Completely Foolproof. Goddamned Glamorous. Just A Little Bit Smarter Than That.

I spend entirely too much time in the grocery store, though the ghost town of my cupboards would seem to attest otherwise. But I make it a point never to trust carpentry when it comes to self-revelation. Look at the dinner table in my living room. I put it together and there it stands, steady and solid as a pine-and-corrugated-potmetal boulder. But here's the punchline: the only reason it isn't collapsing to the floor in a ball of smoke and flame is that Ikea designed every part of that thing to be completely foolproof. I mean come on. I can't even get my own tiny little life in order. Do you really think I could do so with pieces of wood and metal?

I'm feeling bold; god damn the cupboards and their filthy lies. I am often in the supermarket because I am a stupid, scatterbrained boy. I can't remember the last time that I unloaded my trunk full of fresh vittles without cursing under my breath when I realized that some item had been forgotten. Which is a perfect lead-in to tonight's revelation that I am a scary hobo. Or at least, I sound like one. Midstride on my Hajj to find some goddamned corn tortillas, I realized that I was muttering to myself in conjunction with my (sparkling and witty) inner monologue. It's innocuous enough inside my bulbous head, but when it smears out my speak-hole it must sound something awful. And that wouldn't even be so much of a problem except that Hobo Mutter teams up with Uncomfortable Shifty Eyes that I get whenever I'm alone in public.

So there I am once every few days. Wandering aimlessly through Ralph's. Muttering cryptically to myself, "Hamanahmanahamatortillasshoudlbewithbreadhmmuhnuammhammaheuhmwrongaisleahueamnittohell" and so forth. Eyeing every passing stranger with a wild-eyed stare like a frightened animal.

I'm so goddamned glamorous I should get my own HBO Original series and have impressionable young girls comment on how unconventional my beauty is.

Speaking of dirty, rotten show business, I'm a self-absorbed asshole. Every scene in last night's movie where That Dumb Slut would have a grandmotherly conversation with her grandmother, I got all angrybitterhurt about my own stupid issues. I like to think of them as consolation prizes for being born into my family.

One of my grandmothers is on my mother's side of the family and, for the same reason that I cannot live without red envelopes, karaoke, and Mulan (While we're here, FUCK Mulan. Fuck Disney, too. Wannabe-Aryan bastards.), I am not her grandson so much as I am her daughter's son. Only a slight grammatical alteration, I know. But trust me, there are some seventy years, an entire ocean, and a childhood's worth of hurtful confusion in between.

The other grandmother probably couldn't care much less about me ("Yeah, no. Josh couldn't come. Yeah, Josh is pretty great. Yeah, I love that story about Josh. Yeah, I was fat. I love Josh, too.") without still being related to me. Now that I'm not a chubby kid anymore, I don't even get fat jokes when I see her. ("Awww. She called me 'little piggy' in Chinese. I sure am glad you're laughing so I know I'm not allowed to be hurt; I love you too, Nai-nai. Wanna go ride bikes?") It's easy enough to shrug off our awkward silences as a simple language barrier, but I'd like to think that everyone's just a little bit smarter than that. When I finally learn how to write in the Chinese language, I think my first project will be to paint "Hey! Remember me? You know, the one who isn't Josh! :D" on their driveway.

I get the feeling that only I will find that funny, though. Philistines.