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| Vagina Monologues
In today’s episode of Ramee in the Radiology department, Ramee gets to witness an vaginal ultrasound! (In unrelated bus ride news, a fight nearly broke out between an old homeless man and a younger man in his twenties about old people sitting near the front of the bus!)
So today’s hospital shift wasn’t too exciting. I was sitting down for most of its duration, trying my hardest not to fall asleep in my chair. A man in a lab coat (“Gustavo,” once I shot a glance at his nametag) taps me on the shoulder and tells me he needs my help “chaperoning” with a thick Spanish accent. Gustavo wore interesting glasses that were thickly-rimmed on top and gave him the illusion of being cross-eyed. I imagined chaperoning involved little kids of some sort. Instead, I come to a curtain leading to a dark room. Gustavo pulls it away to let me in, and I see a fairly large black woman lying on her back, legs spread. Gustavo tells her to remove her panties.
I ask him, as casually as possible, what exactly my job was: “Chaperoning. A female must be in the room when men do these things. I’m going to stick this probe [he holds up a 9-inch-long, 2-cm-wide cylindrical thing with a bulb at the end] into her vagina. I will take pictures.” The black woman peels off her underwear obediently then lies down. “Will this hurt? I have my period,” she says.
“No.” With one incredibly swift movement, Gustavo plunges the probe, all 9 inches, into her without the slightest reluctance. She winces but otherwise stays silent. Gustavo begins taking pictures; she pulls out her cellphone and texts her friend as he is rummaging inside her.
After a few minutes and 30 pictures or so, Gustavo pulls out the probe, now covered in red gunk from a variety of sources and tosses it casually away. “You can go now.”
I didn’t see anything.
Add comment March 11, 2008
Asian Rage
So a lot of things have happened. My friend confessed to me, I broke him. I met a stupidly hot Israeli man, and got hit on by a semi-hot Peruvian/Japanese boy.
I went to Rage. Yes, Rage, the infamous gay club not too far from Westwood. On Asian day. Apparently, gay Asians from all around L.A. flock to the chic freak-fest on Friday nights. (My white friend Ryan only goes to Rage on Fridays for precisely this reason as he has an almost crippling case of yellow fever.) But I didn’t go with him this time even though we met up at the place later; I went with Justin, Lara and Jani. I’ve never been to a club before, let alone a gay one. It was actually really fun dancing without a care–hardly anyone on the floor paid attention to the females in the club. The word “hardly” implies that there were some, though, and yes, I was sandwiched by flamboyantly gay Asians multiple times. No one got near Lara and Jani, which made me feel a little awkward. Anyway, Justin would promptly grab me and pull me away in such instances. I saw him in a whole new light afterwards; he’s incredibly protective of his friends and so… unlike Tu. Not to say I don’t like Tu, but his insensitive, selfish personality can get old fairly quickly.
There were some really attractive Asian guys (fobs and non-fobs alike) there, though. I saw three Joo Ji-Hoon look-a-likes, all of which were most definitely gay. A lot of them danced shirtless. One not-so-attractive shirtless guy took my hand, smiling, and put it on his head before leading it downwards across his sweaty chest. That was gross. I had a horrible expression on my face as he did it too, so I don’t understand why he wouldn’t friggin’ let my hand go when I tried to pull away.
I looked like someone dumped a bucket of water on me by closing. It was quite the work-out. Now to get to studying.
Add comment March 8, 2008
Adventures with the homeless
I grabbed the bus to Santa Monica around 6:20 to make it in time for my hospital shift at 7. The ride’s always pretty lonely, so I usually pull up my hood and stare out the window for a good 45 minutes or so. About 5 minutes in, a man in his 30’s walks into the bus carrying a number of assortment department store bags and an overstuffed, filthy backpack. He sits in the front. Within a few seconds, every person in the bus migrates to the back with their hands cupped over their noses. The man reeked of feces. It was the most horrible thing I have ever smelled in my life, which may not be saying much. It was a combination of every bodily odor imaginable. I couldn’t stomach it. The lady behind me pulled out some citrus-scented Lysol wipes and I tried awkwardly to tilt my head in her direction for at least slight relief. Eventually, the bus driver couldn’t handle it and asked the man when his stop was. “You have to get off at this next one, sir.” The man politely answered that the next stop was his and thanked the driver on the way out. The bus exploded with chatter about the hobo who reeked at soon as he was out of sight. They giggled, complained about how facilities for those kinds of people were available to those who wanted them. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. The smell festered in the bus for a long time after he was gone.
