For someone who complains how cold she is all the time, my girlfriend is fucking hot. I don’t mean visually hot – which she most absolutely is (bing! bing! bing! That’s three brownie points, Bob.) I mean hot in terms of Fahrenheit.
Just doesn’t make sense to me. I remember the first time she started shivering and instinctively pressed her body against mine. I was expecting cold, icy hands, or at least a significantly lower body temperature. But instead I was bathed in magma.
“Holy shit, I’m dating the Earth’s core,” I thought to myself as my clothes instantly burst into flames.
When we sleep together, we do the cuddling thing that you women tend to mindlessly over-hype like those Cooking Channel shows. But after a few minutes of that, she’s learned to keep a safe distance before falling asleep. Because if her body is directly against mine for more than 15 minutes, my meat starts to sizzle and fall off the bone. Soak me in some kalbi marinade beforehand, and I can feed an entire village in North Korea.
Squiggy was fried Satuday. He’d spent two straight days playing golf with his bosses at a posh San Diego resort presumably named after a gentle facial cleanser, Aviara. And it never slipped into his mind that he should put on some sunscreen.
Here’s the thing about Asian people. They either can't tan and are therefore pale as fuck - tofu with legs - OR they tan really easily, with some approaching politically incorrect levels of blackness.
Squiggy and I fall in the easy tan group. I spent almost all my youth outside under the scorching SoCal sun, SPF-free. There were days where I’d be out on the beach all day, daring the UV rays to hurt me, even calling them names. And I still never got sunburned. I’ve heard similar stories from my other dark Asian friends.
But then we all have that moment where our sense of invincibility gets the better of us, and like with Icarus, the sun tries to kill you in a homicidal rage. For me it was my first trip to Oahu. My local friends kept insisting that the sun was different out there and recommended I put on some sunscreen. I told them that despite what their volcano or Tiki god might’ve told them, their sun was the same as ours. 24 hours later, every single nerve ending on my skin was screaming like a little bitch. At least the peeling part was fun.
I remembered that Hawaii trip as Squiggy constantly lathered aloe vera lotion all over his face and arms across from me in the restaurant. Dude was all red and moist like a dog’s wiener.
I don’t go to church too often. But I’d agreed to go today, since my dad was scheduled to sing solo. I even wore a suit and tie as he requested.
So I got to the church, which thankfully had air conditioning because it was nasty hot outside. And I sat there and waited for my dad to sing. And I waited some more.
Finally it occurred to me to scan the congregation for my dad. He wasn’t there. So I walked outside the church and looked around to see if he might’ve been waiting for me out front.
As I looked up and down the block, I realized there wasn’t one, but three churches. I’d been in the wrong church the whole time. Damn Koreans and their Starbucks approach to Christianity.
By the time I finally figured out which church it was, I was sweating like a farm animal - albeit a well-dressed one - and I’d missed my dad’s performance.
But unfortunately I didn’t miss the end of service. That’s when he paraded me around to each and all of his fellow church members, announcing my school/extracurricular activities/shoe size every single time. It amazes me how Asian parents never get tired of this shit. I could be 50, fat and balding, and my parents will still be telling everyone where I went to college.
Overall it was awkward and excrutiating. I felt like a prize steer at a cattle auction. The winning bid eventually went to a hungry village in North Korea.