Locker Room

Remember how I told you I recently decided to dig through my old Xanga?

I guess the first sparks of “inspiration” that started this blog started way back when I was in college and still thought Xanga was cool. Yes, albeit sloppily worded, some of the stories from my old “blog” were quite amusing and even salvageable.

Here’s one episode I almost forgot about that took place in a Locker Room (only very slight edits):

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Rejection letter


One of my favorite scenes from You’ve Got Mail. Yes, it’s cut short. *Sigh*

So today, I was faced with the unpleasant task of having to write a rejection memo. Now, as much as I write and draft key messages and manage relationships for a living, turns out I’m absolutely awful at crafting the perfect rejection letter.

This morning, I received this Facebook communication from Topher (who I am not Facebook friends with):

hi irene~

im sorry, but i just have to ask… would it be ok if you can tell me why you chose not to speak to me anymore? I respect your privacy and wishes, and i promise u that i will not contact you anymore going further.

Take great care irene, and wishing you the best!

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Me the klepto

You know how there are many different categories of drunks? There are the belligerent drunks, the drowsy drunks, the blackout drunks, the Asian glow drunks, the horny drunks, the ED drunks, the weepy drunks, the holy-shit-get-out-of-bed-folks-your-building-is-on-fire-no-wait-i’m-just-kidding-i-just-wanted-to-party drunks… Me, I’m a kleptomaniac drunk. In other words, I steal stuff.

This snatch-happy side of my personality has reared its head every so often during my nights out. Usually, I amuse myself by seductively loosening guys’ ties from around their necks then throwing it around my head, running off to dance to the club music. I’ve also stolen bigger loot like Voss water (sorry, Signature Room), costumewear from a pharmaceutical conference party, and a classmate’s ID. Once I stole a candy bar from a convenience store in Korea. Curiosity, really.

But my douchiest moment by far was probably that time two months ago when I went to Fat Buddha, where I decided to entertain myself by responding to the come-hither looks of a boy across the bar. I was bored anyway, so I sauntered over.

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Irene can be a douche, too

She shoots, she "scores"

It used to be that it was all about how boys did me wrong, how they threw deceptively inviting smiles my way and bought me that drink and looked oh so cute and danced all intimate-like with me and took my number and waited days and days to never call and disappeared like smoke.

But at a certain point—long after I stopped expecting any chance nighttime encounters to be anything more than a fleeting flirtation—I realized, I was doing it, too. (Sort of makes you think of how they say children of wife beaters will grow up to become wife beaters themselves, and how no matter how much you deny you will ever raise your children like your parents raised you, your parenting style becomes remarkably like theirs. Damn.)

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