Today, I had another encounter. On the Metro Red Link (the so-called subway of Los Angeles) I sat down with a 1st-year I had met earlier that day on the bus. We hadn’t started moving before a gap-toothed guy wearing a tattered blazer taps me on the shoulder.
“I’m a psychic, ma’am, you have a boyfriend, don’t you?”
“No, actually, I don’t.” I tried to be as friendly as possible and laughed a little.
“But you used to have one, right?”
“No…” More awkward laughing. A big black guy across from me chuckles a bit. “She’s not interested in you, man. Just move along now.”
“But I’m psychic. I can tell you’ll have beautiful children, a boy and a girl. What’s your sign? Gemini?”
“Leo.” The black guy tilts his head comically. “Strike two, man…”
“As long as you believe in God, he will shield you,” the guy in the blazer says. “He shields me. I am his shield. I’m 21 and homeless and I am God’s shield.”
The black guy almost chokes. “You’ve lost it now. You don’t have any chance with this one. Never tell a girl you’re homeless.”
“I’m talking to her about God’s love.”
“Okay, okay, you’re the player.”
The guy in the blazer looks at me for a while before saying “You look like Paris. Yeah Paris. Like someone who’s rich but doesn’t know it yet.” He walks off to the end of the subway once the black guy reluctantly fishes for a dollar and hands it to him.
Add comment March 1, 2008
Casino Night, CEC Brunch, Dinners for 12 Strangers
So, now that I have this thing, I might as well use it. I always tend to give up keeping diaries/blogs though, so let’s see how long-lived I can make this.
I volunteered for the Moulin Rouge-themed Casino Night assuming that my quick card-shuffling skills and fast dealing would actually be of some use. Blackjack utilizes none of these. The Moulin-Rouge theme vaguely interested me, if only for the fact that I could drag my old black and red chi pao worn at one or two band banquets out of my closet for possibly the last time. I was e-mailed a curt message reminding us that all dealers wear white shirts and black pants a few hours after I had peeled my dress out from under my clean towels. Irked, I promptly chucked it into the back of my closet.
Once there, however, I was pleasantly surprised. I was joined by a group of five players (fourth-years) who refused to leave my table until my shift was over. It was actually quite the bonding experience. My hefty four-hour shift danced away before I was able to realize it. One of my players was… shockingly attractive? (Yes, how unlikely for me.) Or maybe I just like the exotic feel of hapas. In any case, every time they won chips, they tossed some over to me to use when I had gotten off to “thank me for being wonderful.” I honestly have not had so much fun in long time; it didn’t hurt that the hapa had the most addictive smile on the planet. The experience was well-timed, too, considering my horrendous week of back-to-back midterms sucked me dry.
And then it so happened that I had an opportunity to play instead of deal. I was able to scrounge up around 600 dollars worth and converted it all into raffle tickets–some of my friends were toting bags full of the things in an attempt to win the grand prize, round-trip tickets to Vegas and Cirque de Soleil’s “O.” My measly 24 tickets stood no chance. Despite all odds, I won a bright pink portable DVD player! I screamed when my ticket matched the number called by a high-pitched yet monotonous-voiced sorority girl.
The next morning I finally met the CEC Web Staff, a relatively unknown branch of the Campus Events Commission, for a brunch of fruit and nutella crepes. I’d never had crepes before and they were heavenly to say the least. I met the elusive Alex Pham, whom my sister Facebook-stalks like no tomorrow. He’s pretty entertaining. With good bone structure. And fashion sense. (Once you gloss over the unexpected Vietnamese accent.) We ended up arguing about art history and how white people shouldn’t wear Nikes. After brunch, I was bombarded with a series of Facebook wall posts by him; he’s now organizing a game night which he is hoping will culminate in a drunken orgy.
