Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I create stories in my head and visualize them scene by scene. Apparently the title has already been taken by a movie, so if anyone has any good suggestions send them my way.

——————————–

Saturday afternoon, she flops onto the couch with her milk and cereal, the sugary kind her health conscious mother never let her have. She digs around the couch. That slob, how hard is it to leave the remote on the coffee table? Yet even as she pulls the remote from under the cushion, she smiles. At least I have a slob to grumble about.

What channel is college basketball again? She usually doesn’t watch basketball alone. In fact, she usually didn’t watch basketball at all, until she met him. Mechanically flipping past commercials and maudlin weekend soaps, Oh wait, Scrubs is on! she finally finds ESPN, but I promised him this morning I would watch the game. Two minutes to tip-off, is that what it’s called?. The TV pans on an enthusiastic sea of red-blazoned fans, and our cheerleaders, what a nostalgic embarrassment.

It’s nice to have the whole apartment to myself. As if on cue, their four year-old thirty-pound rough collie jumps on the couch and plants himself next to her. In response to his whines, she laughs and hugs him. How could I forget about you, boy? She had dreamed of owning a collie ever since she could only play with the neighbor’s dog. Growing up, her eight-member family couldn’t even fit in their modest suburban home, not to mention that all the family pets had died within months. Her sweatpants and blue-lace tank-top are covered in long brown and white hairs, but that doesn’t matter. Now I match the couch and the fuzzy puppy slippers he got me for Christmas.

Too bad I am on call tonight. Usually the staff can handle everything, but New Yorkers have a knack for emergencies, especially in the Bronx District General Hospital. Kids getting shot on the way home, bullets meant for someone else, some things haven’t changed, and not for the better. She lives with him in the twelfth story of a Manhattan high-rise on their dual-elite-alma-mater-professional incomes, and she makes the hour long commute every day. The whole thing was his idea, she blames. He only felt comfortable with her working in the Bronx as long as they lived in a safe neighborhood, and as long as she works during the day. I think it’s voyeurism. He’s not too happy about the train either. Well if we lived there then I wouldn’t have to make such a dangerous commute!

Half-time, the score is 33-27. We’re in the lead, guess our team got a lot better since I was in school. The camera shifts from the band to the most decorated fans. ‘I’ll be back tonight, look for me in the audience’. How am I supposed to pick him out of the hundreds of red dots? Nevertheless, she examines the painted faces carefully. She doesn’t recognize any of them. ::Sigh:: All from a different generation.

It’s a commercial break. Her stomach grumbles. Oh jeez. She developed lactose intolerance when she entered college, but never quite became accustomed to it. Usually he stopped her before she added milk to anything. Leaving the TV on, she plod her way to the bathroom. Might as well attach sponges to the bottoms of my shoes, maybe this place would actually be clean. She walked past their dual-sink, for some ungodly reason he is so meticulous about the cleanliness of his sink! This could take a while. Oh good, I left sudoku in the magazine rack!

The TV buzzes in the background, but she is concentrating on the nine-by-nine grid in her hand. Sounds like the game is back on. Her puppy won’t stop barking. What is he so excited about? A tri-tone beep from the bedroom. Someone sent me a text message. She smiles, its probably him. Another tri-tone beep. Looks like I’m popular. Good thing I plugged in my phone this morning, it was almost out of batteries. Then a series of rapid high-pitched monotone beeps from around her feet. Oh no, she groaned. She always kept her pager around the waist of her pants. Even around her Saturday college basketball sweatpants. But she felt guilty. Am I groaning about the ‘code 1427: sudden high yield influx’, which probably means some poor kids were shot in a gang fight, or having to go into work on a Saturday? I haven’t done that since I was a resident.

Taxi! She liked to take the train to work. It’s relaxing and environmental. But today required haste. Running into the ER, a white coat over her pajamas and sneakers, she suddenly remembers the text message and reaches into her purse. Great, I forgot my cellphone.

