genderfuck: why feminine gay men are awesome and why slut-shaming should stop

Oh haaaayyy.

Can you believe this? Two posts, two long posts, in one day. One day! Must be the New Year spirit. Let’s see how long this lasts. I posted thirty two entries in August 2013 (I think they are mostly haikus). August only has thirty one days, so that must mean I wrote two entries on one day.

Anyway, I’m here to talk about why feminine gay men are awesome (hence the title: the girlie show: why feminine gay men are awesome; I’ll get to the next point, which is slut shaming, right after this one, in fact, the two points are going to organically merge. You’ll find out later).

There are some douchebags out there who flat out refuse to meet gays that are “fat (or) Asian (or) feminine.” Well, I might as well be three of them now that I’m eating like crazy and can no longer wear size 4 girl clothes (I’m a six now. WHICH IS THE NEW FOURTEEN).

To be honest, those douchebags are sometimes really hot. I mean, my type hot. But then again, I’ve a very diverse taste in men. So, I whine like a little bitch, saying, “Whyyy? I’ll suck your cock good. I’m a good cock sucker. Reference available upon request.” And then move on to the next victim.

When I was sixteen, my gay friend (who was around my age at that time) said, “You know why you don’t have a boyfriend? Because you’re such a girl. I bet that if you act more masculine, you’ll have a boyfriend in no time.” We stopped being friends after that.

Then fourteen fucking years later (Oh fuck, I just sorta gave away my age), a guy sent me a message on Adam4Adam. Here’s a little disclaimer: I did write “Why is it so hard to find a nice top? Is it because normally tops are mostly doucheys and or intellectually challenged?”

To which he replied:

“Of course it’s hard for you to find a top. You’re girlish. You’re a dude. Stop acting like a girl.”

Before I could reply, he’d blocked my profile. Coward.

This may not be apparent in more developed countries like the US or Europe (excluding Turkey), but in Indonesia, feminine guys are easy to spot. We can’t hide. I mean, sure, there are some really oblivious relatives who asked me when I’d get married (to which I’d usually reply, “I don’t think it’s legal yet.” It’s a hit or miss joke). In Indonesia, “straight-acting” gay guys can lead a life of lies. Heck, even a guy who makes me look like Stallone (Sylvester, not Jackie) compared to him, can get married to a poor girl somewhere in the village and settle. Perhaps not happily, but without fear of getting discovered.

My point is, feminine gays are the ones who get bullied more often. Every beating we get, every spit, every nasty word makes us stronger. This is why I’m getting so angry every time someone equates the word “sissy” to “coward”.

I know perhaps Nicole Kidman’s Stepford Wives got Razzie nominations or something (it’s rated 27% on RottenTomatoes.com), but I love that movie. At one point, the men try to change Richard, sweet, sweet, bitchy, loud, effeminate, Richard to a manlier man. This change is supported by Richard’s partner, Jerry. Apparently, no one wants gay men to be stereotypically bitchy, loud, and effeminate. 

Well guess what, that’s because the bitchy, loud, and effeminate gay men are the ones who stand out. We’re the visible ones. While the “straight-looking” ones can hide, the feminine ones most of the times can’t.

While we’re on the subject of stereotyping, I guess now the gay stereotype is butch, straight-acting, and gym buff without the slightest lisp. I don’t think anyone is complaining, because that’s how men are supposed to behave.

Well, I ain’t gonna behave like that. I ain’t gonna hide.

I know why many men can’t stand us. I know many men can’t stand my high-pitched, trebly voice, my girlish demeanor, my bitchiness. This is why I’m doing all of those. This is why I’m walking around with my eyeliner and my limp wrists and my tight ass jeans and my knee-high girl boots and old-woman jewelry, shaking my hips to Vogue and Suddenly I See and lipsynching to Natural Woman at the bus stop.

So for 2014, if you haven’t already, try to do something that’s stereotypically not for your gender (I’m not saying sex, which is more of a biological term while gender is a state of mind). Call a guy a skank instead of a douchebag. Other terms you can use for guys include whore, bitch, slut. See how he likes it. Ladies, take a hint from Mean Girls and stop the slut shaming.

