I haven't shot myself in the head yet
On Wednesday me, Kaz and S&M drove a few miles to a steakhouse and ate a pound of Texan beef each while lamented the lack of sex we’re getting in Texas.
The way I figure, I can split this summer into three distinct periods: my time in Montreal (May-June), my time in Texas (June-August) and my time in either NYC, Chicago, Germany or Japan (August-September). And this might sound extremely nerdy, but I see a direct analogy with my sex life with the trilogy of Star Wars.
My time in Montreal is “A New Hope”. The “hope” being J-ZN. I discovered something new and amazing and I even had an amazing climactic firestorm to end it (the kokuhaku moment), but in the end the good guys (good guys=me) still haven’t defeated (defeated=fucked) the bad guys (bad guys=girls).
My time in Texas, is of course, “The Empire Strikes Back”. The bad guys are completely dominating and there is no hope for the good guys. If my memory serves me correct, the good guys were getting their asses handed to them by the end of “The Empire Strikes Back”: Harrison Ford was frozen, Luke Skywalker was an amputee and Leia
was shipped to be Jaba’s whore. That’s basically my life now: I’m getting obliterated by Texan women.
Hopefully, there will be the ultimate Hollywood ending by the time August rolls around and I completely destroy the bad guys in the final movie of the trilogy. I do something so completely ridiculous that it outweighs all the hardships of the previous two movies.
Something crazy. A blow out win. Something like 4 homers in a game. Something like a cycle. Something like Osaka
Thanks for bearing with me as I just compared my love life to a movie most people I hate (nerdy white folks, Asians, virgin men) consider a holy grail. I could’ve easily used the tried and true analogy of baseball; my Mets made it to the NLCS a few years back, we had a young core of Reyes, Wright, Beltran mixed with veterans like Lo Duca, Pedro and Delgado but ultimately we lost and couldn’t make it to the Series (just like my Montreal experience).
We then had ridiculous hype going into the next season (just like the hype surrounding me as I packed my bags for Texas) but completely fucking imploded down the
Other than Ping Pong
What do I take pics of? Is there anything exciting?
stretch and were annihilated. Not only did we blow the biggest lead, we lost it to the hated Phillies. And as of now, they’re still in that funk and not getting their shit together (just like me now). But everyone keeps telling themselves…they can do it! It doesn’t help when teams like the 2007 Rockies go on 21 game winning streaks to keep unjustified hope alive in all teams (much the same way I’m hoping I’ll finally break my drought down here and tear shit up even though all signs point to the contrary).
The thing that keeps me from buying a shotgun and blowing my fucking head off?
Everyone that I know here is not getting anything.
I’m actually on equal ground with, among many others, a muscular, blue-eyed, blonde Bostonian (you would think girls would be going apeshit over him), a black guy (stereotypes anyone?) and a half Native/half Persian (exotic?).
I’ll take that.
My dick says otherwise.
Back to the current scene. We’ve each just demolished a pound of steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables, ribs, etc., which sounds like a lot but in Texas is nothing.
For some reference,
With the gun
today for lunch I ate a one pound hamburger with fries and 20-oz Coke refilled multiple times. Then for dinner, get this, I ate two chicken Quesadillas with a side of beef taco and a large soda at Taco Bell, was still hungry, lugged myself to McDonalds, tore through a #1 (the Big Mac Meal), and then grabbed two beef tacos for the road back at Taco Bell (and this isn’t including the random snacks I grab or the beers I consume).
This is the only time I’ll say this (unless America institutes a compulsory eye exam for the draft), but thank god for my Asian genes. I’ve calculated and I’m eating, on average, a minimum of 1.5 pounds of meat per day. And I’m still fucking skinny.
I guess all the sports I’m playing helps…I’m in the best shape of my life. But “the best shape of my life” is about as relevant to other people as 50 Cent’s SAT score.
And I would’ve loved to do an SAT right after that meal to spice up my life because after finishing the last spoonful of mashed potato covered in gravy, cheese whiz and bacon bits, a
whole night of nothing awaited us. It was Monday (so no drinking), it was raining (so no sports) and we just ate (so no eating).