“Doctor, so glad you’re here! We need you with bed seven! Patient is a pregnant nineteen year old female with a gunshot wound in the lower left quadrant and heavy hemorrhaging. After you’ve stabilized her there are three other…”

Jesus Christ, when will these kids ever stop? She examines the limp, but full, young girl lying in front of her. The bullet missed her organs by a hair. I can save her, but she’s going to lose the baby. With the speed and precision of – well, an ER surgeon – she gets down to business.

She hears a soft voice. The girl’s? Can’t be, she was out cold. “Doctor?” The girl repeats, louder. “Will my baby be ok?”

“I’m afraid not. Please don’t say anymore, you need to save your energy.”

“Please, I don’t have to live, but save my baby. His father and I are getting married.”

She nods.

“He’s going to grow up to be a basketball star, even better than his daddy.”

“I’ll do my best.” She tries to give the girl a reassuring smile. How could I explain to her that the fiancee was in the next ward, most likely dying from a fatal bullet in the kidney? And that her little basketball star would never even make it past the second trimester? The girl fell back asleep with a pair of pale pink lips, the ends ever so faintly curled upwards. Looks like she bought it, or am I just imagining what I hope?

It is past one a.m. when she leaves the ER. She walks towards the train station, despite her promise to him that she will take a cab at night. It will give me a good opportunity to unwind, she justifies. From disjoint pieces of information from the patients, she deduced that a gang attacked a rival gang leader at home and erupted into a larger brawl.  She had tried to save all their lives, but three boys were in too critical condition to rescue. She really only cared about that girl though. Alright, it was mostly due to luck that a kidney transplant suddenly became available for her boyfriend, but it wouldn’t have happened without my persistence. At least they can now be happily married. And those kids will just go back on the streets, and continue to shoot or be shot, until one day no one can save them anymore. Perhaps it was best for the baby.

The street lamp shines on the hoop and illuminates her silhouette as she opens the gate. As she cuts across the school basketball court, she jumps up in a mock slam dunk. She giggles. You didn’t have to fly all the way across the country to see an all-star, you’ve got one at home already.

She extends her arm for a three-pointer.

A soft rumble. A quick explosion. The night fades together until all she can see is the yellow-lit basketball hoop. Oh yeah, I was supposed to find him at the game. The basketball she shot  is still spinning, faster and faster until it becomes a golden band. And then even the hoop disappears.

——————

He runs up all eleven flights of stairs to their shared apartment on the twelfth floor. She had ignored his calls and texts all day, even after he landed at JFK, but she must be wanting to surprise me. As he opens the door, the collie puppy jumps up and down with its paws grabbing at his fan jersey. An enthusiastic welcome home, but not from whom I expected.

“Honey! Are you home?” Maybe she’s asleep, it is past three after all. He runs into the bedroom and jumps onto the comforters, to find no one under them. Strange, her phone is still here. On top of the dresser where I hid the ring. 21 new texts and 45 missed calls.

“OMG are you going to say yes?”

“Hey honey, did you see me? what do you say?”

“I just saw it on the game! SOO sweet!”

“It’s about time, you two have been together for years!”

His cellphone rings, it’s the hospital number. Oh thank god, she’s at work.

“Is this Mr..”

Who is this, that’s not her voice…

“You are listed as an emergency contact, we’d like you to come in to verify a body”

I learned today that a computer never really destroys its memory. It marks items as deleted, but the data remains. And if one day, someone decided to take the hardware and reconstruct the data from all the 1′s and 0′s, then they could perfectly recreate all the ‘deleted’ memory.

That seems pretty similar to how I operate. Memories can never really be forgotten. They can only be labeled as such; I vow that I will forget about you, and then suppress all our memories, mentally dragging them to some trash bin hidden in the center of my consciousness. But the memories are still there, they are not destroyed, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t go back and replace all the 1′s with 0′s. If a computer can’t even do it, how do you expect me to?

Apparantly the only way to really get rid of computer memory is to fill it up with so much other memory, that ‘deleted’ memory is overwritten. A computer only has so much capacity. I wonder if human memory is like that. Is there only so much neuronal space, or can new neural connections be created infinitely? Perhaps the only way to erase old memories is to create an abundance of new memories.

