Karma: Racist Gramma

My paternal grandmother is very white and super racist. I don’t blame her too much for her ways. I find that most folks her age are racist, products of their eras, if you will. Since I’m of her bloodline she’s pretty damned nice to me…relative to us other “coloreds.” Whatever. Karma got her ass.

She had two sons, and neither gave her white grandchildren. My uncle Bill married a nice, Catholic lady, but alas, they couldn’t have their own children so they adopted my cousin Rebecca who is of Hispanic descent. My father married my Korean mother and conceived mongrel, barbaric children (Celtic warrior father, Mongol horde mother).

Gramma: I just wanted some Wonder Bread, some crackers! BUT I GOT RICE AND BEANS INSTEAD!

Okay, she didn’t really say that, but I’d bet my morning coffee the thought has crossed her mind.

Diary: Wild Goose Chase

I woke up to beeping this morning. I could’ve sworn I had turned off my phone to ensure an uninterrupted night of quiet. I rolled onto my belly and karate chopped the shit out of my phone’s screen. It was blank. See? I knew I turned it off.

The beeping persisted. It was my insulin pump; I was all out of juice. I rolled out of bed, untangling my feeties from the flat sheets. My head still felt foggy from my cold. I bet Satan coughed on me. I walked to the kitchen, toes curling on the cold tile, and opened the fridge for my vial on insulin. I plucked it from the door, and it was just like that one scene from A Christmas Story: I dropped that shit. The bottle shattered. The scent of insulin filled the air (imagine the sterile smell of a hospital room). “AWW, JIMMINY CRACKPIPES!” I hollered while slamming the fridge shut. I would’ve done a river dance on the shards if it would undo my fuck up.

My mom sent a Skype message. “Jecca, are you okay?”

NO! “Yeah, I can’t talk right now. I have to leave soon.”

I took a whore bath, skipped breakfast, and reserved a Zipcar for the next three hours. Nissan. A real piece of shit car…with Jersey plates. But it would do.

I’m an army brat and have Tricare coverage (thank you, Pops) so I sped over to my local army hospital, but guess what? NO ONE WAS THERE! TRAINING HOLIDAY! Also there isn’t an ER at this hospital. I see why the soldiers call it “Kill Row” instead of “Kimbrough.” I should’ve stabbed myself in the leg to prove that not having an emergency department on a military installation is about as smart as shoving your dick in a pencil sharpener. But I didn’t want to give the only soul working the front desk a panic attack, so my blade stayed in its place on my hip. Plus I didn’t want to be stabbed…again.

I drove the 15 miles to St. Agnes Hospital in 12 minutes where these women in black robes took my vital signs and called me things like “my child” and “sweetheart.” I would’ve been smitten with these old ladies, but they couldn’t write me a script so they were about as interesting as a whore after you’ve fucked her twice. I told one I only believed in god “just in case.” If Hell is real I’m one step closer to its fiery gates. The nuns took my shenanigans well, but I suppose they wanted me out of the waiting room before I started speaking in tongues or something because they stuffed me into a triage room. I fucked off on my phone for a bit (extended my Zipcar reservation by an hour) before a balding doctor came in and wrote out a script for insulin. I could tell he was relieved I wasn’t a junkie scrounging about for narcotics. Merry Christmas.

I had about an hour and twenty minutes left before I had to return the car. I booked it to the nearest Rite Aid, script in hand. I swear I drove behind every 18 wheeler and senior citizen on the 10 minute drive there. I wondered if I would get into a lot of trouble if I drove on the sidewalks. Female, Asian drivers MUST get off with an easier sentence for that sort of shit since we can’t drive and don’t know any better. I bet it happens ALLA TIME! …no Crazy Taxi antics from Jessica this day though.

I ran into the Rite Aid where I was greeted by a mouthy and rude goth chick. “I have to call the doctor to make sure the script is real. It’ll take 30 to 45 minutes.”

Please tell me why I’d have a fake script for fucking INSULIN?! “Okay, I’ll wait here.”

I walked through the Rite Aid about six times. Christmas is over so everything with snowflakes on it is half-off, and Valentine’s Day hearts reign supreme in the Hallmark aisles. I’m not sure if I should be disgusted by that or not. I bought a Coke Zero to settle my rumbling stomach and sat down next to a display with brochures about STI’s. Apparently you can’t call them sexually transmitted diseases anymore because it sounds bad. They’re infections now. To a chick who wants to go into the medical field, they both sound gross. Frankly, I think venereal diseases should be called “steamed crotch juices” or something like that so people don’t fornicate with the infected and expose the rest of the population.

Anyway… Gothic Gretta called my name over the intercom and informed me that my insurance wouldn’t cover my insulin and I’d have to hash out $270 for a 100 mL vial of Humalog.

ARE YOU FUCKING ME?! “Are you fucking me?”

