So I eyed from the corner of the college bookstore. Ah, a vendor of sweet drinks. "Asian Fusion: Boba Tea" Boba tea, it was a nostalgic drink for me. Back in my childhood, I'd go to the local pho diner, Pho 78 or something, I don't quite remember, and always ordered boba tea. But with the advent of East meets West, East is cool, Japan holy shit let me fuck you, this uniqueness disappeared in the stomachs of the "cool" indie white youth. There I stood disappointed at looked at the vendor. Those eyes were none other than Asian. That slant, that, well, he really liked pretty generic.

I would not aid his ventures in salesmanship, no! While we may be a communal people according to 18th century ethnographies and the like, I would not help my brethren in his quest to sink lower. Here he was, hastily giving samples of our pride. He was a slave to the white man, giving them the taste of his unique spirit, just so they could digest it like any other food.

Then my stomach growled and I said to myself, "Fuck this. I'm thirsty," and hurried along to get a sample from that cheerful vendor. Like yeah, I don't actually care about what I was writing about up there. I wanted to see what I could pull from my ass. Looks pretty decent, I suppose.

College's been pretty swell. Every class has been pretty easy, besides math. Math is murdering me. I'm not the type of person to depend on logic, you see. I'm much too abstract of a thinker. I'm too cool for cold calculations. Or rather, I'm too hot. Yes, I'm too hot. Way too hot for that shit.

I also started writing a serious detective story. It's the in thing to write stuff, I think. It's too long to post and I don't think anyone would read it anyway but here's a condensed excerpt of the first few paragraphs.

One would wonder if the sky was blanketed with clouds of purity or the smog of pollution. It was a clear white, like gazing beyond space and into the heavens. But as you tilt your head, you’d see the monochrome world of Beijing. A mass of flesh shuffles through, as steel machines lay still. The invention of the car proves to have worth in this city.

Red lamps illuminate a noodle stand. There are only 5 seats. All but one are filled with businessmen who came for a quick stop, stuffing noodles into their mouths. On the far right end, sits a girl. Unlike the men in suits, she dons rather bohemian clothing. Basically, it's poor imitation of the top of the line fashions.

One of the men beside her turn their head to her. He's has short feathery black hair, and deep eyes cushioned above tan hollow cheeks. Standard fare, overworked, single middle-aged man.

Huang’s cheeks split harshly into a pale shade of tan and dark shadowy brown. He clasps his hand on his cheek, “You’ve heard about the recent murders in Wan Chai? Where the people combusted?â€?

Xiaoai licks her lips and sways her cap toward Huang, “The ‘impossible’ crimes?â€?

“Yeah. I was assigned to investigate those murders. Really gruesome stuff, you can imagine. How was your trip to the countryside? You were investigating what again?â€?

“Oh, that. Well, it was just a break. I thought I’d take a break. Nothing much. Why mention the murders though?â€?

“Oh, I thought it might have been connected. I heard from Bao that you were investigating that decade old case that's similar to the Wan Chai murders, and not vacationing. My mistake.â€?

Horrible story.

Also, look. I got a last.fm. Look at my horrible taste in music!