Yellowsexuals.

I've always been a bit confused by white guys that seem to have a very specific "type." And that "type" being gooky-lookin' yellow Asian giggly bitches. Well, "Asian" is probably enough to describe it. In high school there were always a few dorky white guys that owned trench coats, or were really into video games, or studied some form of martial arts, or stayed after school for Asian-American-Ching-Chong Club, or were really into being bad at breakdancing, or used any other of the millions of geeky distractions (Japanese class, anime, etc.) to hide the fact that they were really trying to get some of that Yellow stanky on their Anglo hang-lows. In college I was too depressed by my bullshit problems to notice. Then I went to China and saw all kinds of white 45 year-old high school creepshows walking around with Chinese girls half their age who barely spoke English. It creeped me out, mostly because I was imagining what they were doing behind closed doors. My imagination wanders, often in the wrong direction.

Within the past few years I came across a number of white guys that were really into Asian girls and always thought it was weird. I should just accept that yellow women have the same wet parts (sideways or not) as all the other colors of women, so why wouldn't [white] men like them? But there is something about these guys I've always thought was a little different. And the thing is, I can't put it into words. And I can usually put everything into words. Often times disgusting words. Maybe it's me fishing around for those stereotypical high school character traits I've always attributed to these white guys suffering from yellow fever. But it's like the arrow in between the 'e' and the 'x' in Fedex, once you see it, you cannot not see it. Actually, that analogy doesn't really work. Like at all. I think I just wanted to use it to see if the reader knows what I'm talking about. And to sound creative. I'm going to hold onto that one and figure out how to use it some day.

I have come across a few black dudes or latinos who are really into Asian women. (And not just the Wu-Tang clan.) It's just not nearly as often. Black dudes often get distracted by the Extra-Fat vanilla ice cream, but I don't think it completely distracts them from all the other flavors. And latinos, especially the short ones, seem to be down to try just about anything (see: barrel-shaped Mexican women). Are Asian girls a White People Problem? Yes.

If you've ever hung out with my friends in NYC you will quickly notice that they are mostly male, and they mostly like other males. If you called me a fag stag, I wouldn't deny it but I would prefer you call me a fruit fly. They are absolutely fabulous! (For full effect, lisp the s's from here on out.) More than one of these friends has told me on different and separate occasions that if a white guy is really into yellow girls, he is gay. And when I thought about all of my past experiences with white men and their Asian girlfriends, it put things into a new perspective. I can't say that I think this stereotype is true, but I won't say it's not true.

So what is it that makes these g-rods think these white guys are masking their peter appetite with Asian girls? Do Asian girls have some sort of secret masculinity that I'm unaware of? Are they all Madonna fanatics? Do Asian girls rip off their shirts at the slightest hint of dance music or a chance to get a tan? Is it because Asian girls often lack shape? Does this lack of shape have these white guys lickin' their lips for some pre-pubescent boy flavor? I don't get it. But at the same time I think I do. I kinda see it. Asians are usually timid and non-confrontational. What better way to cover up your true sexuality than with a slanty-eyed girl that isn't going to ask questions and giggles at 93% of the shit you say?

Whatever it is, I know it doesn't matter. Who cares why these white guys prefer Asian girls? Maybe it's the porcelain skin, or the petite frames, or the good grades, or maybe because it's a permanent video game partner. Or maybe it's because they really do want penis in and around their faces. Oh well. I'm just fascinated about this conclusion my gay buddies have come to. White guys can go right on liking The Yellows. It don't matter to me, I like the brown ones with the butts. Actually, who am I kidding? I like the ones that look at me for at least 3 seconds. I'm in love with them at 4.

I think it was the white half of Drake that said, "Shout out to Asian girls, let the light dim sum."

Might not be gay, but sure is a...

Nothing to say.

