Summer has arrived again, which means the return of my old nemesis: the ants.

What is it about summer that brings out these tiny dudes? At first I thought it was kind of adorable, a lone ant here and there, scouting for food with its little antennae, but these guys sure can’t keep a good thing secret; before long, their entire family is invited, and I am faced with the awkward situation of forced small talk with its distant uncles and aunts. Having learned from my experience last year, I dismissed the idea of befriending anyone this time. As I spray down the insecticide, I don’t even look them in the eyes.

The problem had gotten so bad, spiders began invading. The infestation, as it turned out, was moving up the food chain. I suppose the logical question, then, is why I did not let this process continue until it reached the top—man—at which point it would be a pretty rockin’ party. But this assumes that man is at the top. Who is to say that sharks would not come by and chomp us into bits? Or a gang of Nelly Furtado’s? No, such scenarios were too risky.

The insecticide I am using also has the bonus fragrance of citrus, which saves me time from not having to apply deodorant before I leave the house. You may not believe me, but this is the scent that really knocks the women out.

Few things said by a woman can be more interesting than the one sentence she chooses to say when ending a relationship. Months or years of shared moments and emotions are condensed into a mere handful of words, each as ambiguous as a mixed cup of Slurpee, and each as cold.

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.

Heyy. 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).

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.