Are there openings for warrior princesses in this recession?

Or was it Xena?

I’ve recently rediscovered my love for the leather-clad warrior princess in all her shrieking, flipping, chakram-throwing, and history-manipulating wonder.  And…I’ve spent the greater part of today trying to plow right on through season 3, which other die-hard Xena fans (who doesn’t love saucy gods, pseudo-lesbian relationships, and cheesy jokes?!) have deemed the best out of the 6.

Anyway, I cringe myself as I write this, but I was inspired to write this post after watching “One Against an Army” where Xena’s companion Gabrielle almost dies from being shot with a poison-tipped arrow and Xena lovingly tells her that even in death they’ll be together.

I guess there are some relationships that make you want to believe in the possibility of eternity, a continuation.

Although I have long outgrown my Sunday Bible School days at the local Korean Presbyterian church (read: ethnic enclave) that my parents dragged me to every week, I’m beginning to soften up to the idea of an afterlife.

A lifetime of Tony is just not enough.

Baby Banana

These days when I come home for a weekend, my parents are suspiciously nice to me.  Perhaps they’ve become aware of the fact that I will be graduating in just a couple of months (that thought alone induces indigestion) and will hopefully be making some kind of steady income, so they’re set to place me in the role of their Social Security.

Despite the fact that I’m taking in all of their TLC and homecooked meals with a dash of wariness, it feels nice…but it still doesn’t feel like home.

Home feels like the bookstore where I first learned about menstruation at the age of 7 from a manga, right next to the cafe where a group of high-school girls would feed me free fries while playing with my hair and cooing over me as if I were a baby doll.  If a strange middle-aged lady hadn’t tried to kidnap me and somehow tracked down my phone number after I ran away from her, I’d probably always feel drawn to 포항.

Home feels like my aunt’s house in Yanji where she always has a spare bedroom kept just for us when we visit.  It’s where I can eat as much 羊肉串 and 냉면 as I want for dirt cheap and burn up all of those calories by walking up the 7 flights of stairs to her place.  It’s where all of my relatives dote on me but keep me on a tight leash because they are convinced that if I get into a cab alone or walk on the streets after 5 I’ll be whisked away into the life of a sex slave.

Home feels like our old apartment in Detroit where a group of other kids from immigrant families and I would race around on our bikes, play roller hockey, and participate in a little amateur improv (read: play make-believe) mostly pertaining to Greek mythology and Sailor Moon.

I’d never found an affinity of the same level here in California.  I’ve had a great deal more of bad memories than good.  It’s definitely not the place, since our house in California is like a castle compared to the ghettos I used to live in before.  It’s the whole growing-up process that has been ugly and unfortunate.  I have therefore reverted to the lifestyle of a baby—sleeping, eating, crying occasionally, but basically remaining a mute.

I am starting to recover the feeling of simple pleasures and security.

Now home feels like Tony’s bed where a simple gesture of my arms will invariably grant me the warmest hug where I can fit my head nicely into the little nook between his neck and shoulder.

He is the biggest piece of my oneiric home, a fulfillment of certain needs that I’ll never find elsewhere.

So I was wondering what would happen if Tina Fey and Jon Stewart had a baby…a comedic genius? That would truly be a breath of fresh air in the midst of all of these people (some of my friends included) mistaking repeated quips of “That’s what she said” for witty remarks. Seriously, if I hear that one more time my brain might become defunct in protest.

Anyway, BEHOLD! Jon Fey Stewart! Err, or mini Donald Trump?

Tina Fey + Jon Stewart

Want to create you own baby?

Me in blueface.

I told Tony that I’d be diligently studying for our Marketing midterm during my 2-hour-long break but so far, all I’ve done is gossip about long distance friends’ significant others, read about Rihanna allegedly getting back together with Chris Brown (via Gawker/Lezebel), and look up the California minimum wage for 2009.

I spend about 20 minutes watching girls flow in and out of lecture room 145’s doors in their patterned rainboots and Cal sweatshirts.  Then I look down at my sheer black tights from Korea that are so thin that I managed to rip them in about 4 different places in my attempt to dress myself in under 30 seconds this morning.

I sit down on one of Dwinelle’s extremely uncomfortable benches since the worn heels on my $5 boots make an awful metal scraping noise that makes all the laptop-appendaged cyborgs here give me the death glare when I wander around the halls in my dazed facey (is WP really going to underline “appendaged” but not “facey”?! T. and I custom-made that word for me) way.

A girl walks in wind-swept, in a short cerulean dress and flip-flops.  I smile at her in solidarity.  My Korean professor asked me today if I ever feel cold.  I shook my head at her and smiled.

These days I sleep heavily.  I drift in and out of dark dreams.  I wake up in the mornings in a warm sweat and feel heavy, crushed by the weight of what didn’t happen.

I feel lost and without purpose lately.  I spend hours thinking about nothing, browsing 70+ pages of glossy food photographs and recipes I’ll never end up using.  I then go to the kitchen and eat a bland combination of rice and tofu.

Maybe I’m on the road to monkhood.

sweat + oil + tears (OM NOM NOM)

I usually turn into an absolute monster in the mornings or after a nap and all of my previous roommates are privy to this information.

