Fan’s Complaint

or is that My Life, Backwards, Boring?
or Even this loneliness is better than the cruelty of my fellow man.

There’s a lot to go over and very little time. Let’s do it backwards.

My current task at work leaves me all alone in a fileroom, with plenty of time to think. This is both a blessing and a curse. I can compose entire blog entries, e-mails, even the opening paragraph of a new story while I am working. Unfortunately by the time I am home, I am usually too tired out from the heavy lifting to do much more than write IMs.

Race + Guilt:
Will I ever get past the whole race thing? Earlier last night, my father handed me an old copy of his resume and a slip of paper with an e-mail address on it. I voiced my objections about sending it for him, giving him such reasons as follows:
“A resume is really something you should send from your own e-mail address.”
“Does this person accept attachments? A lot of people just reject attachments outright, and if I just write the resume in plain text it will look bad.”
My father seemed overwhelmed by my usage of both English and jargon. He did not understand a word I was saying, and just insistently handed me his resume and the slip of paper.
Of course, the real reason for my initial refusal to do this tiniest of favors for him is because of what the whole episode represents. It’s oedipal. It’s emasculating. It’s a sign of his, and therefore, my mortality. Also, I am overwhelmed just by looking at my own resume, and now I have to do my father’s?!

And so I got to work, and the resume is one of the worst ones I have ever seen, with bad formatting, typoes, grievous errors in usage, etc. After punching it up to the best of my ability, I wrote the cover letter, in which I wrote “Many have complimented me on my responsible and reliable nature, the very qualities that are the hardest to find in the impetuous youth clogging the labor market today.” I hope that one moment of enjoyment in what was otherwise a tedious letter to write (I did not even know what the position was) did not cost my father a job.

And now the guilt and race part: White people get jobs through their fathers’ connections and good ol’ boy networks. I have to write my father’s resume when I spend my days lifting boxes and can’t even look at my own.

Cue resentment.

Cue guilt.

My father’s an artist. The only reason he even has to look for work was because he made the mistake of getting married and having an ingrate son.

The Resentment-Guilt cycle: Ball-busting fun for the rest of your life.

***

More on Race, or Notes from the Reunion.

I arrived at the reunion with a mostly white group. Even in the tiny space of this club, the race divisions of high school did a pretty good job of asserting themselves. I did not speak to many other Asians, and whites outside of those with whom I arrived did not speak to me. I suppose I should be glad I am not black, as life would be even more complicated then.

Still, I am starting to think that I would be a lot happier if I had taken the typical Asian route starting in high school. Having an Asian crew, going to a good school, working a good office job in finance or some such thing.

***

Reunion notes II:

My backwards life: Other people reconnect at reunions, I burn bridges. A certain very close friend of mine made a pact with me that if I went to the reunion, so would he. He broke the pact. While lifting boxes, I started to think about this, and I grew angrier as I remembered that he has a history of doing this [ditching me]. The Europe trip, the America trip. Of course, those two weren’t outright promises, but even so, he doesn’t take me very seriously:

Me (6:41:33 PM): I will not forget this bigtime screwover
Me (6:43:31 PM): asshole
Him (6:44:41 PM): yeah i feel really bad about the whole thing
Him (6:44:53 PM): but you’re used to disappointment
Me (6:44:59 PM): that doesn’t make it okay

I was going to just tell him that “I have to return some video tapes” the next time he called and wanted to do something, but then I realized that he never calls, and I got even angrier.

So for the second time, I’m through with him.

And yes, I know I act like a woman. It’s really a wonder I’m not gay, what with my emotions and my lack of a strong father figure.

***

Older stuff:

I had a five-day break for Thanksgiving, and on Tuesday night, I declared that I was going on a bender. I got good and drunk that night, passed out until Wednesday night, tried to install some shit in my computer when perhaps I shouldn’t have, and broke something important. So spent Wednesday night and Thanksgiving without my computer, and was compelled by the effects of computer withdrawl to brave the fat shoppers on Friday. I arrived at the store seven minutes after it opened, and the place was already packed with people buying $1500 30-inch LCD monitors.

This is why they hate us.

***

Reunion Notes III:

I left the club and went to a friend’s apartment where I threw up and passed out. Shared a cab back to Queens with another friend, passed out on my bed. Woke up, ate half a pint of ice cream, just to get something in my stomach, and got E. Sloth to go to 7-11 with me so I could hydrate myself. I bought V8 and Gatorade. After drinking both, we proceeded to drive around for a bit, until at a stop sign, I opened the door and threw up onto the street. After making a right turn, I threw up some more.

