TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
I am annoyed. I have just walked home alone after spending the last two hours bored and thus passed out in a butterfly chair because my friend wants to hook up with Skinny Blonde Dreadlocked Boy but won't tell me because I'm the designated Girlfriend Who Accompanies Girl Who Is Hooking Up With Boy Who Isn't Her Boyfriend Yet. Great. I hate walking home alone at night, especially after aforementioned scenario. I hate it because, somehow, I'll manage to have a misadventure, especially when I don't look for one. Like meeting white people who mention, casually, "I could tell you were Cambodian!" and then try to romance you with tales of their exploits in your "homeland," camera in hand, even though you've never been there. Or being followed by men who whistle while straddling mini-bikes, like the one I peddled to elementary school.
But walking home late at night alone isn't as bad as being so bored that I will eventually pass out in some corner, curled up and uncomfortable in a not-big-enough chair, even if it's a salsa club where beautiful ppl are dancing snuggled together on the dancefloor. (But that time, I think I was avoiding the boy that accompanied me, because even if his name was Dei, he still wasn't that interesting. . . Or at least that's what I told myself, because I had just found out that he was two years younger than me which completely mortified me at the time. Now I'm rather used to the fact that I will always be considered child-like - or childish - and that everyone I know will be younger than me in age or sensibility.)