I Can’t

Two words.

When you really think about it, we are the killers of our own dreams.

For a lot of us, if we’re asked the question, Are you doing exactly what you want to be doing with your life?, the answer is some version of No.

And for most of us, the reason is simple – It’s your own fault.

Think about this: how many times in the past week have you said or thought to yourself, I can’t? It might have been about something small like, “I can’t go out tonight because I have work tomorrow morning,” or “I can’t go over and talk to that girl because she’ll reject me.” You may have also said it for grander issues like, “I can’t quit my crap job because I’m in too much debt,” or “I can’t come out of the closet because my family will disown me.”

We get into this mode where we trick ourselves into thinking that outside circumstances are preventing us from doing and becoming what we want, but really we’re the ones blocking ourselves.

Look, I’m not above this either; I do this to myself just as much as everyone else. I can’t. I can’t. There’s too much goddamn I can’t in my life.

If you’re reading this, do us all a favor: the next time you say I can’t to something, check yourself for a second. Really ask yourself what you can and can’t do.

I’ll try to do the same.

 

Chris.

Hanging On By A Thread

Back in the year 2000, I was a senior in high school. The year consisted mostly of college applications, goofing around in class, and playing sports. Any pressure of doing well in school was alleviated; the work, or damage, was already done, so it was left up to the college gods to determine my fate, as it were. I had a good time.

A big reason for why my senior year was enjoyable was my friends. There was about seven of us that did pretty much everything together. We’d play basketball, go bowling, go to the movies, and hang out on the weekends, and during school we would be in the same classes and have lunch and breaks together. There was a real sense of camaraderie and brotherhood, and though college was on the horizon where our paths would diverge, we felt like the bonds that we created during our formative adolescent years would carry our friendships through a lifetime of different experiences.

Today, I am still friends with only one of those high school guys.

It’s an all too familiar story that for the most part all of us can relate to – losing touch with high school friends. But it’s not just friends from back in high school. The truth is, no matter what stage of life we’re talking about, the friends we make and have can and will likely fall by the wayside. But why is that? Are having our lives go in different directions the reason for this? Is it because people change and are no longer the same version of themselves as they were at a particular time?

I think those are all valid explanations, but the one I believe in the most is this: friendships are fragile, and oftentimes a single instance can break them beyond repair.

It’s not as if I had a huge falling out with my high school friends. That was a case of time growing people apart. But let’s look at the friends that we have amassed in our lifetimes, and more specifically, within the last five to ten years. It could be a comment someone said, or what someone did or didn’t do in a certain situation, but little moments in time can have damaging effects on friendships. Maybe a one-time friend made an offensive comment or perhaps someone left us high and dry in a time of need; whatever the case may be, people are quick to bail on friendships.

It’s a combination of things, I suppose. As we get older, our personal thresholds for bullshit decrease. We become more set in our ways and oftentimes less compromising on certain principles. Our time becomes more valuable and in turn we become more selective on whom we choose to spend our time with. Whatever the reason may be, all of our friendships, no matter how close or strong they may seem at the moment, are all hanging by a thread. And the thread can break at any time.

I don’t write all this to paint a grim picture of humanity (even though I tend to be a misanthrope). I write this to point out that we should appreciate the people we call friends today. It’s human nature to take people for granted, so while we are in the good graces of those we call friends and vice versa, let’s do all we can to stay friends.

 

Chris.

Soon Enough, I’ll Get Fingered

I know what you’re thinking.

No, I am not going to prison.

But yes, you did read that right. In due time, a finger will be up my ass. Is it by choice? Well, let’s just say that’s debatable.

What is life but a mere collection of unique experiences? Shouldn’t we be expanding our horizons, seeking opportunities that will lead to a higher state of enlightenment?

Seriously, get your mind out of the gutter. This is not a sex thing.

