I didn’t like Lil Wayne much before, but I’m definitely one of those girls who swears this song was written about them. It’s like every word is dripping with all the pathetic tales of my sad love life. Until last weekend, I thought I was just always running into bad luck when it came to boys. Now, I’m pretty sure I’m fucking cursed.

Last Friday, as I mentioned, I went clubbing with a friend. At this club, my friend had invited her new boy toy, who of course had in turn brought along his friends. Only two of those friends are relevant: K, a white boy who had expressed interest in me to his friend and my friend; and B, an Hispanic boy who I didn’t care much for at first, but when K turned out to be a dud I ended up telling everyone B was more my type and somehow people thought that meant I wanted B instead (which, okay, was true, but totally not what I had told my friend).

At any rate, at the end of the night I was somehow delegated the task of driving everyone (me, my friend, her boy toy and his friends) home. I ended up dropping K and B off at K’s house, where I assumed they were gonna go smoke up. K didn’t bother to say good-bye to me (nor thank you, wtf!), which I guess is because I’d basically rejected him. B asked for my number, asked what I was doing the next day, gave me a hug several times, and actually ended up giving me a kiss.

Now, fast forward to yesterday. My friend and I happen to work together now (at the retail job I’d gotten last month), and when she told me her boy toy was coming to the mall to visit, I of course asked if he would be bringing any friends with him. She raised her eyebrows and was like, “You want to see B again don’t you?” “Duh.” “I think he has a girlfriend.” … “WHAT?!”

Apparently, my friend had asked B on Friday at the club if he had a girlfriend, and he responded, after hesitating, with an affirmative, and her new boy toy even drunkenly semi-confirmed it (I don’t know why these boys can’t just fucking come right out and say it). Now, I really don’t care what happens at this point between B and I, but this just absolutely, positively confirms the fact that I am fucking cursed. I am always, always the other bloody woman. (Remember the married Costa Rican DJ?)

I am never ever the girl in chick flicks who ends up with the boy of her dreams at the end! I am never the nice girl who gets left out in the cold because nobody thinks she’s cute enough! I am just the slutty ho men want to play around with because they think that’s all she’s good for! And no, I am not purposely going around acting like a slutty ho, I’m really trying to portray myself as a classy-yet-badass-y kind of girl. What the fuck!!

Here is the count:

• Number of boys I’ve dealt with who turned out to have girlfriends at the time: approximately 3 (that I know of for sure…I’m pretty sure there’s more I’ve forgotten)
• Number of married men I’ve dealt with: technically 1, 2 really, and there’s a third I don’t know whether to count or not
• Number of boys who ended up finding girlfriends after me: 3 (again, I stress that these are estimates)
• Number of times I got fucked over in the end, and not in the good way: infinite

Let’s keep in mind that these are all individuals that I’ve managed to remember in my head. The actual numbers may, I fear, be higher.

A couple weeks ago I was accepted as a contestant for the Miss Illinois USA pageant. Now, the question is…do I do it or not? The consensus so far has been a unanimous yes and the adventurous part of me is screaming “DO IT!”, but the sensible me keeps reminding me that A) I’m super busy now with my 55-hour work schedule, and B) Shit’s expensive. You gotta come up with more than $1000 in sponsorship money, plus provide your own wardrobe. My brothers also like to point out that I’m so not a girly girl, and would probably implode after being surrounded by a gaggle of girls for an entire weekend. I have to make a decision soon, though. Registration deadline’s coming up.

In other news, my life appears to have settled into a routine at last. After years of shuffling around, hanging out with different circles and basically not giving a shit about anything except having fun, my life has become work-work-work-rest-work-drink. So is this what they mean by adult life? I guess I could get used to this. I kind of feel more respected now that I’m a college graduate and finally working. I also definitely understand more now why people feel the need to party on the weekends. Last Friday, after working the entire day at my two different jobs, my friend called me up and basically said to get ready because we were going clubbing. Tired as I was, the idea of knocking back a few beers and dancing my ass off was just simply way too enticing. And that was what we did. It was therapeutic, really.

Today is also the tenth anniversary of the events of September 11, 2001. Ten years ago I was a 7th grader sitting in history class when the principal came in to tell our teacher the shocking news. Amazing how much our society, and the world, really, has changed since then. I wish I had more patriotic things to say, but seeing as how I am so not patriotic at all, I guess I only want to repeat one of the many inspiring phrases floating around today: It’s not how many times you fall that matters, it’s how many times you get back up.

OK, no not really, obviously. I’m brown and Filipino as hell. But I did find out some very interesting things about my family yesterday when my parents decided to divulge their family histories to prove which side was “better,” haha.