I thought of that scene in “Titanic”, when Rose says that a woman’s heart is like a bottomless ocean; you can never know what secrets she harbors in the dark depths of her soul. According to Rose, then, a woman’s capacity is limitless; but as she dropped the diamond into the water, I thought to myself, even oceans have a bottom.

Last night, when you told me the same things you’ve told me over and over, a feeling overcame me – a feeling I thought I had gotten over and forgotten. I was back in your car, hearing you say “I think you’re a bad person, I think you’re a bad person, I think you’re a bad person…

Midnight. Our cars are parked in the shopping center. You hand me my board game and wave goodbye. I’m confused. We had a fight two days ago, and today you act as if we were just friends. Did we break up?

“Wait…” Halfway between me and your car, you turn around. I run towards you. “Are we breaking up?”

“I thought we did a long time ago.”

Frozen. Speechless. I don’t know what to do except stand still. It starts to rain.

“I have to go home now, it’s late.”

I refuse to let you leave. I don’t know what else there is to say, but I know I’m not done saying it.

“Alright, I’ll drive you to your car.”

You say something to me, I can’t remember. All I can remember is “I don’t like you anymore. I think you’re a bad person.” I still can’t leave. Time is passing but I don’t know for how long. You open the passenger door to make it easier. After you realize that I have not helped myself out, you push me. I’m bracing myself against your car frame, crying harder as you apply more force. I can’t let go, knowing that if I let you drive away, you will drive out of my life forever. You give up. You’re going home, you say, let your mom handle me. You start driving.

“Drive back. I’ll get out.” I watch as your Toyota drives away, and I stand there, frozen. Eventually I realize that I should go back in my car, where it’s at least warm and dry. I unlock the door and sit down to find that my entire car is soaking wet. I forgot to close the sunroof.

I break down at that point. As I start the 45 minute drive home, I start to hyperventilate. I want to scream and moan and rip out my insides.  I can’t drive like this.

…I think you’re a bad person. You are not the type of girl I would want to marry.” This whole time I had deluded myself into thinking that you were just saying that. That you wanted me to get over you. I guess you were telling the truth after all.

“You need to forget about me. I can’t love you as much as this other guy loves you.”

After we hung up, I felt all those things again. Wanting at the same time to explode, let the world feel my pain, and to implode, disintegrate quietly into the darkness with no one knowing. It was the first time in the two years since we’ve broken up that I’ve felt that way; the only other time where I felt like I truly lost you.

mood: 2 alone in my room, drinking pumpkin ale

tired: 4

spiritual tiredness: 3

This Thanksgiving, I would like to give a shout-out to those things that make my life complete. Thank you for being such an integral part of my happiness!

Gchat: Thank you for being my main vehicle of communication with friends. Thank you for  importing my aim contacts so that I don’t have to open two chat clients, or rather, even launch one at all.. Oh, and thank you for adding people automatically, like my professors and TAs, so I can always know when they are ignoring my emails.

Good Chinese food. Thank you! It’s so hard to find a good place to eat these days. I usually hate going to other Chinese restaurants, but that’s because there are so few good ones out there. That’s why I am thankful that places like the Hong Kong seafood bistro on Castro Street we ate at tonight exist; thank you for not drowning every item in soy sauce, for not having a signature dish of hot and sour soup or General Tsao’s Chicken, and for serving peanuts with MSG (much to the distaste of health conscious Americans). Usually you can be indentified by the predominantly Chinese makeup of your customers, and to the few patrons of other ethnicities, you have my props.

Gummi coke candy. Have you ever tasted such a perfect fusion of taste and texture? Miniature shaped cola bottles that fade from dark brown to clear. Perfect to leave in your mouth and melt, suck along the length of the bottle, or chew impatiently and immediately pop another. Caution: 1 pack may not last as long as you would like, but multiple packs may result in binge popping. Thanks!