I went to the doctor recently. I’m one of those types that never go to the doctor. Dentist? Yes, I get my teeth cleaned regularly, but doctor? Nah. I hadn’t seen a doctor in about eight years. But I’ve been getting migraines and I hurt my wrist at the gym not too long ago. I also figured it would be a good idea to get my blood drawn to see what filth lives inside of me.

The doctor, an older Indian gentleman, asked me how old I was, to which I told him that I’m 33. Hearing that number come out of my mouth sounds a little strange; I honestly forget that I’m not 30 anymore from time to time. Then, the doctor said, Well, you don’t have to get your prostate checked yet, but soon enough. Nobody likes getting that checked. Then he went on to laugh for a brief few seconds.

Like I said, a finger up my ass.

It’s inevitable, not necessarily the finger, but getting old. As I was getting my blood pressure and heart rate taken, I sat in the doctor’s office thinking, This is my life now – doctor appointments with prostate examinations on the horizon. I could have sworn I was that douchebag at the club hitting on random girls with negs and demonstrations of higher value just last week. Where did the time go?

But I guess that’s life. I suppose we ought to savor the moments we have now, be in the present. Do things get better with age? I don’t know. I have no idea what the future holds, and perhaps that’s partly why the present is so great, because we don’t know.

I do know, however, that soon enough, I’ll get fingered. That’s all the future knowledge I need for now, thanks.

 

Chris.

New Coworkers Are Awful

Am I a good person? Clearly, I am not.

I question people who don’t question themselves. How can anyone be so sure of his quality as a human being? Oftentimes I find that those that can make such bold proclamations like I’m a good mom, or I’m definitely capable of getting the job done are the exact opposite of what they’re saying.

I don’t ever want to hang out with someone who never doubts himself, someone who lacks the introspection to question how good of a person he really is.

Just as I say these things, I must admit – doubting myself sucks. Don’t get me wrong, I want to be a good person. I mean, don’t we all want to be loved? Isn’t that the whole point of all this?

The other day, I met a new coworker. Let’s just call her Gina (either pronunciation, conventional or the one from The 40-Year Old Virgin, works here). She’s a woman who, from the looks of her, is in her early forties. In an office where the standard energy level of the employees is at a steady 4 out of 10, she bursts onto the scene at level 9. Her smile is about as fake as Giada de Laurentiis’s, made of plastic, just like Vicki of Small Wonder fame.

That’s all I needed to know right there. She hasn’t even said a word yet. She could be Mother Theresa reincarnated. Not a fan already.

She says Hi, nice to meet you! as if I’m a mentally disabled child – slow, loud, and deliberate. Is this a joke? Is she just fucking with me? I want to tell her to STFU, I honestly do, but of course, all I can muster up is the standard level 4 Oh hey, it’s nice to meet you. Welcome. I can feel my vagina growing. And of course, Gina continues to drone about how excited she is to be here and how she’s so looking forward to working with everyone here. Bitch, please. Your bullshit smells worse than my farts. Actually, they don’t; my farts smell really bad.

I go home that day and I think about this brief exchange. This woman never did anything to me. In fact, she was nothing but polite when we met.

So why do I hate her so goddamn much?

Clearly, I have issues. I must be a horrible person. As time goes on, my inner-misanthrope seems to grow stronger and stronger. Instead of seeing the good, I am subconsciously trying to find any reason to dislike anyone I meet. Perhaps this is indicative of my own self-loathing ways.

But then, during the next day of work, another coworker comes by and says, That new girl Gina, what’s her deal? A-ha! So she is hate-able. Okay, I am not alone. Phew.

I think, to a degree, everyone wants to be likable. Hell, I don’t want to be anyone’s Gina. I don’t want to be the subject of anyone’s hatred just from a mere glance.

At the same time, I can’t control how other people feel. As Trent told Mikey in the diner (Swingers reference), I don’t like some people, and some people don’t like me. Come to think of it, I’m sure that I am someone’s Gina.

