This Is How They Love Me

Thumbnail: Shirt and tie

With presents that come fold­ed to per­fec­tion, boxed in white wrap­ping paper, and spe­cial wash­ing instruc­tions. This is the safest gift for some­one my age, unlike the guess­ing game that music, toys, or games has become.

This spe­cial­ly processed, pure cot­ton fab­ric is designed for easy care and a crisp, con­fi­dent look that lasts. The soft­ness, absorben­cy and breatha­bil­i­ty of cot­ton, enhanced with inno­v­a­tive care fea­tures, ensure opti­mum wear­a­bil­i­ty. Engineered for no-fuss, express han­dling. Requires almost no iron­ing. Today’s quin­tes­sen­tial busi­ness shirt: time-sav­ing, ener­gy-sav­ing, trav­el friend­ly.

We rec­om­mend using a mild deter­gent. Spin briefly, then hang to dry. Gently pull col­lar, cuffs and seams into shape. Touch up with a medi­um iron.

Not that I’m com­plain­ing. If it’s one thing my par­ents have been able to give me, it’s finan­cial free­dom. Never hav­ing to wor­ry about how I’m going to pay for rent, or board, or edu­ca­tion. It’s not easy for Chinese par­ents to show affec­tion, an influ­ence of the cul­ture they grew up in, so they buy me things instead.

I’m the fam­i­ly pet.

The dog they can love and take care of and want around, but not have to actu­al­ly talk to or spend time with.

These are my treats.


  1. this entry leaves me torn between whether I should feel sor­ry or not. I’d assume grow­ing up with this and prob­a­bly accept­ing it a while ago, it does­n’t faze you too much. However, I cant help but get a sense of sad­ness from this entry.


    Its the thought that counts, I guess you could say. :)

  2. more like a fish or bird, cuz peo­ple talk to dogs.…

  3. Dina, I know you believe you under­stood what you think I said, but I’m not sure you real­ize that what you heard is not what I meant.

    It would be best if you did­n’t come here any­more. It’s very obvi­ous­ly not healthy for you. You con­tra­dict your­self all the time, and you say things that you always inevitably regret say­ing. Every time you com­ment, it’s an explo­sion of crazy, ram­bling sen­tences. This includes call­ing my friends losers, some bad poet­ry, or telling ME what I should do on MY blog. You’re like a mon­key at a zoo who’s plays with his shit. You may be too igno­rant to know it, but trust me, you’re only embar­ras­ing your­self.

    I would per­son­al­ly pre­fer it if you did­n’t come here. I can’t tell you not to vis­it because this is pub­lic domain, but I find your dai­ly pres­ence to be creepy, espe­cial­ly after specif­i­cal­ly telling you “I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.” However, as much as you have the right to vis­it this blog, I have the right to say what I want about your stalk­ing habits. Your con­tin­ued antics keep prov­ing to me, and every­one else, exact­ly why I don’t want to talk to you, and give me more mate­r­i­al to write about (which just serves to fur­ther upset you).

    All I want is for you to go away, and nev­er con­tact me again, here or oth­er­wise. As I said twice before through email, “I’m not com­fort­able com­mu­ni­cat­ing with you”. You may think that this is insult­ing your intel­li­gence, but I say it again because you real­ly are so stu­pid that I need to repeat it until you hope­ful­ly under­stand some day. I have noth­ing pos­i­tive to say about you. Your instinct to keep con­tact­ing me has been been dead wrong in the past, and it sure as hell is wrong now. It con­tin­ues to baf­fle me how you don’t get this.

    Seek help. Go away. Cross out 7/43 things.

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