I would like to publicly apologize to the host of our home game last week for my inexplicable behavior. I swear it was not my previous understanding that my Poker Face and my O Face completely switched places.

There I was, holding a pair of Kings in my hand when the flop came out: King, Queen, Queen. My years of experience in the game has taught me that on such occasions, I am supposed to hold in my joy, play it slow, and try to lure other players into betting. That night, however, my face scrunched up, I grunted like a boar, and my entire body lunged forward, spilling my chips all over your face cards.

That was not my intention. Neither was falling asleep right after, leaving you and the other players to clean up. It was still early, and I regret the game ended so soon because I was unable to go on. I swear on my life that had never happened before.

I only fully understood the extent of my predicament when later that night, some girl and I were making out and one thing led to another. It was the wildest, craziest time of my life, but I could convey none of it. I wanted to tell her so badly how awesome it felt, how I was the luckiest man in the world, but my mouth formed no words, and my face remained a impenetrable wall. The sunglasses did not help.

Precisely my expression in the heat of the moment.

I sincerely wish that this quirk of mine does not deter you from inviting me the next time you have a game. I am pretty sure it only happened because it was my first time playing with you. And if it does happen again, I promise I will at least give you a warning first, perhaps by tapping on your head.

I hold a religious pamphlet in my hand. The churchgoer who gave it to me explained the painting printed on it: it is Paradise. A clear river weaves between the bright green trees and foliage. People of all cultures live together in harmony, everyone dressed in their traditional garb. The wild animals, too, are tame. A little girl wraps her arms around a lion. A father shows his son how to properly feed cherries to a bear.

God, it’s so commercial.

I am an artist of the cutting edge. I break boundaries like minorities break dance. My version would expose the reality of their perfect world in which all living things coexist peacefully. A little boy giggles as vegetarian maggots squirm all over his body. A mother shares lunch with her daughter while spiders casually spin webs on their faces. And without predators, the sky fills up with birds, sparrows and eagles alike, from which an ivory poop torrent floods the land. The multicultural families laugh heartily as each one of them is drenched in bird feces. In a realm as sterile as this, this is the most hilarious dirty joke ever.

Except it isn’t even that dirty. The feces are actually a beauty elixir, instantly curing everyone of acne and general ugliness. Physical pain is also gone. E.T. floats in the background, ready to heal anyone with his outstretched finger.

I know not everyone can accept this vision of Paradise, but true art has always been slow to acceptance. When Gustave Eiffel built his tower, did he not face criticism from the masses? When Picasso entered his Cubist period, did fathers everywhere not claim their sons could paint this crap?

Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen: one day, the world will come to appreciate my view. And you, too, will go, “How did I not see this? Of course Paradise is one big, happy shit fest.”

It has to be said: I am one good-looking dude.

From the portrait featured on this website, you may not believe me, but peel off the top hat, take away the monocles, wipe down my mascara, and you will be stunned at how well-proportioned my facial features are. It is not unusual at all for strangers to approach me, wanting to tell me how much I resemble a celebrity in their home country.

Take last week for example, when a Korean stranger came up to me as I was waiting at the supermarket checkout line.

“Wo!” he said, as Koreans are known to say when highly impressed. “Do you know Bulgogi?”

“No,” I replied, “but let me guess. Bulgogi is very famous in Korea.”

“Yes, famous! Your face–” He paused to find the right words. “Looks very much Bulgogi.”

We shared a laugh, I told him I get that a lot, and we took a picture together before he left. By the smile on his face, I could tell I made his day. Oh, anonymous Korean person, I would’ve signed you an autograph if you asked.

I keep thinking that I should find a way to profit off my handsome face. After all, I have been mistaken by Thai people for Tom Yum Kung, the Japanese for Katsu Don, and the Vietnamese for Pho Ga. Surely a visage of this versatility can be famous on its own.

But I don’t know. It isn’t that easy in the States. Every time I visit a talent agency, somehow they seem turned off. I’m starting to think it’s true what they say about Westerners finding Asian males unsexy. I mean, come on, do they have any idea how famous Bulgogi is in Korea?

Little Sue wore glasses
and had frog heads for breasts.
When children called her four-eyes,
she said she had six.

“Should that not be eight?”
her third grade teacher said.
But Little Sue was bad at math,
from having frog breasts for a head.

I recently met up with a couple friends from high school, both of whom I had not seen since the early days of college. One of them has become a flight attendant. The other, a nurse. Combine that with my current career as a graphic designer, and we all happened to have taken on roles that would fit quite appropriately in a Japanese porno. If you’re thinking that graphic designers do not appear in such adult films, then you obviously have not seen I Retouch Myself at Night: How I Flashed the Illustrator at the Photoshop and then Dreamweaved with my Freehand.

The gathering itself was bittersweet. To catch up on the last several years was great, but in doing so, I realized that too much life had passed unshared for our conversations to extend beyond the most superficial topics. These were people with whom I talked on the phone for hours into the night, shared moments with on the rides back home. Now I don’t even know if I’m in the position anymore to ask about even the slightest personal details. Who was the guy you went out with in Hong Kong? How did you guys break up? Do you still suffer from the giant pimple on your ass? These were questions that begged to be asked, but like I said, things have changed. Your ass acne is now strictly none of my business.

I wonder if I’m actually longing to return to the same kind of friendships, or if I’m just sad because I’m reminded how fast time is passing by. At our gathering, we reminisced about all the things we had done, secretly knowing none of it would happen again. The carefree way we carried ourselves has itself been carried away. But does it have to be so? Is it really that awkward for a group of 25-year-olds to get together for a slumber party during which we watch Titanic?

The answer, I suppose, is yes. Even DiCaprio and Winslet matured up for their reunion.

But what if we weren’t watching Titanic but something else entirely appropriate for our age? Something edgier, more relevant to current day?

I guess what I’m saying is, will you watch I Retouch Myself?