If I Were You, I'd Hit On Me Too

I just had a real life Marshmallow test. And I'm glad I passed.

Been working out a lot lately, and I've been noticing some improvements. Not enough to land me a cover gig, but from where I was before, it's a definite step up. So, I was really tempted to post a photo of me shirtless.

BUT I realized, posting a photo of me shirtless now would lessen the impact of me posting the results when it's more drastic. I want to go for drastic, it's more dramatic. So I hold it off, arguing with myself that it's gonna be more impactful in a few more weeks if I work hard, work harder, work hardest even.

Which led me into think about other solutions. Like digital enhancement. I have a friend who's amazing with Photoshops. But that got me into thinking: digitally enhancing my photos means I'm giving up. It would mean that I've accepted that I do not have control over my reality, so I digitally alter it. I can't have that, I can't accept that.

Look, it's more than vanity, beyond narcissism. When men post shirtless photos of themselves, it's not because we're vain. It's because we feel good about the sense of accomplishment that our hard work. Looking good is the pay off, we don't show off the struggle.

You have to understand where I'm coming from. I wasn't born with good genes, I have so little to work with. For me to actually be noticed and appreciated for my looks is a big deal because I wasn't born into it. It's like how people who suddenly find themselves in the possession of an insane amount of fortune can't help but bask in the goldshine of it all.

Officially Entering Hot Territory

I think I've finally entered the category of Hot.

Last Wednesday, I was at the gym, when two teenage Korean boys felt me up.

Backtrack: they came in, and did their sets. They were lithe, nubile, and very slender. One of them looked like a doll, the other looked like one of those androgynous Japanese rockers. They were lifting very, very light weights, and they kept giggling. 8 reps a set, followed by 30-seconds of giggling. It was all very amusing, and uplifting, considering my other option for live entertainment was a chubby, sweaty guy who kept making weird noises. I think, I'll sign up for the giggling effeminate foreigners.

So, when they're done with their work out, they hang out outside, by the bench, smoking. I passed by the door to get my bag (the shelves are near the exit), and they waved at me to join them. So, I did.

That's when they started feeling me me up. "How long have you been working out?" said the one who looks like a Japanese crossdressing rock band vocalist. "Oh, this is really good." He was squeezing my chest.

I'm pretty sure it was devoid of malice, and they were probably just looking out for an achievable goal to set their eyes on. But whatever it was, it felt good to be felt up by strangers. The last time I was felt up by a total stranger was in the MRT, and I'm not entirely sure if it actually happened or I imagined it, having issues with my personal space and all.

Now, I have a new motivation. To work out harder, bulk up, and maybe, the next time someone feels me up in public, I'll get to charge a fee for it or something.

On Family Reunions

"So, when are you going to get married? You're not getting any younger, you know," one of my distant aunts asked me when I was 14. 


"When are you going to have kids? Why don't you have kids?" I overheard another aunt ask one of the married couples.
I don't get why some people think they're obligated to monitor other people's life choices given what little blood you actually share with them. I have grown to realize that there are questions you don't ask people because you don't know what they're going through.

You don't ask people why they're single, or why they're still childless. Not only is it not your business, it's also a dumb question to ask unless you are really wondering about how normal people function in society. People don't ask YOU why you threw your life away and married a tricycle driver before any of you were old enough to vote. People don't ask you why your vagina never seem to dry up, constantly popping out one of your pesky kids who come to beg every Christmas.

I don't come to your face and ask you about the status of your lovelife. I just assume you don't have one, because, you know, you're ugly.