E. Sloth: “It’s okay, it’s just V8 and Gatorade, the rain will wash it away.”

***

I am not white, I have little for which to be thankful, and might as well just give up on everything. I’ve forsaken my own people in fruitless attempts to get a slice of that ol’ American Pie, and now I’ll never be accepted anywhere.

And that’s how I spent my Thanksgiving break.

I hope your holiday was nice!!

My plan for Thanksgiving involves, a bottle of gin, Roy Orbison songs, crippling loneliness, and if I’m feeling particularly special, a Hungry Man Turkey Dinner.

After all, I have a lot to be thankful for.

I was going to write about returning to my “normal” routine of posting at least once a week, but perhaps the true “normal” state of affairs here at Fan’s Complaint is posting “whenever,” which boils down to less than once a week, unless I’m particularly riled up about one thing or another.

I think I have come to terms with what happened earlier this month. Life goes on, and, as long time readers would probably expect, I feel guilty about moving on. But that’s “normal” too.

The next thing in my life would be my 5-year high school reunion. Hopefully no one will press charges.

Either way, it would be safe to say that I’ll have something to write about in this space after the reunion.

Excelsior!

Dear Red States,

I am writing this letter today to inform you of my decision to leave. I know we’ve done some great things in the past, and a part of me wants to stay with you to work it out. But the fact remains that there are irreconcilable differences between us, and I believe that after some thought, it will be clear to all involved that separation is the best course of action.

I will never forget the times that we had together, before you changed so much that I don’t even know who you are anymore. Even today, after all that has gone on, I can still remember when you were there for me, after September 11th, and smile. Never had I felt so strongly that I belonged with you. But then we get to the bad parts, your insistence on controlling our financial affairs, on telling me who we can and cannot marry — I’m gonna stop, because if I keep listing these differences, we’ll just both get angry.

Look, you will always have a place in my heart. Parts of you can be so beautiful, simple, and kind. And I know that I will always be remembered by you, if not fondly. I just think that we’ve grown so far apart, and until you get rid of that unsightly shrub at the top of house, we just cannot remain together.

Please accept this decision and move on. I have friends to the east and to the north who I know will accept me, so you do not have to worry. I know there is a part of you that wants to force me to stay, but I also know that there are other voices telling you, “Good riddance,” or “This is probably for the best.” I urge you to please listen to those voices, instead of embarrassing us in front of the whole world with another “me strong you not” episode.

yours,
NYC

Or do.

I feel conflicted about writing this entry, because I know it’s not over, and that there’s still a chance. But I do also see the writing on the wall, and so here goes:

Fuck this country.
Fuck all of you who voted contrary to your self interests on account of “moral issues.”
Fuck the founding fathers for creating this incredibly flawed system.
Fuck bin Laden.
Fuck the red states, us New Yorkers are the ones who will die in another attack.
Fuck the Dems for not making it more obvious to these morons that the Bushies are wrong.
Fuck the media for encouraging a Kerry concession.
Fuck Kerry for beating Howard Dean.
Fuck Howard Dean for the scream.
Fuck the media again for making a big deal out of the scream.
Fuck all the media-bashers, the media is fine, as long as you read the Times.
Fuck the Times for suggesting that we quit fighting in their editorial.
FUCK.
Fuck me for thinking the system works.
Fuck me for ever saying this country was a great place.
Fuck me for not being strong enough to keep fighting.
Fuck Rudy Giuliani for waving the bloody shirt for the wrong side.
Fuck me for ever having believed in anything, for getting my own hopes up.

I’m going to try to burn a flag later this week. Feel free to join me.

*I reserve the right to retract the above statements should Kerry win the presidency.

Addendum: You know, in 2000, I could at least blame the system, or the Republicans for stealing it. But the current popular vote results really must force me to blame the results on the people of this country as a whole. I will admit that after giving money to Howard Dean, I did nothing more to get Bush out of office aside from badgering my friends and arguing in bars. Maybe I could have done more. Volunteered or something, but somehow I doubt it would have made a difference.

Fuck Moral Issues.

You people are so stupid, so selfish. If the universe is a just one, you will all be reincarnated as Iraqi children or something, forced to deal first-hand with the consequences of your decision.

VOTE OR DIE!!!

Unless of course you plan to vote for Bush, in which case I strongly encourage you to just die.

I’m H. and I approved this message.