So what’s the conclusion? I guess it’s that Haters’ gonna hate. Yes, it’s a bit corrosive to the soul to hate people, period, let alone for unjustified reasons. But hey, drinking is corrosive to the liver, and yet, I still drink beer because it tastes so good.

Trust me, you wouldn’t like Gina either.

 

Chris.

Football, I Just Can’t Quit You

It’s been two weeks since my last blog post.

I’d love to say that I’ve been busy feeding the poor, saving the manatees, or doing 10,000 push-ups – pretty much anything productive.

The truth is, I haven’t done a damn thing besides watch football.

Hey, I can look at things objectively – spending an entire weekend watching football is about as ridiculous as waiting in line for the premiere of a Harry Potter movie in full-on Ron Weasley cosplay as an adult (and no, I have not done that). I know Emily loves my obsession with football. When she’s saying something to me during a game and I don’t even turn my face away from the TV to look into her eyes, she thinks I’m the biggest loser ever. And I am.

Let’s think about it – football is a sport marketed as being masculine and full of bravado yet straight males all over the country completely ignore their beautiful girlfriends and wives to watch grown men, in essence, wrestle each other over a ball.

In a weird twist, comic book nerds think I’m such a loser for watching gratuitous amounts of football, because surely collecting mint condition action figures and obscure limited edition issues only released in Japan is a way better use of time.

I get absolutely nothing done when football’s on TV. I’ll move a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer and let it dry only to have it sit in my dryer for the whole weekend. I’ll hold in my piss until I can’t anymore because I don’t want to miss a play. My exercise for the day is getting into my car and driving to get carne asada burritos. I won’t shave at all so by Sunday night I’ll have the classic ironicly-thin Asian man mustache. I know, I know, I’ll stop – the ladies are getting too hot and bothered. Don’t want to get y’all too aroused – I am taken, after all.

Look, I know it’s dumb, but like Jake Gyllenhall famously said, I wish I knew how to quit you, football.

Hell, I’m watching a show about football right now as I write this blog post. This is sick. I’m a sick person. Then again, I’ve probably already established that by now, haven’t I.

This kind of symbolizes what’s going on in society today. As individuals, we have the potential to accomplish quite a bit, but what do we do instead? Watch someone else accomplish things on TV.

I’ve made up my mind – I’m going to turn this damn TV off.

After these highlights.

Chris.

Q-Tip, Q-Tip, Throw It Away

Yes, I just quoted Kevin James in Hitch.

That movie, for all its ridiculousness and unrealistic depictions of love and romance (when would a billionaire modelesque woman ever fall for her overweight doofus accountant?), does give some good advice to men out there seeking the affections of a certain woman. You do need to plan things out when courting a woman. You do need to put your best foot forward. And, when necessary, you should lie. Just kidding, don’t lie, but don’t reveal everything up front. Leave something to mystery, alright?

But this post is not about dating. It’s about throwing stuff away.

I recently changed office locations at my job, which meant that I had to pack things up in boxes for the move. This also meant that I had to look through everything in my office to see what I wanted to keep and throw away the things I no longer needed.

Boy, was there a lot I didn’t need anymore.

I had papers from 2005 lying around. I had old t-shirts from company events that I would never dare to be seen in public wearing, yet these were the types of things that I found lying around, untouched for years.

Let me tell you something: I love throwing stuff away. Few things in life give me more pleasure than dumping loads of useless filth into a trash can. It’s like hitting the reset button. You’re playing a game, and when things start to go awry you begin to wish that you can start the game over, so you hit reset. It feels great. It actually feels very similar to losing weight. You feel lighter, freer, and more flexible.

I just don’t get hoarders. I don’t understand why people would want to keep things forever, knowing full well that the possessions they want to hold onto will never be of use to them. Maybe I’m just not very sentimental.

