The superficial portion of society (i.e., 100% of it) seems to harbor a common ideology about boobs (“Boobieology”): the bigger they are, the better. And as long as a woman’s rack conforms to this standard, it does not matter if her breasts are Blessedly Beautiful or Silicone Sexy. They could probably even be inflated with bags of beef stew and still be appealing–more so if the implants were filled with ”Dinty Moore”. Can you imagine how great the world would be if that were an option? I’d totally get myself some double-D’s, and have two extra boobs implanted next to them. Then I’d have four beef stew breasts! That’s not just awesome, that’s awesome⁴.

Anyway, when viewed according to society’s Boobieology, my chest would probably be considered pretty pathetic. I wear a 32 B, which is not much considering the bounty of larger sizes plastic surgery has to offer. But I don’t care simply because as a 5’6″, 110 pound, Asian woman, my body is only built for 32 B’s; anything more would just make me grossly disproportionate. In other words, when viewed as an entire person, my chest–pathetic as it may be–starts to look pretty damn good. So screw you, Boobieology!

…And if you disagree, you can go eat a dick! You’re probably someone who paid money for mutant mammaries anyway (I sense a new “X-Men” character!).

Let’s not take this out of context though: I’ve got nothing against implants. I watched Howard Stern’s show back when it was airing on “E!,” and the women who would try to win free boob jobs had abnormally small breasts–to the point where if you showed someone a picture of a contestant’s chests and a picture of a prepubescent boy’s chest, they wouldn’t be able to tell which one was female. In other words, these chicks had negative boobage.

What I am against is when girls with bodies that are perfectly suited for gently-sloping hills instead opt for massive mountain ranges. How is having a proportionate body with proportionate breasts be a bad thing? If you’ve got the figure for an A, you’re going to look hot with the A. But if you decide to move to a B or C, you stop looking hot and start looking more like a hot mess that was conceived in a toxic waste dump. At that point, you might as well go all the way and have your plastic surgeon transform you into Blanka from “Street Fighter.”  I so cannot be the only person out there who thinks this.

However, to be fair, I’ve never been in any position to augment my chesticles, and maybe my negativity stems from my ignorance. My guy friends always tell me to stick with what I’ve got because fake boobs have a weirdness about them that actually turns them off. They admit they used to find them mesmerizing–having also been followers of Boobieology–but that changed when they actually had the chance to feel a pair. And whatever it was they experienced was enough to make them say “no” to the unnatural.

(Question: do any other guys feel this way?)

But I am the exact opposite of my guy friends: I don’t think very highly of plastic boobs even though I haven’t had the opportunity to test them out. Thus, there is a possibility that my opinions could change if I squeezed a few chemical casaba melons. So…any fine ladies feel like getting felt up? I promise to be gentle.

(But seriously…what do fake breasts feel like?)

Because I don’t have much of a conclusion, allow me to end with the story that started it all…

I try not to go out whenever I am home for the summer because there is a very, very good chance I’ll run into a few of my high school classmates. It’s always awkward and uncomfortable because I haven’t really seen them in 8 years, and having to act cordial towards people who thought they were too popular to acknowledge me really puts a strain on my already sub-par acting skills. Oh, I get it: you were better than me when you were on the varsity football team and I was just some lowly nerd taking AP classes. But now that you’re a professional gas-pumper and I’m working on my JD, we’re equals! Thanks…

Unfortunately, my desire for Cinnabons was too great and I wound up exposing myself to “Threat Level: Classmate” when I went to the mall recently. And, sure enough, I ran into one of the class skanks taking a smoke break right next to the Cinnabon store. We did the “hi, how are you?” routine…I think. I’m not really sure because I was totally distracted by her huge boobs–and by “huge,” I mean “elephant tits.” But that’s what they looked like, people. This girl is about 4’3″, maybe weighs about 100 pounds, and has boobs that are almost as big as her own head. At some point, I bet I started talking to one of her breasts because I got it confused with her face.

And then Giant Jugs said, “Yeah, I got new boobs. I had to, though, because of a deviated septum.”

…Okay…

Even though I’m a girl, there are some things girls do that I honestly do not understand–and it is seriously causing me to worry that I’ve got a penis hidden somewhere in my body. Can someone, anyone, explain these to me so that I don’t have to go through an identity crisis? Those are rather inconvenient, and I’d like to avoid wasting time on them if at all possible.