Roommates: Thank you for putting up with me while I had swine flu, for protecting yourself from my virus hacking coughs, for always letting me in when I forget my key (like today), and for being faithful company to weekly senior pub nights. Thank you for letting my boyfriend crash on our couch when he’s too drunk to drive home, and letting your own drunk friends crash in our room.

Verde Milk Tea: Thank you for being probably the only other perfect combination of food and texture; for the perfect amount of frothiness with the perfect flavor. Thank you for the free wifi, unlike starbucks, so that I can bring my homework and thus not feel guilty about driving 40 minutes just to have you. And thank you for always running out of my favorite flavor, rose, and for always closing right when I have my late night milk tea urges. Also, thanks for keeping my wallet empty.

My Levi’s Skinny Jeans: Thanks for being the perfect companion to a night on the town. Whenever I’m in the mood for a little booze, you’re always there. Along with some pumps, you make all the guys stare and buy my drinks. Thanks for keeping my wallet a little fat.

and YOU! I know this is cheesy, but its true. Thanks for reading my pointless ramblings and thoughts about my life. Thanks for caring. And thanks for being the amazing people who have touched my life.

.. Continued

Tian Hao was a migrant worker I had met in Beijing when he delivered Italian food to my apartment. A week later he was introducing me as his nu peng you, girlfriend.

For the two weeks that I had remaining in Beijing before returning to school, he moved into my apartment. We came home from work and ate dinner while watching TV. He was always grinning and joking about how he would make a lot of money by turning his family apple farm into an apple juice company. Then he would fly to America to live with me and work as a waiter in a Chinese restaurant.

While he was helping clean up the night before my flight, he suddenly took a serious tone, and said, broom in hand, “I will miss these past few weeks with you. It gave me the feeling of having a family again.” The disparity of our lives was like an elephant in front of me. I was returning to my world of intellectualism and comfort (almost pampering). Being with him for two weeks was like my voyage into a rural and romantic world. But it was just a voyage, and people have to return from voyages at some point.

It was a voyage for him too. The next night, he would return to his one room (could you even call it an apartment?) shared with three other migrant workers. Where at night it was so cold, they layered blanket upon blanket brought from their rural hometowns. Where the walls and floors were dirty and grimy, the bathroom was shared with the entire hall, and nobody ever bothered to clean since they would probably find a new job in a new city few months later anyway.

When I left in the cab, he brought me some fruits from his family farm. Inside the bag was a few chopped apples and a lone pear. “I couldn’t part the pear,” he told me, “because then that would really be goodbye”.  (Pear, in Chinese, is li, a homophone with apart. To split a pear is to split apart).

On the airplane, I was thinking about that moment when the cab drove away, and our hands pulled away. I suck at writing poetry, but the image inspired me to scribble a few verses:

His hands.
Tanned mud faded with sweat,
short stubbed fingers,
dirt caught in between his nails,
callused palms that were rough to the touch.

Her hands.
Porcelain pale padded with comfort,
long delicate fingers,
tips finely manicured, except
a lone callus swollen from a lifetime of script.

Their hands.
Fingers laced,
a checkerboard of two worlds
colliding for a brief moment.
As the cab pulls away she pulls her arm inside,
and rolls up the window.

And the Chinese pop song by Jay Chou played in my head, “海鸟跟鱼相爱”.
The seagull and the fish fell in love

I can’t do this. Here I am, laying in bed next to him, trying express my annoyance. Amid his pleas of, “I’m sorry”, all I can think of is how your response would be to laugh and shower me with kisses because you think I’m cute when I’m pissed. My stomach turns, and I have to get out of bed to write this blog post in the middle of the night.

I was walking back home from class the other day, when I decided to call you. Last time, you called me just to chat, because you were feeling “blue”. We haven’t talked for a few weeks since then, but you weren’t glad to hear from me. Maybe you read my blog recently and found out that I’m dating someone else. Maybe that makes me a bad person, because I’m initiating contact with you while I’m taken.