But it’s not just the hoarders, it’s all of us that have a certain problem, an ill-fitted disposition, if you will. Whether we know it or not, we are raised to always be accumulating stuff. More clothes, more electronics, bigger homes, newer products. It just never ends. I admit it, I feel the need to upgrade my iPhone every two years, and as a result, I have 3 iPhones lying around in my home, with a fourth one probably on the way in about a month or two.

Now that I’ve taken care of my office, I should start looking in my home now. I’m sure there are tons of things I can throw away, or better yet, donate. As a man, I like to stay somewhat fashionable with my clothes, which means I have a healthy regular rotation of five shirts that I always wear. The rest of it I don’t need. There’s a whole slew of other things in my home sitting there, collecting dust from years of neglect. I simply don’t need them at all.

I know there’s enough pointless holidays already (Valentine’s Day, Presidents Day, Columbus Day, etc.), but what if there was a Throw-Your-Useless-Shit-Away Day? A day that would be designated for everyone to stay home and collect all their useless possessions to either discard or donate?

Now that would be a holiday worth celebrating.

Chris.

Depressing Bar Talk

Is there anything more therapeutic than whisky? Apparently not.

Why spend thousands of dollars to verbal diarrhea all over some asshole who spent hundreds of thousands himself to be a professional listener? In all fairness, I’ve never seen a therapist before, and I don’t judge or wish to disparage anyone who believes in therapy. I’m sure it works for many sick people out there.

This is how things played out the other night. I am at a bar with my friends. You’d think that we should be having fun conversations, or that my single friends would be trying to mingle with other ladies.

But no, since we’re a bunch of dorky Asians who collectively have the game reminiscent of Steve Carell’s character in The 40-Year Old Virgin, we end up talking to each other all night about depression.

I made the brilliant move of bringing this question up to the guys. On a scale of 1 to 100, how happy would you say you are with your life? I know, I am such a douche, but hey, it was the Macallan, I swear. I love Macallan.

I had it in my mind that out of everyone in the group, I was certainly the most depressed. I wouldn’t even consider myself a pessimist or a cynic, but yet I am growing more and more aware of this emptiness inside of me that is becoming more cavernous by the day, and it’s not because I’m dieting either.

To my surprise, however, I come to find out that my friends are pretty fucking depressed themselves. Good times. Positive vibes all around.

That night, there were probably around 200 people at the bar. I’m pretty sure that my friends and I were not the only depressed souls drinking our sorrows away. In fact, I’d venture to say that at least half of these fuckers shared the same feelings of melancholy and emptiness as we do.

What’s even crazier is that so many people are probably depressed and they don’t even know it. People have too many responsibilities and their dance cards are too full to even recognize that their lives suck. If you’re working fifteen hours a day, where is there any time for reflection or self-evaluation? I get it – there’s no time to be depressed.

Or maybe they’ve been sucked into the monotony of life for so long that they don’t even think about anything. Life has become a routine: we get up, go to work, come home, watch TV, eat, shit, and sleep. And that’s all there is to it. We grow older and the dreams we once had when we were younger fade into the grayness that surrounds everything.

Which comes back to me. Why the fuck am I depressed? I have everything a guy could ask for. I have family that’s present in my life – a little too fucking present but that’s neither here nor there. I am in a loving relationship that’s great – so great that we can blog together, I suppose. I have good friends that I can rely on. I have a shit job that pays pretty well.

So should I even be depressed? Is this some first-world problems bullshit? Am I just being a bitch?

I usually come back to this scenario – If my life ended today, would I be satisfied with how things turned out? I must say, I would definitely feel like I left a lot on the table if it was game over now. There’s so much more that I could be doing than what I am doing now.

I have this conversation with Emily constantly. Sometimes I feel bad for her because she has to listen to my bullshit, but I listen to her bullshit too so I suppose we’re even. The thing I’ve noticed about depression is that oftentimes it comes from a perspective that life can’t change and that there’s not much we can do about it.

