18 1 / 2014


Sex is not a goddamn performance.

Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.

It should not require confidence.

Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.

Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.

You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.

It’s not about being “good in bed.”

It’s about being happy.

One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.

What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.

Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.

Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.

I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.

I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.

It’s originality.

It’s passion.

It’s joy.

Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.

I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.

“Good in bed,” what.

You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.

Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.

This isn’t a test.


29 8 / 2013

A few days ago, I went to go get coffee after work with a coworker. I hadn’t had coffee in a while—try: a little over a year—but didn’t think too much of it. I felt alright up until it was time for bed. And that’s when my brain exploded. It just exploded.

I was so wired I learned two new songs on my ukelele, started three paintings, and beat fourteen levels of Candy Crush. At this point, it was almost 4AM, but I still couldn’t get my shit together. So I crawled into bed with a physics book. (Actually, I don’t know why I had a high school physics book lying around on the floor…)

For those of you who know me, you know I am not a math-y, science-y person. But as I was reading about the physics of rainbows, something dawned on me: I am a lover of puzzles and have been since age 3, and math is just another puzzle. I had determined that I was no good at science and math because somewhere along the way, I had failed and given up on myself. I had let an arbitrary letter in red define and limit my potential.

So maybe I am a math-y, science-y, artsy fartsy person, and I’ve just been lying to myself, limiting myself to the media of art, music and literature.

At the core of my being, I am in love with learning. It’s an affirmation refined over twenty-two years. My greatest frustration is that there is not enough time to read every book, experience every culture, and hear every life story. But until the day I return to the soil, I will not let my failures determine my potential.

And so I begin with Geometry, and I refuse to let these triangles get the better of me.

24 8 / 2013

When I went to work today, I left my phone at home. It’s a total cliche, but I will not apologize: I felt naked. Ab-so-lute-ly NAKED. At work, all I could think about was my phone, and to be honest, it was pathetic. I don’t even know why I cared so goddamn much! It’s not like I was waiting for some important phone call or email or text or Facebook message or tweet or Instagram or anything really!The person I was two years ago would’ve slapped me in my whole face. 

After my sessions and with my phone still on my mind, I headed outside into the night. As I opened the door, I felt the world meet me. I looked up at the sky with a conveniently placed full moon above, and it hit me how out of touch I had become with a lot of things: the nighttime’s particular shade of navy blue, the smell of city-burbia, the subtle unevenness of parking lot asphalt. I felt the night breeze greet me like an old friend. It’s strange I had even forgotten what street traffic sounded like. It was like reading an old diary or finding some forgotten photograph: surreal.

I think I shall be leaving my phone at home more often.

24 8 / 2013

I have a confession: In the last year, I have not been true to myself. Not so much in the sense that I’d strayed from my beliefs or whatnot, but more in the sense that I have not been creatively productive.

But that will change.

It’s never too early—or too late—in the year for resolutions. And you, dear friends, are witness to this.

21 8 / 2013


He waited until the train was in motion to make his move—a true sign of someone who knows how to make the environment work to their advantage. Then he leaned forward. “Hi.” “How you doing?” “What are you reading?” “What’s your name?” “I really like your hair.” “That’s a really nice skirt.” “You must work out.”

It was painful to watch. She clearly wanted nothing to do with him, and he clearly wasn’t going to take the hint. Her rebukes got firmer. “I’d like to read my book.” And he pulled out the social pressure. “Hey, I’m just asking you a question. You don’t have to be so rude.” She started to look around for outs. Her head swiveled from one exit to another.

The thing was, I had already heard this story, many many times. I knew how it would play out. I knew all the tropes. I probably could have quoted the lines before they said them. I wanted a new narrative. Time to mix it up.

So I moved seats until I was sitting behind him. I leaned forward with my head on the back of his seat.

"Hi," I said with a little smile.

He looked at me like I was a little crazy—which isn’t exactly untrue—and turned back to her.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"I’m fine," he said flatly without ever looking back.

"I really like your hair," I said. “It looks soft."

That’s about when it got…..weird.

He sort of half turned and glared back me, and I could tell I was pissing him off. His eyes told me to back the hell away, and his lips were pressed together tightly enough to drain the color from them completely.

But no good story ever ends with the conflict just defusing. He started to turn back to her.

"Wait, don’t be like that," I said. “Lemmie just ask you one question…"

"What!" he said in that you-have-clearly-gone-too-far voice that is part of the freshmen year finals at the school of machismo.

