Hi-Chew

I was walking through LeeLee's with my mom when I saw a pack of strawberry Hi-Chew. I haven't had Hi-Chew in a long time, and because I am destined for diabetes in the near future, I immediately grabbed one.


Why have I not gotten obese off of these sooner.

So good. 


But I realize not everyone knows what Hi-Chew is. 





It's a type of asian candy chew sort of thing and I don't know why I'm acting like I know what it is because I have no idea. It could be made from recycled colon, it doesn't matter, it's just that delicious. 

Here is a drawing of me holding a grossly out of proportion Hi-Chew.

I love Hi-Chew. It makes the sun peek out from clouds of mundane sweets. I could destroy a pack of Hi-Chew in half a day. I am a beast. 

The excitement that I feel when undressing that sexy Hi-Chew from it's delicate rice paper clothing is impossible to describe. And no, I am not creepy, I just love Hi-Chew, as do my saliva glands. 

Side note, I have big gums and tiny teeth. That's a life drawing. Everything about it is true to life. Everything.

I like Hi-Chew. It makes me see in pink and plaid.

I like Hi-Chew so much that I connect it with my obsession with Pokemon.

Self-Explanatory

Bladder Jockeys

I was a very observant child.




I didn't notice important things like, I don't know, learning math. But when it came to little, pointless things, I was a master. If only there were jobs such as Noticer of Small Inconsequential Things or Observer of Details and Minutiae. 


One thing I noticed were the extreme variations in bathroom trip lengths that people took. For some reason I assumed no one ever pooped, it was all just peeing.


Some people has some really long pee trips. For example, waiting for my brother to finish in the bathroom at a restaurant.


I tried to figure out why exactly this was.But then those questions raised more questions, like how and who decides how long those pee trips were? Why was my brother taking so long to pee, making me wait for him?


I contemplated for a long time about these questions (five minutes), and eventually came up with answers. Very fitting answers. That made complete sense.


I knew that each person had bladder. That bladder had something to do with pee and stuff. What exactly was in that bladder? That was the key to this whole situation, and I had a pretty good idea what was going on. 

You see, in each bladder, were seven stalls. Each stall contained the allotted amount of pee for each day of the week. The amounts in each stall were decided by how much water you drank in the previous week. How much you peed was then controlled by a tiny man who would run to each stall and open the doors to let out pee. 

I also decided that this tiny man was wearing a jockey uniform.

Because there were stalls. 


When people peed for extremely long periods of time, there was a malfunctioning stall door and you would pee out some of tomorrow's pee.


I imagined the tiny jockey man desperately trying to control the deluge of pee, jockey hat straps flailing. He made noble efforts, but those stalls needed to be repaired. The deluge overpowers him.

I was so distressed, I turned to my mom and demanded that she make my brother stop and that he was peeing out tomorrow's pee. 


She glanced at me and said nothing.


But really we all know she was quietly considering what a great and promising youth I was. Destined to change modern ideas of human anatomy. 


Super genius.

Thing That I Want to Eat Now and Always: Starbucks Oatmeal Cookie

There's something magical about cookies. 
I can't even begin to explain. They just are so sadoif and even more aosidfha;oih and I when have a good cookie I'm just aosifh;asie. 


Not every cookie is a good cookie. Some are just fake tasting and when I eat it, I just feel cheated. Yes that was a cookie, but was it really a cookie?! This is usually the case with lame chocolate chip cookies, they usually lack texture and the dough is just not doughy enough. 


So we enter the realm of oatmeal cookies. I just asofdihaie;fa. I cannot even aosdif;aoisei.


The chewy texture of oatmeal in a cookie is just like if those tiny giraffes from Direct TV were real and I owned one. (Why are scientists not working on that.)

So I went to Starbucks recently with a friend. I don't drink coffee, but I saw they had a giant oatmeal cookie.

I stared at the cookie for a long time. I vaguely recalled something I said to myself about eating healthy and cutting out fattening foods.


I stare at the cookie more.


Fat people are always happy.


I consulted my inner Asian, do I want to spend $1.50 on a cookie that I can probably make? Do I need immediate satisfaction or can I wait like an evolved human being?


