An Open Letter to People Who Still Read The Blog I Started Last Year

Dear You Guys,

Oh hi.

So it’s been a hot minute since I’ve last updated this piece of shit. I guess that’s what happens when you go from Part-Time Art Gallery clerk to more than Full-Time Planner of Things (Stuff Category). So to actually carve out the time and a chunk of my day to update this blog with my musings about pop culture, life, and… politics (

So what’s up? Want a recap of stuff that’s gone down? Here are some highlights:

1. I’m pretty sure that in 2014, I farted about 5 years off my life. It was a great year and I want to thank La Taqueria, 4505 Meats, and milk for giving me that opportunity. I couldn’t have done it without the support of those great sponsors.

2. I went back home to Hawaii to eat fried chicken.That’s all. Is it weird or insensitive that I keep thinking I have to drain my mom’s head of recipes before she croaks? But everytime I call her, I feel like I have to sift through all the other stuff she wants to tell me about in order to get to the good stuff. All I wanna know is what she puts in that weird brown egg and pork dish that every Asian mom has a recipe for, but I have to listen to her chirp for an hour about how she doesn’t know why my sisters don’t call her.

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3.I started drawing again. And by drawing I mean like those doodles you did in the margins of your college notebooks to prevent you from passing out due to being hungover from the night before. But I think I’m gonna make my own brand of Emojis called Jemojis… they’re just more expressive and better and you can for sure tell that all the Jemojis are Asian. None of this “guess what ethnicity this yellow emoji” is.

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4. I joined the awkward world of Tinder! Hooray! Now I can tell how much herpes is in a 3 mile radius of me! I went out on one date with a hot Irish guy that I knew absolutely nothing about and couldn’t understand anything he said because he sounded like he had Blarney stones in his mouth. But he’s the closest thing I would ever have to dating Michael Fassbender. Thanks Tinder!

5. Swimming is the greatest thing ever. So when I was in Hawaii, I guess I had this realization that I love the water and swimming and it’s pretty much the only “nature-loving” thing about me. I could care less about trees and mountains and shit, but give me water and I’m all about it. So I squeeze myself into a bathing suit and swim twice a week. Sometimes it’s difficult. The bathing suit part, not the swimming. It had been so long that I didn’t even own a swimsuit, and getting into one was like trying to put toothpaste back into the tube you squeezed it from. But I managed to find one that keeps my goods in and doesn’t make me look too much like a water mammal.

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6. Jurassic World is coming out.

I love dinosaurs. I really do. And I love that I know that there are more years between when T-Rex and Stegosaurus existed than there is between when mankind and T-Rex existed. Mind…blown. You’re welcome.

7. Hugh Nguyen. This is really a story to be told out loud. Please, if you know me, ask me and I will tell you the great tale of Hugh Nguyen. Even if you don’t know me and would still like to know, give me your phone number and I will call at an inconvenient time and leave the longest voice mail explaining the greatness that is the story of Hugh Nguyen.

8. Louis CK made fried chicken.

9. …

10. … I guess that’s it.

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An Open Letter to Rompers This Summer

Dear Rompers,

Ohhhhh hey, you’re… back. Hi. Yeah, I guess since the weather has definitely warmed up in San Francisco I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re here, but… ha ha HEY, you’re… so… you know, hereStill. 

What was it? Like maybe, gosh, 10 years ago when you first showed up on the scene? You were EVERYWHERE, but most notoriously on every rack in Urban Outfitters and Forever 21. I think I was first introduced to you at H&M. You were white with blue and red stripes (very patriotic) and I thought to myself “What a great idea! It’s like an adult onesie! Just what I’ve always wanted!”

Baby onesies are cozy! They have the great, convenient little snap closures at the crotch for an easy escape route, and… oh wait, what? Rompers DON’T have that? Well then you’re not like a onesie at all, are you? You’re like the worst kind of stray jacket to be locked into when you’re in a public bathroom stall and realize that you have to get semi naked just to take a piss. YOU’RE NOT MY FRIEND AT ALL!

