But sometimes I feel like my year isn't over. There are many things I've planned to get accomplished this year that I haven’t gone around to yet. Cleaning the oven, throwing out old condiment packets from ten years ago, telling my boyfriend that I'm really nine years older than he is rather than the two I said I was.
Lying about your age is easy when you're Asian like me because my delicate features easily camouflage any signs of aging. I just have to stay away from any direct sunlight.
We Asians age very, very gracefully. Did you know that Lucy Liu is 37, BD Wong is 43 and Pat Morita is dead? I didn't think so. However, I think my boyfriend may be starting to suspect something. He's made comments about my chronic deafness, driving in the middle of the lane, and my insistence on wearing my ratty pajamas and slippers out to get Starbucks.
I mean, why does the year have to be over? I'm pissed.
I don't like it when people tell me, it's over, that's it, times up, another year wasted on spinning on my wheels. It's like the time when my ex Jim told me that our relationship was over after he caught me fucking his roommate. I was indignant. I told him it wasn't over until I fucked his other roommate too. I was just waiting for the other roommate's cold sore to clear up before I went for him.
Where was fame? Where was fortune? Where's my fucking blog award? I thought I'd be the most famous gay, Asian, dairy-phobic person on earth by now. Instead Sulu from Star Trek has all the glory. If I had a phaser right now it wouldn’t be set on "stun." He'd be burned to a crisp like peking duck and I'd be eating him rolled up in mandarin crepes, scallions and just a tiny little bit of duck sauce.
Sometimes, I wish that we can all live in our own little fiscal year, like the company I work for. Our fiscal calendar started last June and ends in May of next year. Living in a fiscal year could mean the difference between a good year and a fucking great year, especially if there was lots of fucking.
There are still so many things I should've done this year.
I've lied to you all. When I said I was 'out' to my family, I meant that I have said everything but "I am gay" to my mother, my father and my sister. I thought that telling them I could name all the Best Musical Tony Award winners since 1968 was exactly same thing.
When I told my mom that I was gay during that trip to Florence, Italy four years ago, I should have said that in English. I thought that since we were in Italy, saying "Sono frocio" would be more glamorous than plain ole "I am a big fag." She smiled and patted my arm as we sailed on the gondola.
I thought, years ago, when my mother asked when I was going to settle down and getting married and I replied, "Mom, I am never getting married, I will never have any children without adopting them, and I am settled down..." my voice trailing away, that I was telling them I was gay. I thought that by saying Brian and I were living together made it clear.
My mother, who would try to cram all the gossip about each cousin and high school acquaintances without taking a breath during our long distance phone calls, was silent for nearly three minutes before she continued talking. I thought that meant she understood.
I thought it meant she accepted me.
But in a phone call I had with her last Christmas, she casually asked if there were any girls I was interested in. I said no, there are no girls. Again, she was silent, but only for a few seconds before moving on to a story about my darling nephew, who is now in third grade.
Maybe next year I’ll definitely tell her, in no uncertain terms.
Maybe next year.
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