I continue to wait for a verdict on my visa application, so I thought this would be an appropriate time for me to recount the day when I first arrived into the United States. It is a story that began, like most fairy tales, on the US-Mexico border.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you through, sir.”

The federal agent was about the same height as me, but in my mind, he towered over me entirely, blocking out the sun so that I could stand only in his shadow. His voice was a deep growl, and his eyes seemed to glow with a mystical flame.

“But look at me,” I said, “I’m small and scrawny, with hardly a meat on my bones. My older brother will be passing here soon. He is obese and would make a fuller meal. I think you should wait for him instead.”

I watched his expression, carefully gauging to see if he would believe me. He, in turn, studied my face, cautious in conjuring up a response.

“Uh,” he finally said. “I’m not a troll.”

I looked around, and I realized he was telling the truth. The cave I had imagined was only a tiny guard post flanked by fences, and his greasy, tangly hair was a smooth, silky blonde. You could even say he looked like Brad Pitt, but I wouldn’t know. White people all looked the same to me.

This was, of course, an unexpected turn of events. Most of my border-crossing strategies were made in the assumption that I would be confronted by a troll. Especially demoralizing was having to accept that, in coming this far, much of my energy had been spent on carrying my Level 17 Mace of Troll Bashing. Now it only hung down from my waist, a Level 1 Hammer of Whimpering Impotence.

I scurried to come up with a solution. “Then perhaps,” I said, “there is something else I could offer. Maybe some pesos are in order? I can give you three.”

“I cannot be bribed with money, sir. You will have to leave and come back through other means.”

“You know, this is really disappointing. I think you have thoroughly ruined my day.”

As I turned around and started walking back into Mexico, I could not shake off the feeling that this had been a monumental waste of my time. And to think I left Enrique Gonzales at home for this. That was my chihuahua.

“Wait,” the agent said. “I said you could not bribe me with money. But let’s talk about, you know, food. How about you bring back some nachos, salsa, and children, and we’ll go from there?”

“Wait, what did you say?” I said.

“Bring back some nachos and salsa.”

“No, that last bit. I’m pretty sure I heard you say children.”

He hesitated. “You sure I didn’t say.. churro?”

I knew it! I whipped out my Level 17 Mace of Troll Bashing, and at once, he screamed so loudly that nearby coyotes joined in the howl. He cowered in the corner, begging me not to hurt him, crying that he had little troll children to feed. Watching him from that angle, I felt sorry for the guy: I was pretty sure he had to put up with a troll wife too. I sighed, tied my mace back onto my belt, and continued on my journey.

I took a deep breath, and the American Dream filled my lungs. A bald eagle soared in the distant sky, as if to welcome me into his domain. I could already smell the beautiful women of Santa Monica.

And as I walked towards the Promised Land, or at least the bus stop that would take me there, I was occupied with only one thought: man, this would be the life, if only I could get my work visa approved.

Hey. The Gentleman Sir Kevin Kao, Ph.D. here.

I know updates have been sparse this month, and no doubt some of you are wondering if you can go on living without my blog, but please let me explain (and no, you can’t). You see, at the beginning of April, I sent in my application for a work visa, the outcome of which will affect at least the next three years of my life. And during this period of uncertainty, I find myself hardly able to muster up the enthusiasm to write a blog, much less try to be entertaining. Truth is, I’ve not been this stressed since elementary school when Son Goku was about to be killed by Freeza.

In addition to this, my application included my resume, which includes a link to my online portfolio, which includes a link to this site. So there is a chance, however slight, that whoever is assessing my application will end up here and read everything I’ve written. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. When I started this blog, I hoped to write for a wide audience—supermodels, beach volleyball players, bears—but I never considered the possibility of government officials who hold my fate in their hands.

Give me a week or so. By then I should know the outcome of my application. If all is good, we can return to our scheduled programming, 3-5 updates a week. If the application is denied, you can still expect 3-5 updates a week, but my photo may change to one with me in heavy black makeup, and all my writing will have to do with bleeding hearts, dark souls, and broken mirrors.

C’mon, United States of America. I’m almost 26. You can’t make me a goth now!

The black and white photograph of a boy on the milk carton stares back at me. The text beneath it tells me he was last seen wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and holding onto a Hollywood dream. I know I’ve seen him. The boy was me.

Age progression: 25 years old.

What is it about youth that makes me emo? Besides the dreams that have had to be put on hiatus, I also miss the joy in crossing milestones. The first day of senior year, the first taste of alcohol, the first time you did anything with a girl. At age 25, what is left? Kids? Anal sex?

No, I hate kids.

I say we invent additional milestones so that aging can once again be something you looked forward to, and not purely a downward spiral. It doesn’t even have to sexual in nature. How about we limit the penguin area in zoos to those above 30?

Five years from now, I wait anxiously outside the penguin room, counting down the seconds. When the clock finally hits midnight, I jump up and cheer, excited to see penguins for the first time. I take a step inside, but the security guard stops me. ID please?

I proudly show him my card, and he congratulates me. He tells me he still remembers the first time he saw a penguin. Good times, he assures me.

And then: woah, penguins.

They’re all so short and fat! Haha! This is the best night ever.

The next day, my Facebook profile picture shows me throwing a peace sign, standing beside a penguin. All my 29 year old friends tell me I’m so lucky, and I tell them it’s not like they have to wait much longer.

Then as I log off and go to bed, I realize I can’t wait until I turn 40, when I get to hug a sloth.

I am not at all embarrassed to say I have yet to experience my first kiss. This was something I decided on long ago when I was pressured to save sex until after marriage. My thought process concluded that if sex could be made more special by waiting, then surely everything else would be too. The first time I eat spaghetti will be fucking awesome.

But this is about the kiss. I don’t think I can wait any longer. First, it just seems like such a fun thing to do. And second, all my other friends are already well into the random orgy phase. I feel completely left behind when it comes to feeling behinds.

And so it is with a heavy heart that I realize I must break the promise I made my youth pastor. I am not married, but I am going to kiss.

The only problem is I am single now, and nobody replied to my emails. Not even when I described exactly what I planned to do, and assured them I wanted nothing more: starting with a slow, gentle peck, I would then progress to a slightly more forceful push, before unleashing the kind of Tongue Fu that would make a reptilian Bruce Lee jealous.

But wait, I just remembered. I have a pet rabbit.

There probably isn’t that big a difference between rabbits and humans, both being mammals and all. And at least I can be sure it won’t laugh in my face if I’m terrible at it.

Okay, I just spit out my gum. I’ll update in a minute to let you know how it went.

Unless I get lucky, of course.