June 2, 2013

• A Better Introduction, Confession, & Xanga Hello

  Hi.  I’m DearRicky.  You may remember me from such Xanga posts as The Art Of Loving A Woman, Growing Up With Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, The Handjob Incident, White People Are Beautiful Too, A Response To ‘Fuck White People’, 4 Steps To Mending A Broken Heart, Girls Are Hot, Because..., Armpits: The Reason Women Don’t Need Makeup, A Love Letter To White Women, A Love Letter To Asian Women, A Xanga Interview With DearRicky, The Xanga Girl Who Saved My Life…

  Okay, seriously.  You’re probably going to remember me for all my controversial postings and flame wars with certain people, and hopefully the romantic writings that have made you throw up, either orally or optically.  Now that Xanga is on the verge of shutting down, I realize I’ve never taken the time to properly introduce myself.  Whether you’re a hater or fan from past or present, I’d like to spend a few moments to show all of you who I really am.

  But first, I have a little CONFESSION to make: Xanga was in actuality a social experiment for my now-published book.

  When I first started blogging here, it was during the end of ‘04.  I wrote with no holds barred honesty and discovered my ability to make people laugh.  I even gained a bit of readership.  It was exciting, but as an amateur, reader’s block eventually got the best of me.  I restarted in ‘06 when I thought I was dying (as it turned out, I was eating too much vinegar and developed wheelchair vertigo, lol) and wrote for myself.  Yet with another near-death experience in ‘08, I knew I had to get published, so I might have immortality through words.

  By the aforementioned year, I had already written a handful of blogs.  I gained massive subscribers through friend requests and used Xanga as a way to determine if my literary style was worth the read.  Apparently, it was… and as for the controversial fun, well, that was simply to test the waters of the public, to see how far I could take things in the world of published things.

  Perhaps it was wrong and admittedly, I took things rather far, to the point where my popularity went significantly downhill, but my book became a huge success.  Self-published and as of right now, nearly 400 copies sold, I was featured in the Toronto Star, the largest newspaper in all of Canada, and even went on television.

  

  Xanga however, caught me off guard, and to my surprise, I made a butt load of awesome friends whom I still keep in touch with to this very day.  I don’t regret that for one second.

  As we say our goodbyes and part our ways, I’d like to say THANK YOU for all the good memories, for all the fun times we’ve had together.  No matter if Xanga is gone, you meant a lot to me, the whole gang of you, but especially that girl who saved my life.  You are my friends, whoever is reading anymore.

  So who am I really?  Obviously, my name is Ricky.  Here goes!

  Before I became a motorized madman, I started off being a running madman.  My poor grandmother used to chase my little self around the house just to feed me lunch or dinner.  I was spoiled to the brim because they never made me sit still, but they didn’t regret letting me skip the steps that I was eventually to miss.  It was a blessing in disguise.

  Quite often, I was taken to the park in the afternoon where I was free to roam around.  No one knew why I would fall every now and then, but bloody knees could never get the best of me.  I was unafraid because I understood that no matter how much I stumbled and how many times I might hurt myself, someone would always be there to pick me right back up.

  If you were wondering how I knew this so early, well, I would definitely have to give credit to my dear, sweet mother.  All you need is to imagine a tiny 5’4” Chinese lady carrying an almost nine pound baby, and who knows how much amniotic fluid… yeah, that would be yours truly!  Only, she loved me anyway, despite causing her to have a Caesarean section.  Oops?

  Mother was nothing but joyful when I finally popped out, since I almost crippled the woman while she was preggers.  On the day of my grand entrance, Mom stayed at St. Teresa’s Hospital in Hong Kong.  Yet when a nurse unexpectedly asked Dad to sign some papers, he violently opposed the idea of cutting his wife open.  After they explained how much pain I was causing her with my melon head and that she just wanted me out… TADA!!!

  

  Since then, I’ve had a fascination towards the female gender.  Mother said that as a tiny little baby, I used to smile at all the pretty nurses whenever they gave me shots.  It scared their skirts off!  I guess I never believed much in cooties as I saw something beautiful in girls that I couldn’t let go of…

  I remember back in kindergarten, I started flirting with little darlings, only to have the lovely young teacher make me stay after class.  I can’t blame her for wanting to play with me and pinch my tender cheeks though.  I was freakishly adorable after all.

  

  My journey began as a fantastic tale of love, comedy, and sacrifice.  Though I scared my family half to death being the biggest baby bump ever, eating all their food, they continued loving me no matter what.  Honestly, how could I not be hopeful, grateful, and cheerful?

  Sooner than later, I was diagnosed with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy at the tender age of seven, and despite all those tests, the only thing I cared about was the ice cream my parents had promised following the muscle biopsy at Sick Kids.  I was never afraid.

  Although somewhere inside, I knew something was wrong, I was ready for the future to come because while Grandpa always taught me to say “thank you”, “you’re welcome”, and please, he also taught me that the world owed me nothing.  My physical limitations don’t give me an excuse to give in and give up.  They give me the motivation to work harder.  Gratitude is the key.

  Who am I really?  I’m glad and I’m sad and I’m mad and I’m bad.  I’m stubborn and ridiculous and my humour is insane.  I’m mysterious and eccentric and annoying and outspoken.  I don’t compromise with anything because I’m not a one-dimensional person.  I’m hopelessly, helplessly, recklessly… ME.

  You’re also talking to one of the oldest living men with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy at 32 years old.  I don’t consider myself an inspiration, neither a hero nor role model.  I’m only here to encourage others to inspire themselves so they might become their own heroes.

  

  And words?  Words are funny little things.  They’re an assembly of squiggles and lines that formulate random thoughts and ideas.  I write because there’s too much to say.

  By the way, Xanga isn’t dead yet.  Let’s start blogging again, baby… for old time’s sake!

  DearRicky, out.

  • 7:30 pm
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