I’m reading the Aziz Ansari’s book “Modern Romance: An Investigation“, in which he accused men of being bozos for asking a girl out by texting instead of calling her. According to Ansari, calling a girl is a sign of courage and seriousness, while “texting facilitates flakiness and rudeness.” His observation is consistent with the advice I often see in dating columns (yeah I’m that kind of girl who reads dating columns), and I think it might as well be the most outdated advice ever, at least where I live.
Q: How would you call a rich white man who calls Muslims terrorists, makes fun of the disabled, and likes to grab women by their pussy?
A: President of the United States
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Now, if you excuse me, I’m gonna go commiserating with my fellow immigrants.
Co-terminal master’s degree is a unique Stanford’s program that allows Stanford undergraduates to stay on for an extra year to earn a master’s degree. You have to apply, but it’s a pretty easy and sweat-free process. Almost everyone I know who applied got in. I never knew about the history of the program until today, when I talked to Pat Langley.
I have this charming habit of staring at my phone during breakfast. The only reason I’d be inclined to talk before noon is because something bad has happened to me in that 15 minute window from bed to breakfast and I’d like to file a complaint. When other people delight themselves in small talks and weather discussions, I’d be scrolling through my Google Now cards and read the news Google has suggested me. Maybe because I have been reading a lot about Brexit, Google has suggested a lot of news about New Zealand. They probably assume I’m a British national who is looking to migrate after their country’s giant farce. And god, they are right about me wanting to move there. New Zealand sounds like the best frickin’ country in the world.
I was browsing the news today when I saw this:
A couple of weeks ago, I was walking around London’s Chinatown with an American friend when we noticed a distinct, pungent smell. I was delighted–I hadn’t smelt that for so long.
“Did someone just poop here? This is disgusting,” my friend said.
“The fruit. We eat them all the time in Vietnam.”
“You eat them? Eww.”
That’s pretty much the generic reaction you can expect from a Westerner who has never come into contact with durians before. I always find it ironic considering that they eat equally disgusting things like cheese.
Today, I had dinner with a really nice guy. Like two adults, we talked about our life goals. There were 6 things I was looking for–yes, I made a list, had it printed out and tucked away in my phone case. But when he asked, I told him only two. I wanted to be healthy and I wanted to make it as a writer and that was all. The other four, I couldn’t tell him. The truth is I hadn’t been able to tell anyone. There is something about admitting to what you want that makes you feel so vulnerable. Isn’t the more you want, the weaker you get? Would people make fun of me, the oh so needy and desperate?