I know this is a stretch, and perhaps you guys can make out the connection between effeminate gay men and drag queens, but this is worth knowing. The Stonewall Riot, the very riot that helped propelled the campaign that made USA this gay friendly (although still two steps behind Canada and the Netherlands) involved drag queens. Also read this, this, and this. If you’re looking for a more “balanced” diet, you may want to read this

(Guys, seriously, I thought I didn’t have to tell you that I was being sarcastic about this whole balanced thing. Seriously, I’m not claiming I was there during the riot, but I’m sure drag queens were involved. Everyone knows how fierce drag queens are. I mean, really. A girly gay man like me not being supportive of drag queens? And really, I linked FOUR articles that support drag queens’ presence at Stonewall Riot and ONLY ONE that doesn’t. Doesn’t that mean anything? So before anyone gets all worked up, once again, the “balanced diet” thing is sarcasm).

And finally. Here. Here’s to 2014. Again.

Yeah, I totally made this one. Ferrealz.

Yeah, I totally made this one. Ferrealz.

ADDENDUM: My hit counter has gone bonkers over this post. I think it’s all over Facebook (well, “all over” is an overstatement), and yet only TWO comments (one of which is my reply)? I can’t see your “Like” (if you “Like” it) or your comment on your friend’s Facebook link, so by all means, please type your comment here. You can use your Facebook account to log in to WordPress and give comments on this blog post. I promise I won’t stalk you.

oh 2013 and the importance of having a clean ass

So, 2012 was full of possibilities, just as it was full of fear and apprehension. I remember trying so hard to live in the present. I’ve abandoned that notion a long time ago. I live for the future. If it gives me anxiety, so be it. Living in the present gives me even more anxiety.

I thought 2013 would be awesome. Nah. It started so shitty (which we’ll cover in a moment). It involved so much drama (break-up, etc). I declare that 2013 is The Year of:

  • Leaving Men
  • Loving Men
  • Leaving Oneself
  • Loving Oneself
  • Making Friends
  • Leaving Friends
  • Being Drunk
  • Being Skinny
  • Being Stupid
  • Being Slutty
  • Being a Sore Loser (I want to scream every time a copy of Glimmer Train shows up in my mailbox)
  • Discovering a New Hobby (have you seen my Flickr page?)
  • Frequent Bottoming

In accordance with saving the best for last rule, I’d like to talk to you about bottoming. Yes. I’m going in (HA!). I think I’ve earned the right to blog about this. I have more than ten thousand hits since I started this blog in July 2014. Granted, it’s not as many hits as I’d like, but then again, the subjects I write aren’t that popular. In fact, the post that really stands out is my review of The Conjuring (6,330 hits as of the time of this entry). I should point out that my other posts are also excellent (there’s nothing sadder than plugging one’s blog post on one’s blog. I mean, really) such as my How To Guide to Survive Parties for Socially Awkward People, and my essay about Relationships.

But I digress. Back (ha!) to the subject of bottoming.

Ah, the joy of prostate orgasm. Read this. I’m trying not to provide any links from Wikipedia because, well, it’s Wikipedia. So read this. There’s a tight (ha!) section in article about diets which we’ll discuss.

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And I don’t douche – I’ll save that one for when I’m ninety. I was once asked by someone how it was possible that my ass was so clean and ready whenever he wanted to mount me. I told him it was because I’m Indonesian. After pooping, we clean the area with water, not just toilet paper. No, it’s not frivolous.

However, as much as we hate to admit it, we bottoms are not always pristine. We curse, we fart (we don’t do this in the presence of a top because it reduces our mystical qualities; we sometimes don’t do this in the presence of other bottoms because bitches will talk to our top and badmouth us it’s just impolite). I know I’m smelly (not down there, but how would I know, right?) after a good workout or when it’s hot and humid. We have mushy, chocolate mousse-y (or perhaps chocolate moushe-y?) days. Upon reading this WebMD article about fiber, I decided that fiber is all in all good for you. In and out. (Ha!)

Chocolate Mousse. Yum. Image borrowed (without permission but with acknowledgment) from Family Heritage Recipes.

So, here are some dietary items that don’t work for me (I’m vegetarian):

  1. Coffee (thank goodness I generally don’t drink coffee)
  2. Spicy food (which includes Indian, Mexican, and Szechuan, all of which are my favorites)
  3. Some types of cheese (I’m borderline lactose intolerant too, unfortunately)
  4. Anything that makes me gassy or bloated (beans, broccoli). This is probably the worst feeling. It’s like being constipated but knowing there’s nothing inside but gas.

If you like these things, then plan ahead. I get instantaneous reactions from consuming beans and broccoli. I think I’ve had several accidents involving coffee (let’s just say that during which times I wished humans excreted Nutella instead).