I can’t say that my Dinners for 12 Strangers went nearly as well. I had expected the 12 strangers to be either intelligent people with whom I could have intellectual conversations with or eye-candy. They were neither. By a stroke of good fortune, my friend happened to be assigned the same dinner and I was granted sanity. The food was incredible though. A montage of mouth-watering Italian dishes all displayed in such a way only possible by the most traditional of wealthy white families. Rosemary & herb potatoes. Stuffed eggplant with cheeses whose names I forget. That also made up for the guests’ shortcomings. It was strange, too, that one of them was named Hieu and kept staring at me. Random.
My mom wants me to go home this weekend for yet another Arab party. While I do want to go home, I can’t say I’d particularly enjoy anything but the food at the party. Do I really want to relive another Dinner for 12 Strangers? (More accurate in this situation may be the phrase Dinner for 78 Arab Strangers.) Going home would mean, however, an easy way out of dinner plans with a certain someone.
Add comment February 26, 2008
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| (T is sitting on a bench, hunched over. His hands cover his face. G enters, walks over to bench.)
G: Oh. It's you.
T: ...
G: Long time no see, eh? (G chuckles)
T: ...
G: Quite a beaut, this one is. She's got potential, don't you think?
T: Don't they all.
G: Why the pessimism? Haven't seen you in ages it seems. When was the last time we worked together? Why--
T: I was separated from Andy.
G: ... Oh.
T: We were amazing together. I can't see myself being partners with anyone else. We've never been apart and suddenly... Suddenly... (T chokes, his voice wavers) I've stood right next to her during every assignment. I made sure of it. (Quietly) What are the chances?
G: How long have you been together, if you don't mind me asking?
T: Since always. (T thinks for a moment) Since-since... Since "Adam."
G: The first?
T: ...
G: Well, if it makes you feel any better, I was quite close with my partner until we were randomly assigned to different stations too. Not as long as you've been with Andy but--
T: What was her name?
G: Her name? Uh, C... (long pause) Well look at that. I can't even remember her name. I'm pretty sure it's C-something though.
T: You must have been very close.
G: .... I've never seen you like this. Your new partner may be just as good.
T: We're going to be incompatible. I can tell. I... I almost feel sorry for this one.
G: Don't jinx it. I want another nice, long voyage, you hear? I've lost too many friends because of people like you.
(Rumbling can be heard in the distance)
G: .... It's beginning.
(T pauses for a long time before speaking)
T: This used to be her favorite part. Andy would always--
G: Cut it out. I'm sure A... A-whatever her name is will work wonders with you. I barely got out of the "Mary" alive thanks to Trent's inconsolable moping.
T: I-I'm sorry. I just want to know that Andy made it alright.
G: I'm sure she made the cross. You'll meet again. We did, right?
T: .... Are you always so sure about everything?
G: What can I say? I'm an optimist. I'm actually excited to meet my new partner. (G grins) Women love me.
T: Don't flatter yourself.
(Rumbling is louder now, beckoning)
G: She's calling. Ready?
T: As ever. (T stands) No pun intended.
G: That's my man! (G slaps T on the back) Don't let her hear you though. Immortality isn't something to be taken lightly.
T: I know that better than anyone.
(They both pause, as if waiting for the other to speak.)
G: ... This is still my favorite part.
T: Mine too.
(Both exit.)
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"As the cistrons leave one body and enter the next, as they board sperm or egg for the journey into the next generation, they are likely to find that the little vessel contains their close neighbors of the previous voyage, old shipmates with whom they sailed on the long odyssey from the bodies of distant ancestors. Neighboring cistrons on the same chromosome form a tightly-knit troupe of traveling companions who seldom fail to get on board the same vessel..."