1. Toilet Seats

I know one of the biggest gripes we have about men has something to do with a toilet seat being left up, but I’m not quite sure what it is I’m supposed to be mad about. Is a toilet in stasis supposed to have the seat down? Is the threat of falling into the bowl greater than I imagined? Maybe I am too preoccupied with the need to rid my body of all that accumulated waste before it ends up in my pants, but I’ve never had a problem with how a toilet seat is positioned. If it’s up, I’ll put it down–or tip the seat down with my shoe if I’m in a public bathroom (wait…why would a toilet seat be up in a women’s bathroom though? Hmm…). Either way, it’s not an issue that requires much energy from anyone.

The only thing I can think of that would slightly irritate me is if the toilet seat was up and exposed a poo-poo rim–or, worse, seeing that the underpart of the seat itself had diarrhea splatter (which is why you should always do a thorough inspection after an anus explosion!). And then, since I’d only be slightly irritated and not in a furious rage, I’d ever-so-calmly seek out the culprit, grab him or her by the face, shove it into the doodoo stains, and demand that they clean that sh*t up…with their teeth.

2. Cuddling After Sex

Another thing I’m aware of girls getting mad over is when a guy doesn’t cuddle after sex because he’s sleeping. When a guy falls asleep after sex, I tend to feel relieved rather than resentful. The man deserves to rest after putting in all that energy and effort into giving me a memorable experience–okay, that’s not really why I don’t care. The truth is: so what if he is too tired to hold me in his arms? Those things are covered in sweat anyway! And so is the rest of his body! I already dislike being covered in my own sweat, so the last thing I want is for someone else’s sweat to be drying on my body. But that’s what would happen if there was after-sex cuddling, isn’t it? Cross contamination!

Besides, how else am I supposed to sneak away without making him feel like I just used him for his body? I mean, yes, my intention was to love-him-and-leave-him, but it would be rude to say that to his face. I do have a conscience, you know.

Insight, please!

The hot, new trend on Xanga appears to be those “Most [insert appealing attribute] Xangan” contests. It seems as if everyone in the community is somehow involved in one (myself included, for I am a shameless, attention-craving, Xanga whore who is uninhibited by burdensome things like “integrity”). The contests generally involve reader-nominated contestants with a requisite characteristic, various rounds of competition, and a panel of judges. It may seem formulaic and repetitive—and honestly, sometimes I’m even not sure if there are 1,000 contests going on or just one—but it’s nonetheless entertaining (just ask Simon Cowell, who hasn’t come up with a new idea in decades). And, as they say, if it ain’t broke’, don’t call it a kettle. Hmm…that sounds…100% correct.

As someone who has had the honor of being nominated a few times in some of these contests–which I am truly flattered and grateful for–I really shouldn’t have a problem with the concept of awarding Xangans for having attractive qualities. But sadly, from a spectator’s standpoint, I have one minor complaint which can only be conveyed by use of irrelevant analogy: as much as I love McDonald’s, if I had to eat it everyday I’m going to start craving carrots…and I detest carrots.

Meaning: I think there should be a contest for people who, for lack of a better term, suck ass. And for anyone who wants to accuse me of being a b*tch, take note that I am holding the Shield of Shut the F*ck Up.

Besides, I am not referring to physical appearance or personality because that’s mean, even for me. Rather, I think the contest should focus on people who commit certain crimes against Xanga humanity. And being that this post is just a way for me to point out some things I find annoying without explicitly saying so, I have come up with a few examples of potential categories:

Worst Spelling on a Post: an award for a post that is riddled with insanely bad spelling—like, so bad you’re almost positive the author is really a head of lettuce that somehow rolled onto a keyboard.

Worst Use of Emoticon: this will go to someone who tried to emphasize a particular sentence with an emoticon, but instead caused readers to say, “you suck ass.” Here is an example I actually found on someone’s Xanga a couple years ago–it was so traumatizing that I still remembered it after all this time:

I am now a woman.

Worst Uppercase/Lowercase Abuse: I mEaN cRaP lIkE tHiS. A person who has that much time to devote to such garbage should use some of it to cut their hands off.