Ooh, it’s heart-shaped! Image borrowed (without permission but with acknowledgment) from HauteApplePie.

Finally, if you, as a bottom, think that you’re not ready to do it (for whatever reasons), just say so. It is pretty confusing because having something up the bum feels similar to pooping. Then you lose your hard-on because you’re obsessing whether or not it’s fudge and hoping by all things good and mighty that it’s not fudge. Some people are just so anal (ha!) about it.

And Tops, please respect our decision not to take it for the team and give us time if we really don’t feel like it? Thanks.

Well, there’s that. All the opening hoopla and just a teensy note on bottoming tips. I think it’s a pretty fair way to end 2013, don’t you?

Here’s for a cleaner, more pleasurable 2014.

***

Post probably totally somewhat inspired by The Daily Post’s Prompt.

out west

I’ve seen this part of the City of Angels before, but only in movies.

Sunday. Blinding afternoon sunshine. Heat that disappears with the breeze under the shadows of trees, buildings. An ostentatious building called the Pacific Design Center. Three big bean sculptures in a park in front of it. Boys playing basketball.

“I think everyone here lives at the gym,” I mutter as I look outside the window of his Passat. Safe inside the cage. He agrees.

“Please don’t climb the art” the sign says about the beans. I argue that it’s not art. They’re sculptures. Calling them art is presumptuous. Who decides what is art and what isn’t? He shakes his head. I can’t argue. I can’t make arguments. He called me ridiculous when I told him he should stop smoking pot.

We enter an establishment. Young waiters. Defined bodies in tight red shirts. “The Abbey”. I’m not going in. “It’s just a tour,” he says. I give in. I walk in. Young Asians staring daggers at me. I’d like to say, “Come now, boys. Don’t be jealous. I’m not half as pretty as you are.” Young Asians staring daggers at me. Spiked jet black hair. Chinese? Japanese? Korean? I can’t tell. I look the other way. Too fast. Too soon. I should get shitfaced. But not at this place. Where are the monks? There are two boys in lycra swimsuits by the bar. Where are the monks? Are they the monks?

Back on the streets. Two muscular gods holding hands. One in a black shirt with Gucci logo and other words splattered on it in white. The other, taller one, six foot five, in white shirt, his wrist as thick as my neck. Veins bulging, as though screaming from all the testosterone, all the hours spent at the gym, all the lifted weights. I can’t look. I look the other way. At a bird, a table, a tree, a car, anything. It’s all about the pecs. And the tight t-shirt. I need to get shitfaced.

A donut shop is opening in January 2014, disappointing, what I wouldn’t give for sugar. A cakery has four decorative cakes in their display, all of which look fucked. “But they look good on television,” he says. I agree. I can’t argue with that. 

He’s wearing Adventure Time shirt. “Puncha Yo Buns” with Finn’s head on it. I bought him that shirt. He’s reaping the benefits. I bought him that shirt.

One boy, two boys, three, four, eight, I’ve lost count, smile at him. He likes the attention. My false sense of security falters. The ultimate test. There’s a zit on my jawline. Big, fat, white zit. Big, fat, white. He offered to take it out earlier in the day. I refused. Afraid it’d hurt too much. I can feel it throbbing. I haven’t had anything throbbing in me for days. Big, fat, white. I need sugar. I need to get shitfaced.

“You’ve been missing a lot,” he says, coming out of a raw eatery, checking its menu. I stand by the road, by a parking meter. Three boys sitting outside. I don’t say a word. Why are there so many fag hags? 

I avert my eyes every time someone looks at me, smiles at me. Should I flirt back? Can I? Just smile sheepishly. Hide behind the glasses. Hide behind these dirty lenses. I can’t see a thing. The sun is blinding. I’m glad I slathered sunscreen on my skin.

More boys. More men. Sidelined. Sidedished. Sideshowed. A guy points at his “Puncha Yo Buns” shirt. The guy says, “Oh hey, Adventure Time!” and disappears around the corner. The guy is tubby and he’s wearing skinny jeans. I want to say, “Oh, honey, it doesn’t work that way. See, wearing something that’s labelled ‘skinny’ doesn’t make you skinny.”

Why am I judgmental? Why am I offensive? Why am I bitter? Can’t you guess?

A thrift store. I found an XS sweater. Take off my black hooded jacket, reveal my low cut shirt. A young Latino comes in and smiles at me. I look the other way. I’m with someone else. The sweater doesn’t fit me. I’m fat. I’m wearing skinny jeans.

