Why has everyone turned their Facebook profile picture into a rainbow? Not cool to color-blindians, yo. Gays and lesbians finally got their right to marry legalized by the Supreme Court. Now that bigots have been disarmed of one more community to exclude, people are turning to discriminate against the color blind. Read my lips. Tear down this rainbow!
No more color lines. There are no red states. There are no blue states. There are only the 50 states of grey.
I get it.
A landmark ruling passes our Supreme Court, so we’re celebrating. But, is rainbow-fying your Facebook profile picture the best you can do? Ladies, if you’re really celebrating, how about changing your profile picture into one of you tongue-kissing your hottest girlfriend? It’s a celebration! Fellas, we cool. Keep calm and rainbow on.
We live in a socially networked world. The power of our connections is in sharing our actions, not our reactions.
I’d love to see what you’ve done for the day. Hug a stranger, then post pictures. Adopt a kitten, then you best post hella pictures.
I care about what you do. I don’t care about what you believe. Social media should be an avenue to share the events of our lives. Yet, we’ve fallen victim to sharing link-bait articles, time-wasting Vines, and everything else Buzzfeed. Does this encapsulate who we are? Or was the purpose to pressure each of us to take extraordinary actions in our lives, so we each have something worth sharing?
Again, I get it. Love won. But, what are your last acts of love? Please share.
Look at this. Did you just get a little extra happiness in your heart?
Look at this:
Did you just get a little extra happiness in your heart?
I’m a bit happier. So, why am I the weird one?
Everyday, I’ll walk around the office and shove my phone in people’s face. “Yo. Look.”
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And every so often, someone will respond, “Uhhh…ok.” (~rolls eyes)
You know…if you’re “too manly” to “awww” at something adorable, maybe you don’t deserve the hair on your chest. I smoke cigars, drink whiskey neat, and have burned ants with a magnifying glass. And I ain’t afraid to fucking awww at cute shit. I like puppies and kittens. Dat don’t mean I can’t light a match off my stubble.
Society needs to change. It’s time we all grow up and realize that incredibly charming heterosexual Asian men, with a chiseled marble chest, who may work in IT, and could even possibly have a blog named after themselves, are allowed to appreciate indisputable adorableness.
I like ice cream in a cone, and I ain’t afraid to eat a banana in public. Because I’m secure.
I’m a man. I like cute shit.
I’ve got a blog, and sometimes I buy shit on Amazon just so I have something to look forward to when I get home later in the week.
And the DMV said unto thee, be free. You good, dawg.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we were together?
It would be nice. But, I got my Clean Air Vehicle Sticker (aka single-occupant carpool lane sticker). I’m free. Muahaha. So long, peasants.
I saved 40% off my commute time today, and all it cost me was my friends. For the first time, I leapt out of bed and skipped to my driver’s seat. I unplugged my car from the wall socket and was a smiling fool the entire 24 mile drive to work.
The freedom to drive in the carpool lane, regardless of passenger count, is a godsend. My radio blared. My farts flew free. I shoveled boogers out of my nose and didn’t worry about offending anyone other than the gas-guzzling commoners I was blurring past in the carpool lane.
Finally, blessings befall good people. All my years of being the most humble person in the world are paying off. People are starting to recognize that I deserve to be better than all of you.
I promise thy sticker will not be used in vain. The time I save will go towards taking everything else I can until my wealth trickles down to you. May my pockets grow so fat that some spare change may sprinkle toward your general vicinity. The money I’ve paid to be alone in the fast lane will help put me first in line at grabbing everything I want, so the rest of you may be free to compete and work hard at splitting the stuff I don’t. ‘Tis the American way.
After messaging a hot girl for the first time, I think, “Oh my fuck… What have I done?”
Initiating contact with someone you like is the most nerve-racking experience. Back in the day, I’d ask a girl for her number and then always reached out by actual phone call first. Friends advised that using your voice was the best way to demonstrate interest and confidence to a girl. It never worked for me. Attractive girls don’t answer their phones. They just let calls go straight to their weird Spanish voicemails, or some kind of odd high-frequency electronic hissing noise.
Whenever someone did answer the phone, they’d tell me that I called the wrong number. Why do hot girls have so much trouble remembering their phone number? They must not be very smart. I guess it could be an honest mistake though. I’d bet she was too drunk to enter the number correctly in my phone. I must have gotten a lot of drunk phone numbers. I should stop hitting on girls at the supermarket.
Calling first is clearly not the best move. I’ve learned to text. It’s less intrusive and gives her a longer timeframe to respond. The problem is, what do you write? A text message implies that you’ve had time to think about what you’re going to say. And, I don’t know what I should say. I asked for her digits because I liked the way she smashed her boobs together. It’s not like I know her.
Immediately after I send the first message, I swim in regret. The more I’m attracted to her, the more moronic my message. I typically send:
“Hey, it’s John Kim from itsjohnkim.com. I offered to buy you an Apple Martini at the frozen foods aisle last night. Remember? Were you on your period, or do you just really like ice cream? I like ice cream too. We have so much in common. I really liked your yoga pants and thought we had a connection. While we were talking, I felt all tingly in my pants and hoped to get to know you better. Anyways, what are you doing right now? Want to come over to my place? I’ll cook us dinner. I swear it won’t be frozen pizza. haHAHAhAhaha. But seriously, yes? My mom won’t be home for a couple hours.”
The only response I ever get is “Message not sent. Too many characters.”