The answers were no I don't want to spend that. I am Asian. But I will, because I am not evolved and when my Id desires cookies, my Ego and Superego are powerless. (I probably didn't use those correctly but I don't really care.)


So I bought the cookie. 


Praise Jesus, it was delicious.


From then on, I periodically make trips to just get a cookie. Other people need caffeine fixes, I need cookie fixes. I rush over to Starbucks, jittery and anxious, so that when I order I don't even form a coherent sentence.

(do you see the background ginger I put in there? I thought it was pretty hilarious. But he's concerned for me so I like him since I'm self-centered also he is a drawing.)

The hipster barista understands, although she is unimpressed as she looks at me through her thick framed apathy. 

You think I care about your hipster standards?! I don't, because oatmeal cookies are involved.

Anger at being judged and anxiety over getting my fix build up. But then she hands me that delicious delicious cookie in that paper Starbucks bag and the world is amazing and I could poop out good will. 

The Universe Hates Me and Birds Have Runny Poop

Today was not a good day.

It started with me waking up at 6 to make it to a 7 am appointment to get my blood drawn. It is not a normal blood draw, because it takes 3 hours and I have to fast for it. They called it a blood glucose tolerance test or something. I don't know. The point is I drink some kind of delicious soda drink that promptly launches me into a sugar coma, then they draw my blood like 5 times within 3 hours or something.  

So I have to fast, which is difficult because I am a black hole for food, specifically cookies. Then when I go, I have to sit and think about food as I stare at the needle stealing away my blood.

Anyways so I go, I'm there on time. That is a big deal. 

Too bad the office isn't even open. It is a good thing that I was so tired, because I didn't have the energy to be pissed. I was left with a quiet resignation to my misfortune. So I sat and did homework, at 7 am, outside a doctor's office. Some time later an old woman sat next to me. It was me and the old lady for a while. She smelled like sandalwood. 

8 am, they finally open their doors. If I was at full capacity I would have launched into raging Asian mode. But no, I stagger in with my laptop bag and declare that I have an appointment.

The lady at the front desk looks at her computer. Looks at me. Looks at her computer. Something is wrong.

Apparently I was not scheduled for this wonderful 3 hour blood test. I assume she thinks I made it up.

Wrong.

I am certain I made the appointment. Asian fury begins to build.

She notices.

She talks with someone in the back, and they figure it out: the person in charge of scheduling scheduled my appointment in the wrong office. 

I make a face which I imagine looks like this:

No amount of eyelashes could make that face look good.

The receptionist is even disturbed. 

She apologizes a little.

But that doesn't fix the situation that I got up at 6 for no reason and now I have to go through the same process next week.

If she gave me some jellybeans that were on her desk I would have been appeased. There's no way she didn't see me staring at them. She doesn't share.

I go home pissed off.

I go to school slightly calmer.

As I'm walking to studio, though, I feel a wet drop on my leggings. I'm walking pretty quickly to make it to class in time, and as I walk I think, ...I know it's cloudy...but it's not raining....

I look down and sure enough, there is a splotch of some kind of liquid on my leggings. 

(that is my body drawn in perspective okay)

It's noticeable. While initial panics of whether or not it looks like a droplet of pee somehow landed on my knee, I begin to place blame.

Blame lands on birds.

Birds somehow manage to have runny poops.

I somehow manage to have horrible luck.

There was probably some incontinent bird in the skies that felt like dropping its load just as I was speed walking to class. 

Perfect aim. 

This is why I religiously eat chicken. 

And when I get to class, my bad luck follows. I'm afraid to draw pictures in case the school finds me through secret government spies and satellites and will subsequently expel me.

But anyways my professor tells me to make two changes on separate pages. 

I do just that, and I hang them up to show him.

He demands why I made them on separate pages.

I apologize and say I didn't understand, so I remake it on one page and put that up.

He demands why I made them on one page, and that I should make it on two separate pages, that this is not a difficult concept.

I pause. Anger building to peak levels. Beginning to formulate Asian fury arguments. But I can't get expelled, then the secret government spies and satellites will win.

So I smile and say I'll fix it.

But really I'm just perpetually in a state of