• I have German blood! Apparently my great-great-grandfather on my dad’s side was a German-American soldier stationed in the Philippines way back when (the Spanish-American War? I don’t know). That’s why my dad’s middle name (and my grandmother’s maiden name) is Brum, which apparently isn’t a Filipino surname at all, but a German one. How freaking cool is that?
• I’m also a little bit Chinese! Now, being Filipino, that was kind of a given…lots of Filipinos describe their ethnicity not as Filipino, but a mixture of Chinese, Spanish and indigenous blood. I just always say I’m Filipino because after all, you don’t hear Spaniards going “I’m a mixture of Gaelic/Moorish blood” or Brits going “I’m Gaelic/Anglo-Saxon/French” and whatnot. Anyway, long story short, my mother told me her maternal grandfather (my great-grandfather) was full-blooded Chinese and apparently very very rich. One of the richest in Manila in his day, according to my mom. I wonder where all those riches went…
• One of the reasons why my paternal grandmother’s family has quite a bit of land in the Philippines is because of my German-American ancestor, apparently. Since my brothers and I are the only grandchildren of my paternal grandmother (well, that’s not true anymore, I think, I have a little adopted cousin and a new cousin born just a few months ago out of wedlock; but hey, I’m the oldest), we’re the ones that get her share of the family’s land. I’d always known that I was going to inherit land from my dad’s family; it’s just interesting to know now where it came from.
• Finally, after hearing about this, my mother tried to one-up my dad and revealed to me that her father’s family has (owns?) an island in the southern Philippines. It doesn’t come with any money though, and in order for someone in the family to claim it, they must work and harvest it themselves. My mom said there’s no point in claiming it though, because it’s been overrun by terrorists (the Abu Sayyaf group) and I’d probably get beheaded and whatnot considering I’m American and not Muslim.

Somebody remind me the next time I go out that when I come home and throw up in my garbage can, throw the garbage bag out immediately! Last Saturday I ended up doing just that (throwing up in my garbage can) and neglected to throw it out the next day. As a result, it was sitting in my room for a week and spawned a handful of gross-looking fruit fly thingies (I think they’re fruit flies, at least) that continue to fly around in my room. Seriously. I am 22-years-old now, and I can’t believe I let that happen.

This week was my very first week working both full time and part time. Let me tell you, it’s a lot harder than I thought, and I didn’t even work a full 40 hours at my internship this week because we get a four-day weekend for Labor Day. My body is so completely exhausted, and I barely have time to shower, eat and sleep when I’m home. I actually have to make plans for things like shopping, which I’ve been doing a lot lately. I insist, though, that a majority of my shopping is for work-related clothes, because I noticed my closet kind of screams “college girl” (lots of T-shirts and skanky tops) rather than “young professional” (dress pants, fancy blouses). It also doesn’t help that I just got a new credit card. With a $5000 limit. But I’m telling you, I’m going to do everything in my power to go against the norm and NOT be one of those girls who just pulls out the plastic whenever she sees something pretty in a window display. I really just wanted to get a new credit card with better rates because the one I’ve had since freshman year is sucking me dry, and my Best Buy one just hit me with a nasty load of deferred interest charges. So I’m trying to manage.

Speaking of money and grown-up things, my parents have been pressuring me to buy a car lately. It makes sense, obviously. There’s five of us in this house, three working adults (I’m one of them now, yay!), one community college student and a high school kid. Everyone’s got somewhere to go, especially now that summer’s over. We have three cars, one of which is a total gas-guzzling SUV that is in desperate need of a checkup. My parents have been commenting a lot on how we need a fourth car for the family, and obviously that fourth car is going to need to be bought by me.

But the thing is, I don’t really want a new car of my own. And by that I mean I don’t want to have to pay for a car every month for the next 5 years. I know I really do need a car and all, but what if something happens and then I’m stuck with a car I can’t pay for? My internship is only temporary, and my part-time retail job isn’t going to cut it if/when the time comes and I’m stuck in a rut again. Plus, there’s my secret fantasy plan, which I haven’t really told anybody much less my parents. Thing is, I can’t see myself wanting to stay in Illinois for the next 5, 10 years. As much as I love the city of Chicago, the feelings aren’t there anymore. Plus, the politics and government in this state sucks. At the moment my plan is to live at home and work in Illinois for a couple more years, then move abroad temporarily. I’d really like to do the Peace Corps or teach abroad for a while before settling somewhere more permanently. Or, there’s still my other plan, which is to go to graduate/law school.

There’s also the fact that I don’t know anything about cars. Which one do I buy?!

Today is my 22nd birthday and I am officially no longer a fountain of youth. My birthday has become even more irreversibly sad and pathetic because I’m just going to get older, and if people forget about my birthday now, they’ll never remember it in the future.

I’ve never gotten a surprise birthday party before in my life, whilst on the other hand I’ve attended many. Nobody ever gave me balloons or decorated my locker while in high school. Nobody ever came bouncing into my dorm room at midnight sophomore year to wish me a happy birthday; instead they just sauntered in to retrieve a forgotten object (that little jibe right there is directed at one of my former roommates, whom I will love forever but I can’t say I’ve ever forgiven her for that transgression). Nobody ever really took the time out of their day to make mine special.

Most of the time on my birthday I end up going through the day in awkward silence. The first day of high school was on my birthday, and I didn’t know a single soul then. And so, not a single person wished me happy birthday. Even after that, most people forgot about my birthday because they were too busy being excited about the beginning of the school year/end of summer. In Costa Rica some people knew about my birthday (and my host family even made me a cake and sang to me), but I badly wanted to be with my friends and family at home, who were having celebrations without me.

Today was my third day at my new internship, and the only person to come up and greet me was the receptionist, who then presented me with a pre-signed card. Now, I’m not stupid, I didn’t expect anyone at my new job to even know my name much less know it was my birthday. But still. It’s kind of sad to go through a day with nobody knowing it’s supposed to be all about you.

All right, enough pitiful stories. But now, can’t you all see why it is I fucking hate my birthday?