If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s my health insurance from good ol’ Uncle Sam. “Umm, no. But you can call your insurance to see if there’s a way we can fix this.” I sat down next to the STI brochures again. I wanted to blow my nose all over the pages covered with photos of genital warts. If I had had explosive diarrhea, I would’ve dropped trough and shit all over the waiting area. No corner would’ve been spared of a righteous speckling of shit. Fortunately, I did not have the trots. I whipped out my phone, called Tricare, and spoke with a nice lady named Wanda who said the pharm techs were idiots (that made me laugh). Wanda said I was golden and asked if she could speak with Goth chick. I tried to pass the phone. Gothic Gretta said she couldn’t speak with anyone over the phone unless if she directly called them. Wanda called her an idiot again. I said Gothic Gretta is the reason why I wanted to dump a wheelchaired man onto the freeway. We both laughed. Wanda gave me a number that would set everything straight.

Thirty minutes later I was out of the pharmacy, drugs in hand, on my way to the car. I got in…and the shitmobile wouldn’t start. I was late in returning it. Forget dumping a handicapped man into oncoming traffic. I wanted to stomp deformed children. I called Zipcar, told them to turn on my damned hoopdie so I could get it back to school, and drove it like I stole it. There was an Indian boy waiting for the car when I got back to campus. I could tell he wanted to say something. “Dude. Don’t. I just had a field day that involved the army, nuns, a goth, and a trip to the emergency room.” I held up my wrist so he could see my ER admittance bracelet. He raised his eyebrows, nodded his head, and clapped his hands once. “You’re good, girl.”

I walked my ass up the hill to my apartment where I am now eating some leftovers from last night. I went to my buddy Matt’s house yesterday for Christmas dinner and his mom sent me home with… a lot. This is some hella good food… makes everything all right in the world. It’s the little things in life.

Sex Toy Shop and McDonald’s

I went on a date yesterday. I put on a little bit of make up… because I thought of it as war paint… because I was pissed off at this dude. Let’s rewind!

Here’s the quick and dirty: This fucker asked me to hang out on Friday. After a long time of saying how comfy I was watching Netflix in bed, I finally gave in and took an Uber over to his place. That asshole fell asleep on me. I stayed out on his stoop for 45 minutes in the cold, in a shady part of town waiting for my Uber to show up. I was livid. I was so mad I think I went blind. I wanted those crack addicts making a deal in the parking lot to start a fight with me.

“Hey girl, what dat mouf do?”


And that’s exactly what I did with Malik (my faithful Uber driver); we had a shit talking party in his PT Cruiser. “That guy doesn’t deserve to have a nice girl like you as company, Miss Jessica.” “THAT DICK NUGGET!” “His manners are lacking, Miss Jessica.” “I’M GONNA BITE HIS EAR OFF!”

I don’t know why I agreed to go on the date we had planned prior to that shit show. Fixing that fuck up is like putting toothpaste back in the tube. Actually, I know why I decided to go through with it. I’m too curious. I wanted to see if he was a real jizz towel in person.

He took me to a Korean restaurant where I watched him use chopsticks out of the corner of my eye (they’re slanty so my peripheral vision is phenomenal. WIDE SCREEN, HI-DEF). It was like watching Bambi learn how to walk: cute but almost embarrassing to watch. He didn’t starve.

Then we went to a sex toy shop just a few doors down the best idea for a first date! They had an ass ton (tee hee) of lube, massage oils, vibrators, dildos, artificial vaginas, costumes, cock rings, books, a spool of rope… Bruh. They had this tingly oil you’re supposed to rub on your clit for extra sensation. I tested some out on my lower lip. I have every intention of going back with a few of my lady friends for that bottle of Jesus’s tears.

We looked at some Christmas lights (apparently they’re really popular in Baltimore; 34th street in Hampden) and then… we went to the grocery store so I could buy ingredients for grilled cheese sammiches. Bread, butter, cheese… and bacon. Apparently people put bacon on their grilled cheese thingies. This was news to me. I shouldn’t have been surprised since bacon goes on everything in America.

Oh but the date didn’t end there. We drove to his old high school and broke into the gym…and got busted by a security guard. Well, it wasn’t really breaking and entering since the building wasn’t locked, and the security guard told us to leave the building before he locked up. I remember I had to pee really badly, but since it was an all boys’ high school, there were no female restrooms. I have no qualm with taking a whiz in a men’s bathroom… but dude, I didn’t want him to hear me peeing. I have a weird problem with that. Call me crazy. Sue me. Take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut. I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN PEOPLE LISTEN TO ME PEEING!

To top it off, we went to McDonald’s for soft serve (I can finally say I went to McDonald’s for a first date), bullshitted about the Ravens and Colts in his car (GO COLTS), and I Skyped with my mom… while on my date. When Satan tried out the mould for the quintessential asshole, I poured out. In my defense, my mother had left some pretty frantic-sounding voicemails on my phone that needed to be addressed. When her emotions are running high she starts speaking a mash-up of Korean and English (Konglish), the stuff that swatted my eardrums that evening.