Today I woke up at 8:51 (although my alarm had been set for 8:00 – and yes, that means I pressed snooze about a bajillion times), took a shower, and although my original intent had been to start studying for my Econometrics midterm that’s tomorrow (absolutely fucked for that, btw), instead I’ve been staring at sleeping Tony.  Not in envy, but complete adoration.  I carefully scoot my body closer to his and inhale the scent of Old Spice and babies, which sounds like a ridiculous (and slightly disturbing) combination, but I swear it’s a lot nicer than it sounds.

Then I kiss his stubbly cheek and sometimes he doesn’t notice and just rolls over.

But sometimes he opens his eyes and gives me the most perfect smile and I start to think that maybe mornings aren’t so bad after all.

Engagement ring = the key.

Not sure if I’m more disturbed by this Natan jewelry ad or the bukkake-esque ads that have been spilling out of magazines lately.

Exhibit A:

Isn't she a mom?

Exhibit B:

EW @ the pig in the back.

Maybe I should reconsider my tentative plans for going into marketing.

Apparently there’s a Caucasian sex predator who’s been fingering random women on the streets.  He’s been quite diligent since he’s successfully done this to about 12 victims in the past week alone.

Time for me to don a “come-fuck-me” dress and this little accessory:

FemDefence

Click on the photo for the link to the official website.

What seemed like a happy couple.

It’s been a shitty, shitty week for Rihanna.  Having the media publicize her domestic dispute with Chris Brown and then having pretty much every trashy tabloid/magazine/website/Perez Hilton-wannabe make wild speculations on what actually happened probably isn’t helping much with her recovery.  I’ve read articles that hint at everything from inappropriate public flirting with Paris Hilton to herpes, and they all seem to portray Rihanna as the irrationally jealous girlfriend who “triggered” Chris Brown.  Yes, I’m sure that arguing with your boyfriend over his suspected infidelity warrants a response of biting, punches to the face, and strangling to the point of unconsciousness.

If that isn’t bad enough, Chris Brown has apparently taken the lowest of low roads and used Facebook to update his page to say, “You’ll begin to see her true colors! Believe it!”  WTF.  Is he referring to the black and blue “artwork” he left on her face?  Staying classy, he also changed his relationship status to single.  I hope he never finds work ever again.

According to the Associated Press News, both Chris Brown and Rihanna were nominated for NCAAP Image Awards.  Oh, the irony.  OH, THE IRONYFUCKYOUCHRISBROWN!

Ahem.

Because Rihanna has reached such mega-celebrity status I’m sure she’ll have an easier time in having people believe her story (because it’s “juicy celeb gossip” and will result in higher magazine sales, which the industry desperately needs right now) and get Chris Brown convicted on some kind of felony charge, but what about the rest of us?  She’s probably been approached by almost every domestic violence organization across the country to act as a spokeswoman and will most likely be eviscerated as an anti-feminist if she refuses to do so.

I think feminists need to stop crucifying (sexual) assault victims who choose not to report their incidents and press charges.  If you want to fault them for not wanting to relive their traumatic experience hundreds of times in recounting their story to insensitive officials who will question every word and try as hard as they can to plant the seed of self-doubt into their mind, then I guess that’s your prerogative.  It’s also the victim’s prerogative to try to heal and recover in any way that she can, and if that means not wanting to publicize her experience, I think that’s understandable.

Having victims try to persecute their attackers in the aftermath doesn’t seem like the best road to prevention.  Especially when in a lot of these cases the attacker(s) are acquitted of charges due to lack of witnesses/evidence.  Doesn’t that just instill a sick sense of satisfaction in the attacker from knowing that he could probably get away with commiting such heinous acts in the future?

Lots of changes to be made.  Hear us, Obama!

This cover is disturbing on so many levels.

So apparently there is a whole genre in Japanese video games dedicated to rape simulation.  I did not know this until I read an article about how Amazon has removed listings of a game called “RapeLay” from its site after people criticized them for capitalizing on the sales of a lifelike game that simulates such a terrible crime.

Tony and I took a look at the official website of the company that produces RapeLay and found that they are also the creators of many other similar games that go by titles such as “Battle Raper” and they pretty much all involve the coersion of females into performing sexual acts or portraying them as unwilling but defenseless victims of “fondling” and “groping” while there are “tears that glisten and move in the little girl’s eyes” (cue WTF response).

Oh, and to add a little icing to this disturbing and twisted cake, if you impregnate a victim in the game you can force her to get an abortion.  Rinse and repeat as desired.

Time for me to go gag for a bit.

ZOMG IT'S THE END OF THE WORLDDD WAHHHH!

So I’m sure teeny-boppers and concerned parents all across the nation have heard the news of Michael Phelps and his apocalyptic bong hit.

CALM YOUR SHIT, PEOPLE.

Let’s step back and remind ourselves that this tall lanky and slightly droopy Phelps has probably spent the majority of his life in a strict training regimen, overcoming a learning disorder, and pretty much what seems like social awkarwardness.  So let’s not make haste to roast him just because he thinks sweeping 14 gold medals warrants a little vacay that involves a bit of green and groupies.

He’s only 23 YEARS OLD after all. Is it really all that shocking to find out that a 23-year-old male enjoys alcohol, poker, weed, and ex-strippers? Especially one who probably had a repressed childhood. Cut the guy some slack.

Click on photo for full article from Star.