Ah…if only there was such a contest! I’d probably run one if I could, but I’ve got a final to study for and can’t do it. Maybe someday…*cough* if there is enough interest. *cough* *cough*

I had to use the bathroom before class, and instead of sitting on the toilet I chose to pee while squatting over the seat.

It wasn’t because the bathroom was a cesspool of filth (far from it, since it’s a law school and thus goes out of its way to avoid being sued). And it was not because I was trying to be “green” by forgoing a paper seat cover—no, no way. While I use both sides of every sheet of paper before sending it to a recycling center, and opt for cloth napkins instead of paper whenever possible—I refuse to stop using those paper sani-seats. I will let the planet burn me to death before I let my butt touch a public toilet.
 
Anyway, I had a toilet seat cover and everything, but nevertheless decided to squat because of this:

Yes, the brand name of the covers is “Life Guard.”
 
I only discovered this last Tuesday, and found it pretty funny–but that was until I actually thought about it. The name “Life Guard” implies that the cover is highly superior to that of other brands. Indeed, if I had a choice between using a “Life Guard” and a “Health Guard,” I’d definitely choose the former—and you should too. Afterall, we’re not just talking about a thin sheet of paper with a hole cut out of middle here. We’re talking about a thin sheet of paper with a hole cut out of the middle that protects you from wayward fecal matter and urine residue, and also guards your life…

…but from what? What the hell is on the toilet seat that is potentially life-threatening and requires such a severe safety precaution? I mean, this whole time I thought the only things I needed to worry about were random pee or poop leftovers. Now, it turns out I could have been sitting on a toilet seat that was covered with a mutant form of Staph, Ebola, Clostridium Botulinum, or that parasite that causes Elephantiasis?! Nooo!!!

I’m never sitting on another public toilet seat again! Squat-peeing for life!

Whenever I respond to comments, I try to do so on the other person’s blog rather than on my own in order to maintain the Ideal Ratio–i.e., 2 eProps : 1 Comment. There is just something about seeing “58 eprops 33 comments” that makes me want to throw myself in front of a bus–and I mean a moving bus, because I’m hardcore like that.

Of course, the balance can also be disrupted when people leave multiple comments or for some reason click the little radio buttons next to “1 eProp” or ”0 eProps”–but I’m okay with that. It’s not like any of you have a reason to indulge my obsessive quirks, you know? And plus, I care more about your feedback than I do maintaining mathematical perfection. Therefore, if the balance becomes unbalanced because of you, I’m completely happy with it.

But if the imbalance is because of me, when I am fully aware of my need for Ideal Ratio-ness, then I’m committing a most egregious offense punishable by being turned into moving-bus-mush. The same goes for people who eat In-N-Out burgers with lettuce instead of buns. Why would you do something so heinous? The bun is what holds all the flavors together! So when you opt for lettuce cups instead, you’ve just gone from eating a hamburger to an assburger.

As I was saying…

I prefer to respond to comments on the other person’s blog–and most of the time I am successful, but I have had these moments where…

I go from this:

…to this:

Besides being drawings of me using a computer atop a magical, floating desk, they also accurately depict the existence of an unspoken rule regarding appropriate and inappropriate ways to respond to comments on someone else’s blog. Okay…no, they don’t…but allow me to explain.

In the first picture, I am reacting to someone’s funny comment–let’s pretend it was about being assaulted with kitten farts. Having been farted on multiple times by my cats (and returning the favor), I understand this person’s plight and will thus post on his blog: “I feel your stank.”

The second picture is of me, armed and ready with this response, but seeing that the person’s most recent entry has the opening sentence, “my good friend died after being hit by a fertilizer truck,” and is an outpouring of grief and loss. 

For some reason, I don’t think it would be appropriate of me to write “I feel your stank” on this entry

However, it might be okay if I can somehow connect my response to the comment this person left on my blog–that way, he’ll know I’m referring to kitten farts and not death-by-doodoo-truck. Perhaps I can use the hideous ”R.Y.C.” Mini? Or maybe copy-and-paste his comment and then add my response under it (I don’t really like prefacing with “R.Y.C.” or “regarding your comment”)? Or maybe I should respond on one of his previous entries?

In the end, I realize that none of the options are enough to preserve what little humor exists in “I feel your stank,” and just take the safe route by giving the guy 5 stars on his post.

Does anyone else think this unspoken rule exists?