But how do I stop comparing everything he does to you? (You usually win). How do I remove you from the pedestal in my mind, and appreciate people for their unique personalities? Am I just using him to feel more comfortable in your absence, like if I can’t have the one I love, then at least I can have someone who loves me? But that makes me feel so disgusted with myself…

And yes, (I’m sure this one will boost your ego). Sometimes, when we’re making love, I can’t help but play flashbacks of you in my mind. Even though I try to suppress it, you still sneak into my conscious and for a moment, all I sense is you; I see your face in front of me, feel your hands touching me, and your smell.. oh that smell.. a natural mixture of skin and pheromones that I have yet to encounter anywhere else. Why is it so hard with everyone else, but so easy with you?

A few years ago, I broke up with you because for some stupid reason, I was still obsessed with an ex-boyfriend. I was crying, but you told me it was ok, as long as I learned my lesson: not to let our past relationship hinder my relationships in the future. I guess I need to listen to you now, and continue my life without suffocating myself with our memories.

I posed this question to both my roommate and my boyfriend.

“If you’ve been dating for one year, because then you’ve been through all the seasons. All the ups and downs.”

“Nine months. Sounds like a good round number. What do you think?”

“Three months,” I responded. They burst out laughing.

“That’s only because you can’t keep a boyfriend for any longer than that.”

Ok, so maybe I haven’t had a long-term relationship for a while. I just haven’t met someone who I absolutely meshed with, someone for whom the opportunity cost of being with them didn’t outweigh the benefits.

A new relationship is exciting. You’re getting to know a new person. Exploring new territory. Engaging in unfamiliar interactions, even if the two separate people are familiar. Ultimately, you’re learning more about yourself and gaining skills for the future. It’s a setting to mold yourself, without much investment and commitment. Isn’t that the attraction of playdough? That we can create any shape we want, adding indentations or chopping off arms, and know that in the end it doesn’t matter because it’s all just going to get smushed back into the playdough container anyway, and the next time we start afresh with a new playdough ball?

What distinguishes a long-term relationship? Greater commitment? A sense of purpose and direction? More emotional support and stability? And how long does it take to achieve that? How do I know when I want to throw in the towel and admit to myself and him that it’s not going to work out? Do I wait and expect that something will happen that makes me fall madly in love with him?

I suppose I should provide some context for my rambling. These questions have been running through my head recently, and if I’ve at all had contact with you in the last week then you probably know.

In the past, I always fell pretty hard and early for the guys that I’ve been attracted to. I meet them and know that I am attracted to them. Something about our interaction, it’s like they just seem to know me. Some physical attraction too, I won’t lie. I keep making excuses to see them, and I work hard until I get what I want. And I usually do get what I want.

I like my boyfriend. A lot. But the story goes a bit differently with him. We met two years ago living in the same dorm, and were decent friends since. Sometimes we hung out in the dorm, but we obviously had different interests and different friends. We never called eachother just to hang out, and I never really made it a point to see him. Just a couple of times, hanging out playing video games or singing karaoke. Oh and once, we went to a Mae concert.

Through various happenstances of chance, we ended up renting a room together for two weeks. I never had any romantic inclinations towards him, never made any advances toward him, and I didn’t even know if he was heterosexual. But I did know that our friendship became a lot stronger as we learned more about eachother, and started to find our differences rather amazing. So that’s why when on move out day, when he jumped under my covers to keep me warm, I just smiled.

I don’t know what I’m doing. Everything is so different. I’ve never dated a friend before – only people to whom I was attracted since the beginning. I’ve always chased after what I want, yet this came to me as if it were natural and effortless. That’s why I don’t feel that strong passion, as I usually do. But maybe it’s just the nature of this relationship. Maybe relationships that aren’t so intense don’t burn out so fast.

But what I’m wondering is: How long should I wait before I know if this relationship is something that I want to pursue and invest myself in? Should I end it before it gets too complicated, while we can still end on good terms and maintain our friendship; before anyone gets hurt? I have the impression that he likes me more than I like him; am I just cheating him, taking advantage of him?