We enter “Gold Coast”. Oh, this is cozy. Dark film screens the windows, censoring half of the sunlight, dark wooden parquet floors beneath us don’t creak, or perhaps they do but I can’t hear it because people inside are talking, smiling, being friendly. Oh, this is lovely. A mutual friend greets us. How relieving it is to see him, to see someone I know in this beautiful world. I feel like fish out of water, a mutt in a dog show, a donkey in a horse race. Hee haw. I need to get shitfaced.

A handsome Ginger by the front door smiles at me as I enter. I avert my eyes yet again. Unsure of the smile. Really? For me? I stand where I can see him, where we can see each other. We see each other. I’m with someone else, sorry, someone who buys me Coke (in all fairness, I ask for Coke), I want to say, someone who says (jokingly) that it is apparently possible to have even less fun visiting West Hollywood with me than visiting The Castro with his ex.

Feels like being punched in the gut. Puncha Yo Buns.

I sip my Coke. Is this Diet? A little Christmas tree is blocking the Ginger. I want to burn it.

It’s getting colder in West Hollywood.

“You have to remember that I choose you. None of those boys are as beautiful as you,” he says as we walk back to his Passat. “I think it’s good that you don’t know how beautiful you are. I’d rather keep reminding you that you’re pretty than telling you you’re not all that.”

I want to smile, I want to believe, but I’m tired and somewhat defeated. I have a big, fat, white zit on my jawline. I can’t argue. You like the attention, I want to say. But everyone likes attention.

We come home and sleep until ten pm.

what i’m trying to say is

I know we just met once. I’ve heard so much about you. And I know you’ve heard so much about me too. I know what I learned about you, I don’t know what you learned about me. I don’t think that’s unfair. Everything I know about you is edited by other people, and filtered by my limited understanding about life, about how people behave, how people react to certain things.

I won’t call you crazy. I won’t denigrate you. I won’t reduce you into someone who’s mentally unstable, someone whom people try to understand but can’t, but I do understand you.

What I’m trying to say is, I’ve been in your position before.

I know how bitter you feel. I know why you feel bitter. One time a guy told me, after I’d shunned him for a week, that he’d made peace with not seeing me ever again. He said he was unhappy with the decision to leave me, but he said I’d been making him feel tired, and that I was basically poisoning the relationship by being passive-aggressive. It was our first big fight and he told me, after I said I wanted to patch things up, that he didn’t believe in patching things up. I felt blindsided. I was supposed to be the one who did that. He beat me to the punch. It took me several men and several months to move on. I’m sorry it cost you your man for me to move on.

We are competitive, you and I. We want our man to suffer when we leave. We want to be happier than they will ever be. Unfortunately for us, sometimes that’s not the case. The men I left became stronger, better, happier. The same guy from the previous paragraph sent me a text message, saying how much he’d been thinking of me and how he now had a great job, he was tired because of his job, but he was happy. HE WAS HAPPY. I was so tempted to write back and say, “Remember what happened when you chose health over happiness?” but I didn’t. And don’t get me started on other men. It’s like, I was their transitional phase, I was their wake-up call, their epiphany, that slap in the face, the one that reminded them they could be stronger, better, happier.

They’re lucky, I’m insufferably socially awkward. I met some of their friends. Once, twice, three times. The relationship ended before I could really fit in with the crowd. You were with him for six years. You know his friends well. I can’t blame you for reaching out to them, but see, they are his friends who became yours. You were the one who was invited into the crowd. I can’t blame you for not inviting me into your crowd and making me feel like an outsider the whole night long. I can’t blame you for not returning the favor. After a break-up, I didn’t have to reach out to anyone on my ex’s side of the crowd. I reached out to my own friends, or during the time I was friendless or didn’t really have anyone to take me out to escape my misery, I chose to be alone, spent hours on Netflix, sleeping with my headphones uncomfortably blocking outside sounds, blocking inside thoughts, so I didn’t have to think of my mistakes, of my stupidity.

What I’m trying to say is, I took it in, I swallowed the pill, I hugged the bomb. I may sound like a hero, but I’m not. When it’s fight or flight, I freeze. I curl into a fetus and have a private meltdown. It’s a pity party for one. I don’t invite his friends over, especially not to a party that happens at the same day, at the same time that your ex is making, and just so you know, this party predates your initiation into the crowd. 