Anyhow, no moves were pulled, I went home, and I finished watching the rest of season three of American Horror Story. And now I have my last two finals to study for. Fuck me sideways and call me Pamela.


Sometimes I get into these slumps and I can’t tell people about them. I guess this isn’t just an issue for me. After all, nobody really cares unless if you’re pretty or dying.

I had a conversation with a very near and dear friend of mine, one of the few people I am at complete ease with. She told me I hide behind a mask of happiness and tomfoolery (more so than usual) when shit is on the rocks, and we’re not talking about my alcohol. There are worse ways to dress up I suppose. When things come to a head and I can’t handle being around people and my miserable ass could use some company, I take a walk to the cemetery. With a six pack.

I sit on some poor soul’s headstone and lay it on ’em. I crack open two beers and start mumbling about everything. My grandfather passed away a few weeks ago and I miss the shit out of him. I’m taking on student loans and I don’t even know if I’m gonna land a job after college. There are other things I mention, but that stuff is only for the dead. Funny thing is I feel better after these sessions. I feel better after talking to a bunch of rocks with dead people’s names on them. If I ever decide to get a headstone I’m gonna put some words of wisdom on that shit so it’s interesting. Okay, I don’t have much wisdom at my age, so perhaps a funny story would do.

In a club. Really drunk. Need more drink but I lost bottomless cup because some chick knocked it out of my hand; too lazy to look for it. Came up with plan: I say to man at bar, “My g spot is located about two inches inside your wallet.” He buys me a drink. I run away to dance floor laughing  my ass off.

I think someone could appreciate that story. To sweeten the deal I’d install a bench with a cup holder and Wifi hotspot. I bet all of the graveyard caretakers would visit my hole in the ground.

Actually, here are some words of wisdom that I say when people are stressing:

Y’all need to fucking relax. Take a bath. Eat some chocolate. Fuck with the curtains open. Shit.

I obviously have life figured out.

And I’m on the wagon so I’ll be taking Arizona tea to Beloved Son and Brother, David.

I Don’t Like Xaviers

The name “Xavier” has been ruined for me.

When I was in kindergarten there was this twat rocket named Xavier. I really disliked Xavier because he was filthy and I’m pretty sure he was a paint huffer at the ripe age of five because that kid was in Lala Land. It’s pretty bad when I say someone has gone off the deep end because I’m pretty kooky.

Anyway, there was a particular day when Xavier had a cloud of shit vapor about him. The kid was busting ass about every three minutes. Since kindergartners aren’t socially adept, most of us were straight up like, “XAVIER STINKS! EW! NO! GROSS!” so my teacher, sweet Miss Andrews, went up to Xavier, gagged, and asked, “Sweetie, are you okay?”

“I gotta go dookie,” whined Xavier while shifting from foot to foot. I bet he was clenching his ass cheeks from an onslaught of shit. Damn, that kid stunk.

“Xavier, we say ‘I have to use the restroom,’ okay?”

“Yeah… I gotta go dookie.” Miss Andrews just gave up and ushered him into the restroom. This school (Hollie Parsons Elementary School in Copperas Cove, Texas, look it up) had a single bathroom within each kindergarten class so no child would piss his or her pants on the walk to a stall. Unfortunately, Xavier was wearing overalls and had not yet mastered the intricacies of the overall buckle-clip-thingy.

There was a loud shriek and then something that sounded like a camel getting its balls kicked. Miss Andrews flung open the bathroom door and there stood Xavier, crying his eyes out and doing the truffle shuffle. We all stood there looking to see what was wrong with the kid. Had he smashed his head on the sink? Had he impaled himself on the coat hook? And then a thick perfume of shit stank hit everyone crowded around little Xavier, that fuck.

Everyone hit the deck. I’m sure someone screamed while another began to sob. “Oh sweet Jesus,” I muffled. I didn’t even know who Jesus was.

While most children don’t understand social norms, most understand that SHITTING YOURSELF is pretty damned bad and shameful. Xavier cried harder, huffing and blowing snot bubbles in a fit of embarrassment and rage. He reached down to his ankle and, sweet Jesus, he picked up a log of shit that had sidled down his trouser leg. I experienced true fear. It’s one thing to have someone say “I’m gonna whoop your ass”; it’s quite another to have someone hold a handful of poop while he’s under extreme duress. I thought he was gonna fling it at us.

Instead little Xavier bellowed a loud battle cry too deep for his undropped balls, ran at the wall, and smeared a ten foot trail of dookie around the tiled interior of the bathroom. “GET IT OOOOOOFFFFFFFFFF!” He crumpled to the ground undoubtedly smothering the poo into his clothes and skin. I don’t remember what happened after that. My eyes had been blinded by the shit-induced veil of tears. Sweet Miss Andrews probably scooped him off the ground and called his parents. Oh god, yuck. We had to use the bathroom in the classroom next door for a few days until ours had been sanitized. It still smelled like Xavier’s ass… or maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.

Anyway, this is just a story of what I think about whenever I meet a dude named Xavier, that poopy pantsed shit flinger.