I need some insights.

Just finished my shift at the Sexual Health Center. We were asked to write a pick-up line at the bottom of our shift entries. Here’s mine: I’m a backward machine. Turn me on first and then I’ll plug it in.

I’m sorry sir, we cannot accept your blood.

You can exit at the other end of the mobile. Thank you and have a great day.

——————————

My mom was helping me move into my freshman dorm room. A blue Toyota Sienna parked behind us. He timidly pulled aside the sliding door and took his first steps on campus.

How will people accept me?

All the new faces gathered in the dorm lounge. We hadn’t even met, but we were told that by the end of the year we would be a family. The staff were talking about something like no alcohol in public places, and being considerate to our roommates. We were to vote for dorm president, any nominations?

The dreamy-eyed blonde with the athletic build.

The overly tanned chick in a spaghetti strap and short shorts.

“This guy”, I offer. He swings his head to follow the line of my finger.

Who is she pointing at?

His body takes a sudden jump back when he realizes that everyone is looking at him. I don’t even know his name.

“And the reason for your nomination?”

“He seems like a sincere guy.”

—

Chem section let out late. Great, I’m late for house meeting. Breathing quickly, I rush into the lounge. He is sitting on top of the back of the couch, commanding the room.

“Hello Crystal”, he smiles. “Glad you could join us. Continuing with business…”

—

I was waiting to take my senior portrait in the student center. Flipping through the brochures trying to sell me various overpriced portrait packages, I felt a warm, familiar presence behind me.

“Hello Crystal, long time no see.”

He looked the same, but more mature. Dressed in a jacket and tie instead of the usual sweater and slacks, matched with baggy jeans and flip-flops. Yet, he was the same goofy freshman who had the unlimited capacity to surprise me.

“Nice outfit,” I offer.

“Thanks, they can’t see my pants anyway, right? Saw a blood donation mobile center on the way here, want to donate blood with me?”

“I’ve never done it before,” I reply, apprehensively.

“Don’t worry.”

And somehow, because he said it, I didn’t.

Lying on adjacent makeshift beds, the nurses took our blood pressure and searched for a usable vein. He flashed a reassuring smile at me, like we were in this together. His “First Time Donor” sticker proudly adorned his chest.

I’m sorry sir, we cannot accept your blood.

Your blood.

You have had sexual contact with another male.

We don’t want your blood. Gay blood.

You can exit at the other end of the mobile, have a great day.

At the Student Sexual Health Center where I volunteer, we keep a shift by shift blog of happenings so all the staff know what’s going on. Reproduced below is a hypothetical entry that I would keep based on my experiences today and in the past.

Wow. Such a long day today. I usually counsel from 2-3, but I volunteered to take on the next shift as well for the rest of the term; Stacey has been dealing with mental health issues lately and kept missing her shift anyway.

Started off pretty slow, no one came in, so I flipped through flashcards of 52 sex positions.

2 Females in for 12 free condoms. They giggled at each other while browsing through our selection.

1 Male in for 3 free condoms, he wanted to ration them out throughout the term.

1 Female asking whether our lube was cheaper than the store’s.

1 Male walked straight in completely ignoring me. I decided to do something else so he wouldn’t feel so awkward. Then he grabbed some condoms and walked directly out before I could even look back up. But wait… I need your ID number..

1 Female in for 12 free condoms. I know her, we have mutual friends. She asked me for recommendations and I just suggested she try a variety until she finds one that she likes. Also asked me about how to become a counselor at the center.

1M and 1F. Looks like they were a couple picking out condoms together. How sweet.

1 F in for a pregnancy test. Went through the key info with her, like that it was only accurate after two weeks, and the directions. She seemed pretty nervous. I suggested she try it in the bathroom down the hall and return if she has any questions.

1 M. First time here, very shy. Didn’t want to talk much to me, and just browsed through our library for a bit. Speaking of library, this book on female orgasms looks pretty good…

Female back in, the pregnancy test didn’t work. Maybe you didn’t pee for long enough? Let’s go through the directions carefully. Here, try it again. Didn’t see her again so guessing it worked the second time.