With this in mind, I should take comfort in knowing that I am taking strides to take more control over how my life story is being played out. Yes, I feel depressed at times but I don’t feel eternally hopeless. Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? I don’t really know, but I’m going to find out.

And to think, all this shit came up at a bar. I guess guys do talk about other things than girls.

– Chris.

 

Creeping At The Gym

Is it ever appropriate to holler at a chick at the gym?

If there is a right time to do so, then I don’t know of such things. It’s one of those places where we are the least presentable. The sweat, the groans, the lack of breath – these are not ideal conditions at all.

I remember many years ago spotting a very cute girl working out by herself. It was a Saturday afternoon, the gym was less busy, and she was on the treadmill. I was on a treadmill myself, a few to her left.

I tried my best to be discrete, giving her a few casual glances here and there. Look, let’s face it, girls get checked out all-of-the-fucking-time, so why would the gym be any different? I believe I did a good job of concealing my glances – I’m Asian after all, which means my chinky eyes are harder to spot (a win for the yellow man for once).

I was single at the time, so of course the thought came across my mind. Should I go say something to her? I figured it would obviously be in poor taste to come up to her while she’s jogging on the treadmill. Hey, I know you’re out of breath and sweating right now, but I just think you’re the darndest cutest lil thang ever. No, not happening.

Okay, I admit it, I creeped on a little more. I saw her again at the weights – I have to lift weights too, y’know. She was either doing squats or dead lifts and I was probably doing some arm exercise of some sort. Still, it didn’t seem right to approach her while she was lifting.

I went to the restroom to relieve myself and when I came back, she was gone. I never saw her again.

I’ve read a few blog posts about girls getting hit on by guys at the gym and how uncomfortable of a scene that is, so perhaps in retrospect I should feel relieved that I never did anything that day.

But take solace, all you yoga pants wearing female gym goers, you aren’t the only ones that men look at.

I find myself constantly looking at other men when I’m at the gym. That may sound super gay, but it’s true. How did this dude get so damn ripped? Those triceps are insane. Holy shit, he’s benching four plates.

I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that I’m not the only man checking out other men. We’re all about the visuals anyway, and so whether we’ll admit it or not, we are constantly scoping each other out, examining each other’s muscle mass and vascularity. It’s a total creepfest at the gym, probably more so than the bars and clubs, because there men are checking everyone out.

Don’t worry ladies, we’re not forgetting about you at all. Despite the constant observation of other men, we’re still checking each and every one of you out too.

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Okay, I’m joking for the most part. I actually hate talking to people at the gym and I get horrified whenever someone recognizes me during my workout. My ideal gym experience is going in, doing my thing by myself, never saying a word to anyone, and leaving.

But I am man enough to admit to a casual glance here and there. I actually think I glance at men more than women at the gym. Does that make me gay? I hope so, because then I could start making gay jokes.

– Chris.

Remembering Single Life

Yesterday I came home from work to an empty house.

Emily was away on a business trip, and I had asked my parents to dogsit for us while she’s gone.

It was definitely a bit odd arriving to a silent home. Originally, I thought that I was going to enjoy having the house to myself. Everyone needs their alone time, after all, and this would be a brief moment to soak in the joys of solitude.

We’ve all heard it before – the grass is greener on the other side. When we’re single, we look at couples in love with equal parts of wonder, contempt, pity, and envy. We may think, How pathetic, they depend on each other for happiness. Why can’t they just be happy on their own? Losers. Or, Get a room you assholes. But deep down, perhaps we feel jealousy creeping up our spinal cords, longing to be with that someone to experience life with, who can tolerate us just enough and not fill us with shame when they see how ridiculous our naked bodies look in bed.

When we’re in a relationship, we look at single people in the same way, don’t we? We almost resent them for being so different, yet we envy their seemingly independent lifestyles. Our single friends can fly off to Rome on a moment’s notice without any permission, we think. They have all the time to sit around and do what they want.