I've been staring at this goddamn screen for over an hour trying to figure out something to write and I have come up with nothing (keep reading). I was going to share a bunch of screenshots of notes I have on my phone but then I realized I didn't want to explain why I use the word "faggot" so many times in them. (They're ideas for jokes. Not really jokes about "faggots" but for some stupidass reason I thought they sounded funnier when they had the word "faggot" in them. Yes, I need to use the word "faggot" to get cheap laughs. No, the jokes aren't any good. No, I don't dislike guys that like guys and girls that like girls. Why am I explaining myself to you? Are you really offended? I was going to call you a "faggot" but I decided not to.)

Writing jokes is really hard. I tend to come up with the same ideas over and over again and it gets boring. I'm sure you've noticed. I'm short. I have a pathetic penis. I can't figure out why girls don't like me. (If I took the first two self-degrading comments I made seriously, I would have probably figured it out by now). White people are corny. I hate everyone. I hate myself. Boohoo. Blah blah blah. Nobody cares.

I actually hate people that say they hate people. Because I'm arrogant enough to think: "You have no idea." What a fucking idiot I am. And what a lame ass thing to think. "I hate more people than you!" I wonder how many people hate me on first sight. Who am I kidding? Nobody gives any fucks about me. And that's not a self-loathing, head-in-my-hands comment. It's a fact. Why would you people care? How arrogant am I, to think people actually have an opinion of me when they see me?

Today one of my dogs threw up in the elevator.

It smelled like diarrhea.

Fun.

I'm Tired Of It.

Don't think I don't notice how much I talk about myself. Whether it's preaching about dreams or sharing my tale of asking a girl out through Facebook, I'm completely aware of how pathetically self-absorbed I am. Sometimes I read through my tweets and sigh at all the I's I come across. And most of them are self-deprecating. If I think I'm so goddamn terrible then why do I keep thinking about myself and sharing my pathetic personal experiences with you people? I guess it's because I have nothing else to talk about.

What is the opposite of a God complex? I think I have that.

So let's stop wasting time and let's talk about me.

Over the weekend I spent a lot of time thinking about how much easier it would be to be good-looking. And don't think I'm sitting here with my head in my hands feeling sorry for myself because of my pathetic penis and my height (that was yesterday). I mean, life is actually easier for people who are good-looking.

Good-looking person's schedule:

• 12pm: Wake up. (Waking up in the AM is for ugly people that have to have jobs to get money.)
• 12:01pm-Whenever the party ends. (Get treated like royalty, people go out of their way to help you, laugh at your jokes even when you haven't told one, and give you free desserts, toys, money, and blowjobs.)

The rest of us have to work really hard at our jobs to get ahead and be taken seriously. When we're done with our miserable jobs, where we spend all day bending over backwards for the lookers, we go home every night and self-improve. We have to take piano lessons, or we have to plan trips so we can backpack across a foreign land, or we have to read books, or we have to try to learn a new language, or we have to learn how to cook well. If we're not doing that, then we spend our time catering to good-looking people just so we can be around them and torture ourselves with aspirations of having their amazing lives. It never ends. And although many of these things can be enriching and a great deal of fun, they take up so much goddamn time.

Yes, that is what I am concerned about.

I'm not depressed about not being good-looking because I give a shit about my looks, but because I'm fucking lazy. I would like to come home and not do shit. Why can't I come home and sit in front of the TV and watch Seinfeld reruns? Why can't I just not own books? Why can't I just sit back and listen to a conversation at a dinner party and still come out on top, instead of constantly having to ask questions I don't really care to know the answers to? Why do I have to balance what I say to make sure I sound interesting but not sound like a Know-It-All? Why can't I have 0 hobbies and interests but know there is a pretty gosh darn good blowjob waiting for me just around the corner? Why do I have to do anything? Why is being not good-looking so much goddamn work? 

I met this lady at the dog park a few weeks ago. Over several different conversations on several different days I became more and more attracted to her. I think it's because she is incredible looking and she is completely weird. Those seem to be the two things I really care about. Is that shallow? See, since I'm not good-looking I have to worry about petty shit like sounding shallow. Anyways, after a few very different conversations, I found myself wondering what my life would be like with a woman like her. Then I realized I didn't really know much about her. So I had to ask a ton of questions. And eventually made it a point ask her her name. She told me. I went home and Googled her name and two other tidbits of information she shared with me in previous conversations, where she went to college and what she did for a living.

