimberley, poor ol’ Kimberley, looked completely normal, like the type of girl you’d see shopping at Hollister on the weekends, and now she’s got the entire constellation eating half of her face.

My patience is being tested

I spent most of the day yesterday at the drugstore waiting at the end of a very long line to get my stuff rung up. After waiting for what it seems like eternity, I was finally next in line to purchase, but as soon as I was about to set my things down, the cashier lady quickly slammed a mustard yellow sign down that read:

CLOSED.

PLEASE GO TO THE NEXT CASHIER

Astonished, I turned around to see the reaction on other people’s face but nobody was behind me. I was the last person in line who waited the longest only to get rejected by a CLOSED sign. I stood there, just lifelessly, waiting for the cashier lady to say, “Oh I can take you since you’re the last person.”

…but no. In fact, she did the worse. She pretended I wasn’t there. I read the sign once more, then looked around to see if anybody was laughing at me, and looked at her again. No eye contact whatsoever, she was staring at the monitor.

Before the situation could get even more awkward, I quickly got over it and followed what the sign had ordered me to do: go to the next cashier.

The line wasn’t long compared to the first one since there were two people already before me. And boy, did it take forever…again. The customer who was at the beginning of the line had a shit ton of items and I believe one of their stuff needed a price check. The second customer, the one right in front me, holy shit, didn’t know how to count change or something, so he was standing there, all fucking afternoon, counting change over and over again.

As I was waiting, looking fidgety as ever ’cause I was tempted to count the change for him, the same cashier lady decided to wake up and be a freakin’ blowjob.  That’s right, she’s a gaddamn blowjob and I don’t like her.  What she did was she removed her hideous mustard barf yellow sign and said to the man waiting behind me, “You know what, I can take one more person, why don’t I take care of your stuff sir.”

I swear Ima kill somebody.

Feeling aggravated and a little hurt, I mumbled to myself, “Ughh…you gotta be fucking kidding me.”

The slow-counting change guy turns around and gives me a stubborn look as he’s counting the numbers quietly.  He then looks at the first half of his change and combines it with the other half.  Then I realized what I had mumbled had disrupted his concentration which lead him to start all over again.

Perfect.

“In my opinion” is a stupid phrase

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.

Women in large packs give me the heeby jeebiez (Just a little rant)

There are a lot of things I find scary or intimidating at first glance, some of which includes spiders, cops, people who work at Hot Topic, roller coasters and…women in large groups.

Just to clarify, I’m not scared of women, individually, but more like seeing groups or “cliques” of women who I don’t know all too well.  Yeah call me a wimp, I don’t care, but boy do they scare me!

Before I entered college, from kindergarten to high school, there were some people (or kids back then) who picked on me, taunted me, harassed me, basically tried to make my life a living hell.

The frequency of boys who bullied me was random.  They usually picked on me whenever they had the chance, sometimes they had friends with them, sometimes they didn’t.  The girl bullies, on the other hand, were consistent and would always come in packs only during lunch time, and sometimes P.E. depending how many girlfriends they had in that class.  I hated it.  I’ve always hated them more than the boy bullies because the girls always had their own little backup.  You can punch a boy and maaaybe have him punch back at you, but you can’t punch a girl without having five more punches–the other five pulling your hair–coming at you.

Females, of any age, have this sick proclivity to pull the rest of their girlfriends in to their own problems, literally.  The only time they feel indestructible and heroic is when they have their girlfriends standing right beside them as they try to tear down one single girl whose completely alone. Take their clique of girlfriends away and you have one poor and defenseless sobbing idiot.

Yesterday, for Memorial’s day, my older sister really wanted to take me to a picnic that her friends were having, so I went. It was a bit nerve racking for me because she had a lot girlfriends, and again, meeting groups of girlfriends can be intimidating for me when you are your own backup.

We were a few hours late, but as soon as we arrived, all of her girlfriends greeted her and hugged her, and when they were done, they looked at me and looked away immediately as if they pretended nothing was there…but something was there, ’twas I standing there waving, waiting for somebody, anybody to wave back but nobody did…doh!

It was such a gawd awful way to start the picnic that I already wanted to leave. But after eating my plate, alone, I decided that I wanted to go up to the girls to, you know, talk. It was really terrifying for me seeing as how dreadful they looked as a single, cohesive group never leaving each other’s side, but I worked up the courage to walk up to them and this is what happened:

“Hey, so how are you guys liking the food?” I asked in a friendly tone

They looked at each other, chuckled, and then continued to eat, as if nothing was there…again.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Bunch of ungrateful, discourteous women, who are at least eight years older than me, acting like teenage girls.

So instead of trying to make conversation with them, I talked to some of their boyfriends, who were kind enough to actually talk back, they also showed me where the yummy foods were hidden. I also took very boring pictures of the park to kill time. When there was nothing left to do, I tried to make convo again, when I saw one of the girls get up to get food by herself:

“You and your friends are very quiet,” I smiled.

There was a slight look of shock in her face, she turned to look at her clique of girlfriends, and then looked at me and said, “I-I-uh-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just getting food.” She continued to put food in her plate.

Yet another failed attempt to make normal conversation, except this one, actually talked…with hesitance and stutters and nonsense! Only because she was alone, and didn’t have her girlfriends standing behind her ass to give her that confidence to shun me completely.

You girls are funny.

Ugh. I don’t know anymore, it’s 2 AM and I probably not making any sense anymore lol. It just saddens me how they can judge so quickly without even talking to me. It saddens me how I had to waste 2-3 hours of my life.  It saddens me how that little incident reconfirms why I should be cautious of women and their pack.  And it saddens me how my very own sister likes to interact with them.

Procrastination at its best PART DEUX: When will I ever grow up?

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.

My parents are driving me kerr-rRAaZy!

Because of the renovation, I’ve been living in the garage with my parents for three weeks already and I…just…can’t…fucking…take it anymore.  Really, I tried to keep my cool.  I kept it cool for the first few days but gees, I cannot tolerate with the way they’ve been treating me.

They treat me like I’m their mentally retarded daughter.

Seriously.  That’s my only problem.  I wish I was trying to be funny, but I’m not.  I’m being treated like a person who suffers from mental retardation.

For instance, my parents will repeat the same stuff to me over and over and over and over again…

Dad: They just put the tiles in today, you can’t walk in the kitchen.

Me: Yeah, I know, the guys already told me.

Dad: Oh? Ok.

(30 minutes later)

Dad: Remember not to walk in the kitchen.

Me: I know.

(one hour later)

Dad: Don’t take a single step in the kitchen.

Me: Yeah, I know! Sheesh.

(five hours later)

Dad: You can’t walk in the kitchen.

Me: (head explodes)

They always restate the obvious…

Me: Wow it’s cold! Oh btw, I’m going to go out tonight.

Mom: Make sure to wear something warm.

Me: Nah…I think I’m going to go with a white fitted wifebeater so everyone can see how long my nipples will harden.

Another thing that really pushes my mentally retarded buttons is how they’re trying to put a curfew on me. It’s really weird. First of all, I’m 21 years old, I’m a woman, aright? And second, before the renovation, I had no rules, I had no curfews, so for them to coerce (yes coerced, dad used anger and intimidation on me to get me to sleep earlier, and mom used “but it’s mother’s day” excuse) me into hopping into bed on my “assigned” time is just really obnoxious…

Mom: I want you to sleep exactly at 12.

Me: No.

Mom: Please? For Mother’s Day?

Me: Why?

Mom: Because it will be good for you.

Yeah…wish I made this stuff up.  I really can’t wait to get out of here (the garage that is!).