That’s right, fuck the 6 year streak of post titles that lengthen by one every year.
Scoot over a bit. I’m cramped in my seat. I know. It’s one of those seat arrangements where 2 benches face each other, there should be enough space.
That point would be rendered moot if you were to look up to witness the Buff Chinese Guy With A Zangief Beard. He’s seated opposite me.
Don’t look NOW, you fucking idiot. He knows we’re talking about him. You used the words “Buff Chinese Guy” with “A Zangief Beard”. Fine. WE used the words, “Buff Chinese Guy” with “A Zangief Beard”.
How am I supposed to know if he’s looking at us? I’m not looking at him.
No duh that’s why I wrote this post. I stopped wasting my time playing Tsum Tsum because 1) there was no more visible progress in that game, which I had been playing all day, 2) playing Tsum Tsum looks like I’m sneakily filming the Buff Chinese Guy with a Zangief Beard and 3) he looks like he could suplex me into the wheelchair bay if I were to do 2).
You aren’t saying shit, but I know you are agreeing with me that the Zangief Beard is certainly interesting. And that look is asking several questions.
Why talk about his race? Chinese guys can’t grow beards beyond a Fu Manchu.
Why buff? To emphasise how if I were to film his Zangief beard, he’d reach over, grab my shirt and suplex me into the wheelchair bay.
I’ve NEVER seen ANYONE with a beard this three-pronged and shoulder-resting as he. The cherry on top is that he’s Chinese.
I just want to watch his beard. I want to witness how it brambles and trails from his undefined chin, and how the roads and avenues of facial hair cruise down his neck to his shoulders and chest, under the canopy of an army singlet, exiting the freeway of his shorts onto his furred knees, pointing toward mine, a causeway of ape to man, hairy limbed to bald legged.
I wonder if he is thinking of me, my person shuffling in the seat uncomfortably as I avoid his eyes. I wonder what a beard feels like – I wonder if he washes it after brushing his teeth.
I wonder if his parents abhor it, I wonder if his girlfriend loves him for it, and pulls on it in during frenzied climaxes. I wonder if his identity is the beard, if the beard is a depressive defeat from time, or if it stems from genetic abnormality, or if it’s just cool.
I wonder if my high distinction was a fluke, back in Sec 3, when I took the UNSW Creative Writing exam. I wonder why it has followed me, a speck of glitter on my shoe that reminds me that I AM someone who can write, but chose not to.
I know it was a choice to hold onto this tiny label, as an I am better than you, but I wonder if it is time to let go of the High Distinction. I wonder how many more labels I have foisted upon myself, glittering when I meet my potential and blinding my eyes whenever I don’t. How do you let go of all of them? They are a mass, an ugly mass of shoulds and potentials, only discoverable when you put your face really really close and discover in blinding, seething realisations that you are not an actor, great improviser, fast coder, etc. Etc. Etc.
—
Oh my god I was going to alight the bus and he grabbed me.
Instead of suplexing me into the wheelchair bay into a 76 combo finisher, he passed me my wallet, which had slipped out my pocket, because I was squirming, because his hairy Zangief thighs (/positive) were right in front of mine, so actually it was his fault, so I guess I don’t need to thank him for what was essentially his responsibility.
And that’s how you start a new hiatus.
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