My creepy search formula = Name + College + Job

And let me point out, it was only her first name. Google is amazing. The second link was her. It was a Wikipedia article. I decided to not read it because I didn't want to ruin the fantasy. So I just looked at her picture (yep). Would we get along? Where would we go on vacations? Would the weirdness get annoying? Would I ever even have a chance with a woman that looked like her? Would it be different if I was good-looking (which is one (of two) of the real reasons I'm writing this)? And then I realized I was wasting my time because I was ignoring the most important question: Does she have a boyfriend? So I read her Wikipedia page (which was obviously written by her) and I got my answer. She does. And he's in a famous band.

Look at that. Really look at it. Being good-looking in this case probably wouldn't have changed the outcome of this. But since I'm not good-looking I have to constantly look for ways to distract myself from my terribly mediocre life. I had to make sure to get to that specific dog park at a certain time, I had to approach her in a way that wasn't overwhelming, I had to say pleasant things about her dog, I had to give an overly dramatic story about the rescued dog I was walking, I had to figure out what she did for a living, I had to ask her how she got into that, I had to ask her about her background, I had to figure out her name, I had to ask the right questions, I had to pay attention to her answers, on and on and on. I had to create and dwell on this entire fantasy that I constructed over weeks. WEEKS! 

Then I did what needed to be done. I clicked on a picture of her boyfriend and realized he wasn't really all that good-looking. He was just good at the guitar and touring with a famous band. She was the one getting away with being good-looking. She was skating by in our conversations because she didn't need to fill her good-looking head with ridiculous plots and fantasies. She had it easy, but what did that have to do with me?

I'm tired from all of the fantasizing about this and that. I'm tired of thinking myself in circles. So I guess I'm right where I started. Exhausted. Exhausted from wasting so much mental energy on wondering what it would be like to be good-looking.

I'm lazy, but I have so much self-improvement left to do. Maybe I'll start with some guitar lessons.

Dopplegangster: Zhang Zhen Yue

Everyone in China is laughing at me.

Genuinely Offended.

Apparently there are a lot of things in this world to be "genuinely offended" by. I hear it all the time. "I am genuinely offended that everyone on the cast of Jersey Shore isn't really Italian." "I am genuinely offended they only have the McRib several weeks out of the year." "I am genuinely offended there aren't any brown people in Girls." "I am genuinely offended by everything RiFF RAFF." "I am genuinely offended by rape jokes." "I am genuinely offended my dad didn't play catch with me as much as my neighbor's dad did." I'm not offended by that. My dad bothered the shit out of me all the time about playing catch.

Bill Clinton shows that sunglasses are a must.

There are a lot of things I do not like about people. The way they look. The talking. The breathing. The LOL'ing. The taking themselves too serious. The Puerto Ricans. But the thing that I do not like the most is hearing someone talk about how "offended" they are by something. This isn't me trying to be offensive. I don't think anybody thinks anything I do is offensive because I'm not arrogant enough to think anybody thinks about me. And that's great. No, seriously. I'm not offended. I don't think about any of you (specifically) either.

If you are over the age of 10 and you are genuinely offended by something, you are most likely wrong and an asshole. There is no other way to put it. Are people genuinely offended by global warming, income inequality, women trafficking, or the fact that the bars and restaurants in Manhattan are full of 25 year-olds at 2pm on Tuesdays? Don't you fucking people have jobs? I guess some people are genuinely offended about those things, but not nearly enough. More people spend their time sighing and scoffing at Miley Cyrus' latest haircut, Army generals' affairs, or the way the guy sitting across from them was a little too obvious when taking a picture. Get over the picture creepshow, in 20 years you'll be flattered by a guy like him not-so subtly taking your picture. (This time it won't be me. I won't be alive in 20 years.)

