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?

I don’t want to come off as an egotistical maniac, but my morning ritual does include checking the website of my alma mater to see if they have added me to their list of notable alum. And it is with utter confusion that I still do not see my name.

What will it take?

Artistic abilities? If you’re seeking the kind of high brow art that nobody understands, you will find that my skill in ambiguity is unsurpassed. In one figure drawing class, I drew a man wearing a hat, which the professor then mistook for a dog delivering pizza.

Writing abilities? My blog is so well read that, at its current pace, it will receive more than 1.5 million page views within 90 years. Most blogs would take at least 92 years.

Money-making abilities? By utilizing my strategy of never leaving any tips, I have increased my spending power by at least 15%.

Scientific abilities? I have discovered that one can be vaccinated against multiple diseases simply by unintentionally consuming the saliva of countless waiters.

What will it take, huh? Must I chug saliva by the buck loads?

How about this. Surely, having only one notable graduate in the last 23 years does not look great for a school. But I can make you this guarantee: by adding me to your list, you will have two notable graduates in the last 23 years. I can already see the college applications pouring in.

So.. deal?

I was in line at the movie theater when a young boy walked up to a Terminator poster, widened his eyes, and shouted, “Look, dad! Transformers!”

“That’s Terminator,” his dad said, calmly.

“Why does it say Transformers?”

And then as if the entire moment was scripted, his younger brother walked up, and said, “Wow, Transformers!”

This lack of basic comprehension can clearly be attributed to the new generation’s unwillingness to communicate in whole words, preferring instead to substitute them with only a few key letters. But this can get confusing. For example, I received a text message last week that only said “U SCK”. Immediately, I started thinking how kind this stranger was to ask if I was sick.

I wrote back, saying, “FU”. Trying to be hip and all, I had taken out the L in FLU.

His reply: “FU too.” Alas, it seemed we were both stricken by the virus.

This morning, in furthering our conversation, I was unable to continue these juvenile games, so I typed out my words in whole, saying, “How unfortunate. So it seems that influenza does not discriminate in selecting its victims.”

He must’ve understood my cue, because he too gave up the ridiculous spellings, and wrote out, “What the fuck you talking about, gay wad, influnez and shit. What’s this about discrimate, you fuking racist?”

Confusing, to say the least. You may think I was hurt by such an outburst, but if in my conversations with young people, I can bestow the gift of eloquence upon just one of them, just as I did here, I do not mind the reputation of a homosexual collection of sperm who also happens to hate minorities. In taking on this mission of mine, I have long understood the risks.