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.

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.”