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. It has been said by the wisest of men that kids say the darnedest things, but it is my experience that things said by women are even darneder. They are sometimes so darned the only appropriate response is, “Wow, that is really darned.” That is not to say, however, that I disagree with them.

Take, for instance, that girl in my sophomore year who told me that I enjoyed the chase more than the actual relationship. On the moonlit bench, I gently brushed apart her hair, revealing her sullen eyes, and quietly told her that it was true. Especially the ones who screamed when they ran. Those were the best.

Then there was that girl in eighth grade who claimed that despite our seven months together, I could not remember her name. This, too, was true. As an aspiring screenwriter whose mind was largely filled with character names appropriate for different faces, I have always relied on intuition rather than brute force memory. My ability to see names based on a person’s appearance had never failed me, except in the case of this girl. As we sat on the pier after dinner, as she poured her heart out through an endless stream of tears, telling me that although she loved me dearly that it was best we separated, all I could deduce was that she was not a Peter.

I suppose I should see it as a kind of blessing that these women thought of me well enough to not say anything intentionally hurtful. Their words, although never pleasurable, were always measured to cause the least amount of pain. Well, except for that one girl who said my dick was a joke.

But at least it was an inside joke.

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.

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.