Shit, its 5:15, where is the next shift? I have somewhere to be…

1 male in with a question. He is scared his girlfriend is asexual because she won’t have sex with him. Heard a lot of “Is that normal?”. I suggested a range of other possible explanations, and advised that he talk with her. Probably she is just scared or uncomfortable, it being her first relationship.  Chatted for 40 minutes.

Guess the next shift didn’t show. I’ve been here for three hours. I’m so outta here.

Lots of debate jargon – but any debaters out there will know what I’m talking about.

To the tune of Taylor Swift’s Love Story

We were both frosh, when i first hit you,
I read my case, and the timer starts
Im standing there,
On the podium with time to spare…

read inherency,
read the harms, the plan text,
read the solvency, and then whats next
I say hello, I now stand ready for cross-ex

you were my opponent you were throwing questions,
And your partner read disads about nuke war,
and i was sitting on the side lines preping my 1AR,
And I said:
Cross-apply number one , the status quo is out of whack,
the disads non-unique, without an impact
We outweigh cuz the plan solves mass death
It’s a debate round, judge just vote aff

one year later, i once again hit you,
you hide your case cause you’re dead if we knew,
you close your file,
Stop us prepping for a little while,

You ran counterplans, I had no good answers.
And my coach said stay away from theory args,
But you ran me in a corner,
So I pulled out AT: dispo, and I said

Disregard the counterplan on dispositionality,
Perm: do both, theyre not exclusive mutually.
We outweigh cuz the plan solves mass d.
It’s a debate round, judge just vote for me.

I got tired of losin’, wondering if I were ever going to win.
My speaker points were amusing,
When the judge wrote up his ballot and said…

Reason for decision , the status quo is out of whack,
the disads non-unique, without an impact
The plan outweighs cuz it solves mass death
It’s a debate round, and I vote aff

The Migrant Worker Saga, continued.

It was 2:30 am. I had to work the next day. The Migrant Worker stood in the doorway as I said goodbye and thank you for a great evening. “I’ll miss you,” he said. I only smiled. As I was about to close the door, he leaned in and kissed me. It was a rough, gritty, kiss – the kind that used too much teeth and not enough affection. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to kiss well.

1:15 pm. He had just gotten off his morning shift as a bicycle delivery boy at the Italian restaurant down the street, and had to return to work for the dinner rush at 3. We were watching the Chinese equivalent of animal planet together on my couch. He puts his arms around me, and moments later we’re frantically grabbing at each other. He starts to carry me to the bed, when I ask if he has a condom.

“No,” he responds with a scoff, “I never use those.”

“Then I am not going to have sex with you until you go to the store and buy some.”

It is almost time for work. We’ll have to wait until later.

11:15 pm. He bikes with me standing in the back to the pharmacy next to the restaurant where he works. I start to walk in when I notice that he’s not following me.

“Aren’t you coming?” I ask.

“No, are you kidding? I work next door. People know me.”

“Whatever you say,” I shrug.

Inside the pharmacy are two nurses and a male customer. The store has a U shaped glass case housing most of their products, with a central island glass case showing off condoms. The male customer was half-jokingly, half angrily scolding the nurses.

“Why do you display these kinds of things right here in front for everyone to see?”

At that moment I coolly walked up to the nurses and asked to purchase a package of “those things”. The man stared at me dumbfounded. That girl is a slut. Who uses condoms anyway? Why is the girl buying the condoms? She must have AIDS. I guessed at what he was thinking.

The Migrant Worker was no where to be found. I scanned up and down the street before I noticed him on the other side. “I didn’t want people to see you walk out of there and then come home with me,” he explained.

“How do you use this thing?”
“Can’t we do it just once without it?”
“It makes me feel less pleasure, I can’t come.”
“My ex-girlfriend never made me use one.”

Despite his protests, that night I had great, protected, sex with the coolest Chinese migrant worker I know.