And I’m not exactly a hundred percent sure why I didn’t call it a day at that point, but…..maybe I just love turning the screw to see what happens. I gave him the bedroomy-est eyes I could muster. “What’s your name?”

Right now I’m sitting here typing out this story, and I’m still not entirely sure why I’m not nursing a fat lip or a black eye. Because that obviously made him so mad that I still am not sure why it didn’t come to blows. There are cliches about eyes flaring and rage behind someones eyes and shit like that that are so overdone. But it really does look like that. When someone gets violent, their eyes just kind of “pop” with intention—pupils dilate, eyelids widen. And his did. Even sitting down he was clearly bigger than me and I was pretty sure he was kind of muscular too, so at that moment I was figuring I was probably going to need an ice pack and sympathy sex from my girlfriend by day’s end.

"DUDE," he shouted. “I’M NOT GAY."

That’s when I dropped the bedroom eyes and switched to a normal voice. “Oh well I could see not being interested didn’t matter to you when you were hitting on her, so I just thought that’s how you rolled.”


19 8 / 2013

A friend showed me someone’s “Drawing Progression”, drawings he had done—and kept—from the ages 2 to 24 on Imgur. I thought I’d try my hand at it, but this proved extremely difficult since I’d given away most of my art. Also, I have a bad habit of not dating anything. So the timeline’s a little rough. Whatever, I do what I want. Enjoy!


This is a drawing of my parents’ wedding. My mother wore a pink mountain, and I learned how to write “Hh”.






I couldn’t find any art for age 9, but I found this instead. I had just moved from LA to OC and was having trouble making friends in a very small private school. It’s kind of sad, but I’m glad my mother kept this. #itgetsbetter

AGE 10

AGE 11

AGE 12

AGE 13

AGE 14

AGE 15

AGE 16

AGE 17

AGE 18

AGE 19

AGE 20

AGE 21

And there will be more to come :)

02 8 / 2013

#thisguy missed the exit, drove over the divider and the little hill, and crossed two lanes. #somepeople (at 5 Freeway)

#thisguy missed the exit, drove over the divider and the little hill, and crossed two lanes. #somepeople (at 5 Freeway)

15 6 / 2013

Every meal is just an excuse to eat #cheese.

Every meal is just an excuse to eat #cheese.

12 3 / 2013

Here is a photo of what it looks like when you’ve given up on life.

And, yes, that’s a sticker in my hurr. So much WHY it hurts.

Here is a photo of what it looks like when you’ve given up on life.

And, yes, that’s a sticker in my hurr. So much WHY it hurts.

11 3 / 2013

So it’s happened again. The Asian community is flipping out over another racist video on the internet. But this time, it’s not a college girl from California (Remember Alexandra Wallace?); it’s some college boy from Indiana something-or-other. (I obviously did my research there, heh. Sorry, not sorry.)

Well, this guy made a video declaring all the reasons why he wouldn’t want to be Asian. I agree that ignorance shouldn’t be an excuse social injustice, but he complained that if he were Asian, he would have to be good at math. I think that’s a compliment (though I, myself, have been failing math since I was 8.)

To be honest, there are days I hate being Asian: having pushy parents that care way too much about my future, my education, my career—or lack of one (Sorry, moms!)—and how much I weigh since being fat will rule out all of the “high-quality” suitors; being expected to excel at ALL things academic (I have gotten more than my fair share of D’s and F’s, mang); and having guys want you only because they got that “Yellow Fever” (NO THANK YOU). Longest sentence I’ve ever put together in my life!

I’m not trying to make what he said okay because it’s not. But death threats aren’t okay either. Plus, I hear you Asian people calling your homies the “N” word like it’s all cool. That’s not okay either because that’s just prolonging the state of cultural illiteracy too.

So let’s all get on the same page: “Everyone’s a little bit racist” (Avenue Q). Let’s leave these kinds of things in the dust and build skyscrapers that can’t be taken down by planes, go on adventures into deep dark waters, discover the cure for every kind of cancer, protect our children and the trees, feed not only those who are physically hungry but mentally and emotionally as well. Let’s be the bigger person, the bigger community. Let’s move on, people.

Because we’re seriously wasting our time.

Also, if you want to check the blahblahblurb I wrote back in March 2011 about Alexandra What’s-her-face (literally), here’s the link: http://theyellowjacket.tumblr.com/post/4000477128/alexandra-whats-her-face-let-it-go-people. You know if you really got nothing better to do.