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Buttmunchin' much?

Buttmunchin’ much?

 

 

And I really didn’t want to bring this up but I’m so ticked right now that you’re back, but you have major camel toe. So major that you make me have camel toe and I hate that. No one likes getting a vedgie (vagina wedgie) anytime you raise your arms higher than your shoulders. Once you make this mistake and realize that you are in a  horrible crotch stifling contraption, you spend the rest of your day counting the minutes when to get rid of you.

Not to mention that you do NOTHING flattering to the woman’s form.

Eliminates the vedgie, but now I look like a smurf morphing into a potato sack.

Eliminates the vedgie, but now I look like a smurf morphing into a Chinatown plastic bag. PS. nice shoes.

So I’m sorry that I’m not sorry when I tell you that your kind really isn’t welcome around these (woman) parts this summer. Because the last thing I need in 80 degree weather with 99% humidity is vagina crotch-pit stains. I already have arm pit and boob sweat stains to deal with.
Please vacate the premises or I will have to release the hounds. And no, I’m not hot in this wool sweater, thank you.

Hugsandkisses,

Jenn

An Open Letter to the Future: You’re Doomed For Life

I was invited to participate in Project: Open Letter to the Future, where you write to a teenager giving life advice. I forgot about it, had to whip something up in 15 minutes and still managed to send it in 10 minutes late because I was too busy reading Buzzfeed articles and rating dudes on OKCupid. This should already be a sign that I probably shouldn’t give life advice to young people.

CaptureSorry, Future!

 

An Open Letter To Chester Cheetah

Dear Chester Cheetah,
(may I call you Chester?)
Dear Chester,

One never knows how to start a letter of admission to love. Especially the kind of love that is so strong, it’s considered to be the catalyst of other loves… obsessions, really, if we’re gonna be so honest. For you are the first redhead I think I’ve ever found attractive and has since set me down a fiery, “Flamin’ Hot” path of ginger-colored crushes.

There would be no Ewan Mcgregor. There would be no Prince Harry. There would be no Michael Fassbender, no Benedict Cumberbatch, no Paul Bettany, no guy-who-plays-Dr. Owen Hunt-on-Grey’s Anatomy, no. If a certain cool cat with a craving for cheese snacks never appeared on my radar (the redheaded Lolita to my Humbert Humbert, if you will) there would be no red hairs on my pillow.*

My strange fascination with that recessive trait in chromosome 16 would not exist if there wasn’t that odd summer day in 1989, after a Saturday morning of Pee Wee’s Playhouse and The Gummi Bear Adventure, you appeared.  Like a vision wearing red swim shorts and your signature wayfarers, you were at a pool. After multiple jumps on the diving board, so cool, so graceful, you spotted your next door neighbor’s open bag of Cheetos Puffs. In true Tex Avery style, you lost your shit. You turned into the animal that you were bred to be (although I’m not sure if cheetahs in the wild are used to eating a diet of cornmeal and lactose-dairy powder), and went after the Cheetos. Like so often in those commercials, you never got what you were chasing after, but your sunglasses stayed in tact the entire time. And your persistence to get the cheese that goes CRUNCH made me believe that there are men… or cats… that would fight for true love.

If only cheese powder came off on my fingers as I run them through your red hair.

If only cheese powder came off on my fingers as I run them through your red hair.

And as the world changed, you changed. I don’t know when you became mean, some say evil. I don’t know when you started telling people to put cheetos in other people’s laundry or trash other people’s cubicles. I don’t know when you turned British either. Frankly, you sound like Madonna nowadays. I also don’t know when you became a puppet. But I see the remnants of the cartoon spokesperson that I loved and thought was so cool. I still see the swaggy redhead in white hi-tops that I initially loved.

It may not be easy being cheesy, but it also ain’t easy telling the world that you had the hots for a lactose tolerant feline hocking cheese doodles.

Hugsandkisses,
Jenn

*there aren’t red hairs on my pillow. There aren’t any hairs on my pillow. I’m so lonely.