Yesterday, I read a blog from Paul_Partisan regarding the acceptance of racism.  I commented that no matter how hard we may try to convince people otherwise, only they can change for themselves.  We can’t control how others think, regardless of their ignorance as that would render us into fascists.

However much racism is unacceptable, it will always remain as long as we have freedom of thought.  To say that racism can be abolished would be idealistic and impossible.  This is why a compromise is in order.  Racism without violence is the only answer, as we continue to educate.


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Someone asked me if I would be friends with a racist.  The truth is that I already am, unfortunately.

One of my nurses believes that the entire Caucasian race is racist against black people.  She also categorized me as white when I’m obviously Chinese.  She’s been taking care of me for years, and developing a friendship was inevitable.

While normal people find inspiration in the shower, I find mine on the toilet.  I’ve been lacking a great deal of inspiration lately, particularly for poetry and music.  The more I ponder, the more I think Benefibre is to blame.  Bulk is a good thing when you can get everything out with a single dump, but when it compromises my time singing on the loo…

Do you ever find it funny how our passions come to life?

I didn’t start writing until several years ago when I was inspired to write my first poem, ‘Elevator Girl’.  It all started when I was looking for a new pair of glasses at the mall.  As I parked my giant mechanical ass inside, she said,

“Your driving is perfect.”

OH MY GOD, SHE THINKS I’M PERFECT!!!  WHAT DO I DO?!  WHAT DO I DO?!

Mind: And you’re quite perfect yourself (wink-wink).

Me: “Yup!”

That’s all I could say was “Yup!”

YUP!!!

She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.  I always thought poetry was stupid, but I had to write a poem because apparently, girls make me do crazy things!


Shut up, haha.

I often wonder why depression leads to inspiration.  As my mind wanders in darkness when I lie alone in bed, I look to the window facing a brick wall.  I wonder if she's really waiting for me.

I also wonder if I’d really want to exist without sorrow.  If nonexistent, does it hinder us from accomplishment and redemption?  How do we redeem ourselves if we never face our darkest hours?  Is there more to life than redemption?  Can we redeem ourselves from redemption?

Romance fascinates me, for love only exists without limitations.  With redemption, you become a better person through experiences.  It requires certain situations.  However with love, it’s a continuous process of learning.  The more you open yourself, the more you understand that life is worth living because of it.

In love, you find all of life’s lessons and when it comes to poetry, I continue to write romance.  I can’t seem to find inspiration for anything else.  I associate it with sorrow because heart cries are beautiful and the thought of my last breath in a final kiss is nothing short of bittersweet…

But with every passion comes a beginning.  As much of a romantic sentiment as it is to have the elevator girl as mine, here is a clip of my first ABCs:

As of late, I’ve had the craziest dreams, and when I say crazy, trust me.  They’re crazy!

I dreamt of having my butt probed by a shady doctor.  He found a clear bag of chocolate finger cookies that had been lurking for ten years, the cause for my constipation.

It was an exciting moment because for one, I could finally poo smoothly again and secondly, it would give me the opportunity to post a picture online to gross out all the pretty girls!  Unfortunately, before I could take it, Dad mixed the cookies together with my beloved jar of pretzels.  I was pissed.

I dreamt that I developed lopsided man-boobs and an elongated left nipple.  It was lactating and drippy, while I played with it like a guitar.

I dreamt of an immortal chubby woman who was part demon.  She was trapped within an opera house for millennia, in a dressing room upstairs.  It was torture as the temperature was consistently 57 °C.  Once released, her flesh was beyond succulent, while her skin resembled that of crispy pork rind.  I hungered for her…

I dreamt of a fat Mexican man with a thick moustache.  He was sweaty and horny and also had the swine flu.  He found me extremely attractive and tried to rape me.

I also dreamt of a blonde trucker who resembled that of Jake Busey.  He tried forcing me to give him oral sex.  While Dad was protecting me, the trucker took his blade and was about to stab him.  The cop from across the street blew his head wide open.

Crazy enough?  Haha.