Having nothing else to do in the middle of nowhere, we choose to do what all kids with no direction in life do in the boondocks.
Or rather, we choose the second option all kids with no direction in life do in the boondocks (the first being crystal meth).
We drove to Wal-Mart.
Wal-Mart, for the uninitiated, is a megastore that sells everything. Junk food, car tires, WWE paraphernalia…anything and everything a suburban family living beneath the poverty line needs.
It was the most depressing place I’ve ever stepped into.
I’ve been to one Wal-Mart before. It was in Montreal. I guess at the time I thought it was depressing, but since East Coasters have a perverted sense of dark humor, you could see the smile tugging at corner of the Quebcois teenagers working there (well, that and the weed coursing through their blood). And all the shoppers were immigrants who were happy to be participating in North American consumerism instead of participating in Civil War in Haiti.
In Texas, it was different. All the workers were middle aged with no hope, no future, mindlessly stocking shelves to buy gas for their trailers. All the shoppers were middle aged people with no hope, no future buying cheap shit to make sure they had enough change so they could Super Size their next meal.
As we waltz through this living hell, we mindlessly browse the shelves looking for excuses to buy random shit. But nothing is worth buying.
We hit baby clothes, sports equipment and then when we turn the corner…we hit guns.
I kid you not.
A nine. A glock. A Desert Eagle. A motherfucking pump with batteries. A sniper rifle.
On closer inspection, all the guns are realistic looking BB-gun replicas of the real things. But to the side are live shells. Everything from .22’s to .50’s (have you ever seen a .50 caliber round? Holy shit it’s huge!).
Our eyes grow big. Fucking guns? HELL YEAH! We’re in Texas motherfuckers!
But as usual, common sense rears it’s head into our thoughts.
Wait is it legal? Where could we shoot? What if we kill someone
We decide not to buy real guns. They don’t sell them here at Wal-Mart and we’re not allowed to keep them in our dorms (among many, many other reasons).
But BB guns…they’re legal…right?
S&M uses his phone to search the web and I grab the hick standing at the gun counter who’s debating whether to get hollow tip bullets.
“Excuse me, sir. Are BB-guns legal to shoot here in College Station?”
He turns and eyes me.
Wrong guy to ask when you’re an Asian. And I have a Yankee accent to boot. I should’ve learned my lesson…Texans don’t hesitate to pound your ass.
I figure I can outrun this hick as his belly looks fatter than Queen Latifah in the third trimester. As fast as I am though, I can’t outrun the nine blatantly holstered in the small of his back.
He breaks into a grin.
“Hell, I don’t know. Y’all in Texas! Y’all can shoot damn near everywhere!”
S&M discovers BB-guns are legal online (and the hick assures us “no one will say nothing”) so we debate for ten seconds but pure excitement wins out.
We get background checked—a background check consisting of checking any sort of ID to make sure you’re 18 (I showed him my McGill ID)—and then we’re each in possession of a .45 replica that can hold 12 BB’s per clip, shoot them at 210 feet per second and has a laser sight attachment
After getting a pat on the back from both the counter manager and the hick for our first firearm purchase and rebuffing multiple offers to join the NRA (but hesitating mightily due to the excitement), we strut out to the parking lot, race back to the dorm and excitedly load our guns.
My laser sight doesn’t work but who fucking cares?
Kaz takes careful aim with his laser…and bang! A beer bottle shatters.
S&M points to the wall, bang! It doesn’t gouge the wall but it bounces three times off opposite walls like pong.
I aim at a takeout box and it goes through the box, through the food and out the other end.
By now, S&M’s roommate, Izzo (the blond haired, blue eyed Bostonian) has come out of his room and watches his common room get destroyed as we empty our clips while screaming random ghetto phrases I’m ashamed to repeat in a public forum. Izzo’s excited, though. There’s nothing else to do in this town. Guns! Motherfucking guns!
We go outside, shoot at random targets (and no police come to stop us) and then the fun has waned in 15 minutes.
We go back inside and split, I put the gun on the top of the dresser and glance at the time.
I surf the net, eat some snacks, work out, glance at the time.
I take the gun and shoot myself in the head.
Click. It’s empty.
I hit the batting cages and cry myself to sleep.
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