It's true. We are a nation of fat crybabies. "But Rush Limbaugh said all those racist, sexist, faggy comments about the Jews and the blacks!" Oh. Fucking. Well. And it's not just Americans. It's everyone. Open up your newspaper and you'll see millions of people around the world being "genuinely offended." It's the Arabs' fault. No! It's the Jews' fault. Well maybe it's the terrorists' fault. Nah, it's the Chinese communists' fault. It's religion's fault. It's atheists' fault. Blame Canada! I don't know, I'm pretty sure it's rich people's fault! Everybody is killing everybody over some shit they're offended by. It's your fault for being offended.

Don't be offended if I wear this shirt while I masturbate to my most awesome Tweets.

I'm not saying that you shouldn't be offended by anything. If someone killed my wife and bragged about it when they were on trial, I would probably be genuinely offended.

And you should be offended that I just constructed a hypothetical that consists of a woman that is married to me. Sorry. I meant no offense.

Be more selective of what you're offended by. Leave the rest alone.

Fiona Apple and her dog.

Here's a nice break from all things insecure. I thought this was pretty.

It's 6pm on Friday,and I'm writing to a few thousand friends I have not met yet.
I am writing to ask them to change our plans and meet a little while later.
Here's the thing.
I have a dog Janet, and she's been ill for almost two years now, as a tumor has been idling in her chest, growing ever so slowly. She's almost 14 years old now.I got her when she was 4 months old. I was 21 then ,an adult offi

cially - and she was my child.

She is a pitbull, and was found in Echo Park, with a rope around her neck, and bites all over her ears and face.

She was the one the dogfighters use to puff up the confidence of the contenders.

She's almost 14 and I've never seen her start a fight ,or bite, or even growl, so I can understand why they chose her for that awful role. She's a pacifist.

Janet has been the most consistent relationship of my adult life, and that is just a fact.

We've lived in numerous houses, and jumped a few make shift families, but it's always really been the two of us.

She slept in bed with me, her head on the pillow, and she accepted my hysterical, tearful face into her chest, with her paws around me, every time I was heartbroken, or spirit-broken, or just lost, and as years went by, she let me take the role of her child, as I fell asleep, with her chin resting above my head.

She was under the piano when I wrote songs, barked any time I tried to record anything, and she was in the studio with me all the time we recorded the last album.

The last time I came back from tour, she was spry as ever, and she's used to me being gone for a few weeks every 6 or 7 years.

She has Addison's Disease, which makes it dangerous for her to travel since she needs regular injections of Cortisol, because she reacts to stress and to excitement without the physiological tools which keep most of us from literally panicking to death.

Despite all of this, she’s effortlessly joyful and playful, and only stopped acting like a puppy about 3 years ago.

She's my best friend and my mother and my daughter, my benefactor, and she's the one who taught me what love is.

I can't come to South America. Not now.

When I got back from the last leg of the US tour, there was a big, big difference.

She doesn't even want to go for walks anymore.

I know that she's not sad about aging or dying. Animals have a survival instinct, but a sense of mortality and vanity, they do not. That’s why they are so much more present than people.

But I know that she is coming close to point where she will stop being a dog, and instead, be part of everything. She’ll be in the wind, and in the soil, and the snow, and in me, wherever I go.

I just can't leave her now, please understand.

If I go away again, I’m afraid she'll die and I won't have the honor of singing her to sleep, of escorting her out.

Sometimes it takes me 20 minutes to pick which socks to wear to bed.

But this decision is instant.

These are the choices we make, which define us.

I will not be the woman who puts her career ahead of love and friendship.

I am the woman who stays home and bakes Tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend.

And helps her be comfortable, and comforted, and safe, and important.

Many of us these days, we dread the death of a loved one. It is the ugly truth of Life, that keeps us feeling terrified and alone.

I wish we could also appreciate the time that lies right beside the end of time.

I know that I will feel the most overwhelming knowledge of her, and of her life and of my love for her, in the last moments.

I need to do my damnedest to be there for that.

Because it will be the most beautiful, the most intense, the most enriching experience of life I've ever known.

When she dies.

So I am staying home, and I am listening to her snore and wheeze, and reveling in the swampiest, most awful breath that ever emanated from an angel.

And I am asking for your blessing.

I'll be seeing you.

