Yesterday, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the news on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. A Chinese supermodel named Zara has freckles on her face, and a fashion agency took photos of the woman when she wasn’t wearing makeup. The images were subsequently released to the public, and many Chinese citizens are now crying foul. They believe that the white oppressors deliberately went out of their way to make a beautiful Asian look ugly—which to me sounds like a crock of shit. Why? Zara is still fantastic even without makeup. Trust me. Freckles or not, I’d fuck her in a heartbeat.
I took a quick shower and walked into the bedroom. The curtains were wide open, and the light was on.
I said, “Could you pass me my pants?”
The Dragon Lady said, “I not you srave. You pant is on da bed. Get dem yourself.”
“But I don’t want all of Beijing to see me naked.”
“Nobody care. Beside, it dark in corna. Go dere and dless.”
“Would you just shut the fucking curtains?”
She shot me the stink eye. “Did you tell me to shut da fuck up?”
“No, I didn’t. I told you to shut the fucking curtains.”
“You not nice man. Dats why we fight all da time.”
And she’s right. Sometimes, I’m not a nice man. I use filthy language from morning till night. Furthermore, I can’t blame this lack of etiquette on my parents. My mother and father never spoke to me with a foul tongue. I blame my malady on Satan. And why not? The devil is everywhere. The Apostle Paul tells us plainly in the bible that this type of profane fiendish behavior only leads to problems in relationships. Therefore, I shall not use the f-word in front of my wife and children ever again. No shit. But have no fear. This diary will remain a bastion of honesty. It won't become a fuck-free zone.
I had bacon and eggs for breakfast. The meal tasted great.
I turned to Rice-Boy Larry. “Are you enjoying your food?”
He said, “Yeah, it’s OK.”
“What’s your problem? Bacon is always better than just OK. Are you some kind of weirdo?”
“My math class is too easy. I’m worried that this lack of a challenge will affect my future.”
“What did you make on your last test?”
“I scored twenty-seven out of thirty.”
“Christ, son, you didn’t even get a hundred, and you’re gonna bug the teacher with your hair-brained complaints? Have you no sense of shame?”
“But I did the best in the class.”
“Well, maybe you’re surrounded by morons.”
“So what should I do?”
I got to work at 7:30 a.m. The staff had a morning meeting. The boss flapped his lips for ten minutes, and everybody applauded. But I can’t remember a fucking thing he said. My brain is often like mush. The words go in one ear and out the other. I hope I don’t have dementia.
Later, I called my mother using WeChat.
She said, “It’s your nephew’s birthday.”
“How old is he now?”
“When he was four, he nearly choked to death at my house. Do you remember?”
“Yes. He swallowed that small piece of Styrofoam, and you pulled it out of his throat.”
“He’s lucky it was shaped like a donut. If it had been solid, he wouldn’t be alive today.”
“Your sister is suffering with a terrible case of hemorrhoids.”
“Better her than me.”
Later in the day, I read Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech with one of my classes. We are doing a unit on American civil rights.
A girl named Melinda Zao said, “White people are a bunch of racists. They don’t like Asians, either. Look what they did to Zara. It’s not fair.”
I didn’t appreciate Melinda’s words, so I gave the whole class a bunch of homework. Good for me. White people have feelings, too.