What I’m trying to say is, I don’t sabotage other people’s happiness. I watch them from afar, brewing with anger, seething with rage. I take it out somewhere else. I gobble down cakes, because I know my body can take it. I know my heart can take it. Bring me all the sadness in the world, bring me all the heartbreaks and I can handle them. But I don’t sabotage other people’s happiness.

But maybe, maybe it’s because now I’m happy.

You told us you were dating. You were on the phone all night, texting. We all asked who that was and you told us it was just a guy you were dating.

He’s a rebound, isn’t he? Because if you are happy with him, if you think he’s the one that makes you complete, then you won’t be this bitter. You’ll think you’ve won over me, over this petty little homewrecker and the man you used to know. But no. The guy you’re dating, he’s a rebound. You’re not winning. You’re scrambling to find a man. Any man.

What I’m trying to say is, we are alike. You and I. Although physically, intellectually, you are more superior to me.

What I’m trying to say is, you’ve won. You’ve hurt your ex, who is my lover. He’s hurt. He’s as bitter, as resentful as you are. For different reasons, yes, but the feelings are still the same. That same bitterness, resentment. 

What I’m trying to say is, you’ll be fine. In time.

I know we just met once. I know it was probably the first and the last meeting. But before we met, I’d heard so much about you, and I doubt I’ll hear the end of you. You’ll be remembered.

What I’m trying to say is, how do you want to be remembered?

how to: surviving parties for socially awkward people

My mother knows me so well. Here’s why.

One time she was on the phone with a family friend of her and my father’s age. The lady was a preacher’s wife. She invited me to come to her party with my family. I didn’t have anything to do, but I didn’t (still don’t) like hanging out with church-going crowds. I told my mom to tell the lady that I wasn’t going to make it. The lady then said, “Oh I’m sure Yuska would be the life of the party!”

To which my mom replied:

“Well, not really, no. He’s actually very quiet and shy when he’s around new people he doesn’t know. He’s terrible at making friends.”

I was 28 years old when that happened. What my mom said was not out of spite. She wasn’t trying to mock me. She was actually trying to save me from going to the party because she knew I hated parties where I had to feign interests and smile the whole time just so people wouldn’t ask me what was wrong. My mom succeeded, the lady understood, and I came to terms with my social awkwardness. Now I can read this article and not be blown away by the revelation.

Santa Bear and Seven Gay Elves by Mark Thaler.

Santa Bear and Seven Gay Elves by Mark Thaler.

Still, Christmas and New Year are coming, and there will be parties. Your family/friend/significant other may want to include you and you can’t really say no without sounding like a dick. You know you’ll regret it, but come on. Everything can’t be all about you.

Here are the things you need to do, especially if you’re actually not introverted, but just socially awkward:

Don’t drink.
If you’re like me, drinking will only make it worse. I’m a drunk. When I drink, I get sleepy and slurry and I’ll start embarrassing myself and others by revealing not only my deepest, darkest secrets, but also my companion’s. And my deepest, darkest secrets are not fun. Well, perhaps for those who don’t like me they are. So, don’t drink. Reach for the unspiked juice or mocktails or settle for water. Say you’re on a diet or your throat isn’t feeling really good or you’re horribly allergic to alcohol. Also, lay off food that makes you gassy. The sound (and smell) that comes out of the lower end can be just as embarrassing.

Find an animal, a baby, a small child to play with.
Generally find critters whom you’re most comfortable with, but do not give them desperate pleas to come back when they leave you (because they will). Do not fiddle with your phone. That’s just rude and will alienate you even further.

Be gracious.
Compliment people (sincerely) of their hair, clothes, collection of superhero figurines, cock-shaped weed pipe, but don’t just dish out compliments without thinking. One time I asked a woman where she lived and she said Fresno and instinctively I nodded, smiled, and said, “Very nice.” Learn to say “fascinating” instead of “interesting”, learn to say “fabulous”, “gorgeous”, “lavish”, in a sincere way.

Do background checks.
Ask your companion about the people you’re going to meet. Stalk their Facebook page, WordPress, Blogger, Flickr, Tumblr, LinkedIn, Match.com profile, Amazon purchase history, but don’t mention anything about their work, their posts, their photos, their vacations in the Poconos or Bali, the fact that they bought terrible books, or the horrible photos they took that have been Instagrammed beyond recognition. Practice your smile and your handshake while doing this. No, smizing is not the look you want to have. Background checks also include what kind of party it’s going to be, is it a garden party? An indoor party? A pool party? This is related to your wardrobe choices. Ask you companion what people are going to wear. Is it a black tie/black dress event? Is it a luau? Is it a good time to wear your Rarity muscle shirt?