Love, Fiona

Back to me writing about my penis tomorrow.

Dreams Not From My Father.

If my child ever says his dream is to be a businessman I'm going to punch him, his mother, and his father directly in the dicks. When I caddied I often worked with kids 10 years younger than me. Sometimes I would ask them, "What do you want to be when you're an adult? What are your dreams?" And the most popular answer was, "Uh, I don't know, some sort of businessman...why are you still caddying at the age of 25?" Prickheads.

I dreamed of being Michael Jordan. I shaved my head. I stuck my tongue out. I worked on my jumpshot. I worked on my vertical. I became a mysognist (because if you're going to commit to something you have to be All In). And then I realized I was kidding myself. A chubby gookish looking dickhead kid couldn't be Michael Jordan. I was predisposed to breakdancing, giggling, maybe being a lady-boy, rooting for Manny Pacquiao, and hanging out exclusively with people with pug noses and bad haircuts. (Thankfully, only one of those things became a reality.) So then I dreamed of being an architect, but was talked out of it by an old rich country club lady. "Architects don't make any money." Really? Neither do substiute teachers for children with autism, caterers, census takers, comedy club workers, sales associates at Macy's or Uniqlo, etc. Then I wanted to be an artist but soon read about this guy. No thanks. And after all this, now, I dream to be David Beckham's penis.

So in order for my dream to become a reality a huge number of things would have to fall my way, including David Beckham's actual penis.

1. Beckham would, for some reason, need a new penis. So that means it would have to either be chopped off (that's so 90's), fall off (I don't think the saying grandmothers tell their grandsons, "If ya keep playin' with it, it's going to fall off!" is actually true. Believe me, I've played), or maybe sucked off (actually the most realisitc of the three, he's David fucking Beckham). And not only would it have to be removed from his body, it'd have to be kicked under a car and unusable. It's not like the girl who just sucked it off after receiving her gift from the Make-A-Wish foundation would be able to get it bronzed and hung over the fireplace. He'd surely ask for it back and have it sewed back on. (I just want to point out that if the girl actually had it bronzed and hung over the fireplace...and then died...that would be a crazy memento for the rest of the family to remember her by. Just saying.) He wouldn't just look around the crowd and pick the first balding 27 year-old he sees. "He'll do."
2. The gun from Honey I Shrunk the Kids would have to be involved. You couldn't sew a 5'6" human onto a ballsack and call it a penis (actually, I think I just defined the term "frat brother"). And more difficult, the actor who knew how to use the Honey I Shrunk The Kids gun would have to be found and convinced to take this role on. And when's the last time you saw that guy?
3. He would have to agree for me to let me keep the glasses. I want to see what/who I'm getting myself into. That's the whole point.

I have a ways to go.

Kids dreaming of being businessmen. Where have we gone wrong? Businessmen sit around and think of really boring (oftentimes evil) shit and sometimes ruin people's lives and spend long days at the office and end up hating their families and turn towards prositutes for advice. Out of all of the things in the world you could do, how is being a businessman your dream? Is it the money? Then isn't your actual dream to be rich? Shouldn't you be dreaming to win the lottery. I'm cutting it down even more. The only reason I'd want to have a lot of money is to be able to have sex with the women David Beckham surely has sex with. Why not cut out all those dates/bribes? Why not just attach myself to the source itself?

Dreams change as you get older. And for men, it almost always turns sexual. I've yet to meet a 45 year-old that is dreaming to change the world, unless changing the world involves getting those twins from that Hooters calendar into your bedroom for some creepshow goodness. It's why we're miserable as adults. It's not that we haven't achieved our dreams. It's that our dreams have changed into something pathetic and boring. And the real tragedy is that dreams are dying at a younger age. Dreaming to be a businessman isn't a dream. It's a travesty. So instead of telling your kids to dream big, start telling them that a dream can be anything. Look at me. I'm still dreaming.

Actually, if your dream is to be someone's small Asian penis, just forget it. Go back to school and take some business administration classes. Dreams are all in your head.

I just spent my entire Saturday evening making this. I do it for all of you.