- The Selfish Gene, "Immortal Coils"
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| so i've been quoted in the daily bruin about the SD fires. the guy talked to me for a little less than a minute and a half (over the phone) and while i was most interested in talking to him about how so many people (including myself) kept refreshing the cbs fire map every five seconds to see if the fire had moved even a smidge--all of us stressing out and unable to study for midterms--he wanted the most mediocre quote from me to finish up his article.
“My sister was watching TV, and she saw our street with a bunch of
houses on fire,” said Ramee Younes, a second-year psychobiology
student. “Fortunately our house didn’t burn down, but it still
literally hit really close to home.”
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| When I'm bored, I like to look at the "Shared" section of my iTunes and listen to songs that I wouldn't be able to otherwise. This one guy on my floor who rarely ever leaves the comfort of his World of Warcraft level 70 has a HUGE collection of video game and anime tracks. I feel like a little kid every time I click on his playlist and only do so when my roommates aren't looking. On one such occasion, I scrolled down to find the Video Game Pianist's rendition of the Sonic 2 themes. The Emerald Hill Zone, Chemical Plant Zone...
Robotnik's theme.
We'd force our cousins to bring along their Sega every time they came to visit our little apartment and they'd oblige, dragging it along in a beat-up red duffel bag. The second-player's controller's wire had long since lost its protective covering where it meets the handle--that's how we knew which one was which. It would take us hardly any time to decide what game to play since Sonic II was the one that worked best, i.e. took the least amount of spittle to get it to work. Mudar would pull the game out of my hand when it wouldn't start and show me what to do.
"You're doing it wrong! See, like this." Apparently, it's too hard for a 6-year-old to blow clear air into the bottom of the cartridge without an extra little something. He'd smash it in the system with both hands for added oomph. With a flick of the switch and a blue flash on the T.V. screen, the tell-tale music would start playing and we'd take turns every stage or until someone died. For hours. We'd only pause when our parents would call us to eat and even then we'd throw some food on our plates, spill a bit of orange soda into our cups and carry them back to the game to save for when it wasn't our turn.
Zuhar and I were Tails and we'd compete as to who could play him the best. Shereen called Knuckles and no one would complain because everyone knew how much he sucked. (But, during every Robotnik cut-scene, Sami would make sure to remind Shereen of her resemblance to the egg-shaped villain: "Look, Shereen! It's you! Don't kill me!")
I want to play again.
I want to play again. | | |
| hmm. i think i'll update xanga today.
i've been thinking about really random things. it's probably just the aftereffects of LS lecture and my aggravating textbook. (yes, it deserves the word aggravating because it's the worst read on the face of the planet and the author has the wonderfully extensive vocabulary of an eighth-grader. you have no idea how many times he writes "to drive this point home" in a single chapter.)
so. if plants were to have co-evolved with humans instead of insects. that's what i've been considering this past week. i keep seeing this weird image in my head - fake, pseudo-human perfect women coming out of corners behind buildings, especially voluptuous and pheromone-exuding with massive amounts of gooey pollen on their breasts and nether regions. [yes, i like hyphens.] they're kind of creepy with their arms extending toward me in mock despair, with little pockets for eyes and a mouth opening. if orchids have the ability to lure male wasps to them by mimicking female wasp genitalia, who's to say the same couldn't have happened if we'd co-evolved with the plants instead of insects? (let's not consider the fact that we have enormous brains for the moment, k?) instead of ultraviolet patterns on flowers to attract pollinators, these flower-women would have evolved skin colors that would be particularly pleasing to men. different regions would have different colors of flower-humans - asian and middle-eastern flower-women would probably be amazingly white while north american ones would be tanner, i expect. the males of our species would become phenomenally effective pollinators; pollen would have the ability to latch on and travel to places far beyond its wind-dispersal range because of--and i don't mean to sound pessimistic here-- the human male's large sexual capacity.
they're really clever, you know. i think i would be able to write a whole sci-fi novel about this if i could ever get myself to write anything. i hardly follow through! look at how often i update xanga.
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