La Banks showing you how to smize.

Make them talk. Forever. And learn to like it.
We all know that people are interested in talking about themselves. I mean, I know I am. I don’t necessarily like the sound of my voice (it’s too trebly), but I know I have interesting stories, like when I fell off a table I was dancing on at Hard Rock Cafe, or when I fell and grazed my palm and knees chasing the bus and bled all the way home, or when I fell while rollerblading downhill. But no. Ask people where they work, what they do for fun, where they got the ring/necklace/piercing/tattoo/hilariously clever boyfriend shirt, what they think of Rule34 Apple’s ridiculously overpriced products, that terrifying situation in Chechnya, or if they believe in God Santa Claus Baby Jesus love at first sight Obamacare Justin Bieber’s retirement announcement. Say “fascinating”, “gorgeous”, “priceless”, “fabulous”, “lavish”. Heck, say “fetch” and see if they get it (if they get it, then you know you’re with the right people).

Do not overact / overreact.
Your companion will be with his/her friends. Don’t expect him/her to give you undivided attention. I mean, sure, it’ll be really nice of him/her to introduce you to his/her friends, but don’t get too clingy that it gets uncomfortable, don’t be mad at him/her for leaving you alone from time to time, especially if you don’t understand what your companion and his/her friends are talking about. I did this once. We had great make-up sex the morning after, but not everyone is that lucky. Consider yourself warned.

Befriend the lonely people in the room.
It’s easy to spot them. They’re usually the new boyfriends/girlfriends. You can find them near the wine bottles, finger food/dessert trays, the cats, the dogs, or locked inside the toilet. You know, the things you’ll do. Sometimes the loneliest people are the ones with so many stories because they’ve been dying to tell people all night but can’t and don’t know how or where to start. Be the angel. Offer them the warming gift of friendship. Make them feel welcomed. Get a discussion going (movies, books, restaurants). Before you know it, your crowd will be the cool crowd where the liveliest conversations take place. That’s the power of social awkward camaraderie. It’s a socawkwarderie. However, do not talk about your companion’s bad habits just yet. You don’t know how they might process/use such information. Don’t trust people too soon, no matter how lonely (looking) they are.

If all else fails, suck it up and find a spot and stay there for the rest of the night.
Find a place to sit, to stand, to nurse your one glass of apple juice for two or three hours. Just make sure it’s not near the bathroom or the kitchen door or the bedroom door, or any kind of door. However, proximity is important. Don’t stand too near the crowd of people you don’t know (they’ll have conversation that includes private inside jokes you don’t understand), but don’t stand too far from the crowd either because then you’ll look like a lurker or a stalker (if you smile, that’s going to be creepy; if you look cross, that’s going to be a mood killer; but don’t be expressionless either).

Well, happy holidays, stay safe, stay sane, and be yourself. Sometimes the best way to win people’s affection is by not overdoing or underdoing things.

on regrets

There are at least three types of people you shouldn’t trust: 1) those who hunt animals for fun; 2) those who wear real fur; 3) those who tell you they don’t have any regrets.

The first two are pretty self-explanatory. The third one, on the other hand, well…

I have so many regrets in my life. I regret not taking care of my teeth and losing my braces twice and not being disciplined enough to wear the third one. I regret not telling some of my exes to go cut their dicks off as they told me I wasn’t worthy of their time. I regret my growing apart with my siblings. I regret missing out on a lot of things and seeing my parents age. And the list goes on and on and it won’t stop. There will be more items added to it and it won’t stop growing until I die, and the pessimist in me is saying that as I’m struggling to draw my last breath, I will think of my past and all those unfulfilled dreams and ambitions.

When you think about it, regrets stem from making the wrong decisions, or perhaps believing that you’re making the right decision, but then you keep looking back and thinking, “That could’ve been smoother,” or, “I could’ve handled the situation better.” When you have no other options, then you can only do one thing and there’s no reason for you to regret it. But I had the option to be disciplined enough with my braces, I had the option to not be a doormat to my exes, I had the option to stay away from the Internet and hang out with my siblings more, I had the option to stay home more and spend more time with my parents.

Something happened to me very recently and now I’m thinking, have I made the right decision by choosing this path?  Will I regret it tonight? Tomorrow? A week from now? Ten years from now?

On a somehow unrelated and happier note, I passed the DMV written test. I got four answers wrong (I chose twelve months prison time instead of six months for the question regarding DUI).

Snapshot_20131205