Despite everyone being gone and my having the house to myself, I really didn’t do anything different. I didn’t have a massive freakout session a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business. All I did was eat some leftovers and watch a movie on Netflix – I ended up watching Electrick Children; kind of an odd movie, I think I enjoyed it, but am not completely sure.

This blog is called A Couple Talks. Emily and I started this whole thing because we thought we’d enjoy doing this together. That was the point and still is – together.

Thinking about last night though, I wonder, where the hell would I be if I was single? Would my life be that much different? I mean, I’d be eating out a lot more and the interior design of my home would be a lot worse – I never gave a shit about that before Emily moved in – but what about me? What kind of person would I be right now?

The core of who I am is the same, and I think that’s a good thing. I don’t believe anyone should completely change who they are on account of someone else. It’s like a meat lover giving up beef to be with a vegan – why would anyone do that?

However, I must say that I’ve improved in many ways being with Emily. I read a lot more, have experienced new things, and have become more open to new possibilities about the future. In a way, it’s like I’ve stayed the same person but in a more enlightened state. And isn’t that what we all want from a relationship?

Don’t get me wrong, being single is great. There’s so much personal growth that can happen being single. I know a lot of people are sick of dating, viewing it as a waste of time to spend an evening with a stranger which will most likely end up nowhere. And I know a lot of people also feel like they are doomed to be single forever, feeling like there is absolutely no way that they will meet anyone compatible enough to be in a lasting committed relationship with.

If this is you, the truth is, I have no idea if you’ll ever find that person you can spend the rest of your life with. It would be bullshit for me to be like, There there, you’ll meet the one eventually, everyone does. I have no fucking clue.

What I believe is this – life can appear to be completely random, and most of it is, but it’s really up to us to make of it what we want. Whether we’re single or in a relationship, we should always be evaluating the state of our lives – Is this how we want our lives to be? Are we in a good place? Are we headed in the right direction? What can we do to improve ourselves and our situation?

Our fates are not sealed. We have the pen and paper, so let’s be the ones writing our life story rather than having someone else write it for us.

– Chris.

Staring At Menus

On Saturday, Emily and I did the dishes four times that day.

We also took out the trash four times.

Laundry is also never-ending. As soon as we fold up and put away a clean batch of clothes, there’s another batch that needs to be washed. The piles are meshing together. It’s only a matter of time until I put on a dirty pair of boxers by mistake.

Dishes. Trash. Laundry. All day, everyday.

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I love Del Taco.

Apparently, this fast food chain only resides in certain states. It’s the better version of Taco Bell.

As much as I love this place, I do encounter a problem with it from time to time. I see the menu and there’s so many damn options.

I imagine a hot chick has a similar problem: she has so many suitors that she ends up staying single. I don’t know what to order sometimes, and it bugs the shit out of me.

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There is clearly a problem with abundance.

Why does the world hate America so much? Because they see us crying about how we’re eating too much, that we’re always buying new clothes, and that we celebrate the wealthy and vain, elevating their status to reality TV star.

Why am I always doing dishes, taking out the trash, and doing laundry? Probably because there’s so much goddamn food in my fridge, so much shit in my house, and too much clothes in my closet.

I live in a three-bedroom condo with two empty rooms. That kind of sums it up right there.

Do we really want choices? Do we want to eat at a place like Del Taco where you can get a taco, burrito, quesadilla, burger, or nachos; or do we want to eat at a place like In N Out Burger where there’s only three things on the menu?

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We just don’t know what we want.

As a kid, I never really knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

At restaurants, I hardly ever know what I want to order.

I’ll spend an unreasonably long time searching Netflix for something to watch because I simply have no idea.

Abundance and choices are inherently good things, but most of us are too dumb to take advantage of them.

I’m going to make a list. I’ll write down what I want and what I need in life. Maybe this will help me to stop staring at menus so much.

– Chris.