When I was 18, I started to head the route of college by enrolling myself at the local university in my hometown. I declared graphic design as my major and started taking classes, one of which included typography. I went for exactly one month before I decided that I’d rather kill myself than trace fonts on sketch paper six hours each week for an entire semester. No, really, I tried to kill myself; I’ve got the hospital records to prove it. It was that bad. After some further psychological evaluation, I was cleared to be on my own again. Yeah, you heard me correctly. The hospital deemed me sane enough to enter back into society. Now you’ll know who to blame when I take over the world and force all of the stupid people to get red “X” tattoos on their foreheads. Hey, it’s a fantastic idea; my aim is much better when there’s a target.
I decided after my brush with death that either I really needed to study up on effective suicide methods, or I needed to figure out what it was that made me happy. Considering the fact that I had already eaten my entire bottle of Costco-sized Ibuprofin and secret hoard of Vicodin the week before, I chose the latter and did what any single white 18-year-old female looking for stability did: I jumped ship and moved to New York City. From Idaho. With $400 in my bank account. Even at a young age I must have been a master manipulator to get my parents to go along with this; my Mom is pretty much a free and encouraging spirit, but my Dad just recently came to terms with the fact that I am no longer a virgin, so you can imagine how hard it was to give his seal of approval. He’ll tell you that moving to NYC was the worst decision I’ve ever made because that’s where I discovered cocaine. I say it was the best decision I’ve ever made because I learned so much about life. Plus, that’s where I discovered cocaine.
One late night, I was riding in the subway with my three female roommates. As usual, we were slightly inebriated and giggling as if we had just watched a stranger viciously club George Bush in the back of the head, when Becky stopped abruptly and stared directly behind me with a look of horror on her face. I sensed her sudden change in mood and instinctively turned my head to see what could possibly have ruined her jovial mood.
“Tsk!” She reprimanded suddenly to catch my attention. When I looked back at her, she slowly leaned into me and, with a whisper, said, “Whatever you do, do not turn around.”
Whenever anyone tells you to not turn around, what do you do? You turn around. She could have told me that the most repulsive thing in the world was behind me and I would have turned around. Even if she said that Roseanne Barr and Tom Arnold were giving each other sweaty fellatio right next to me, I would have looked. Oh god. Just thinking about that made me vomit a little in my mouth. Sorry, give me a second to compose myself and I’ll continue. C’mon Miki, think good thoughts…Ryan Reynolds naked circa Amityville Horror. Brad Pitt beating the shit out of Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith and then fucking her on the broken debris. Telling Heidi Montag she’s fat. Ok, I’m back. I apologize.
I think you get the gist of it: I turned around. And there it was. Not within the vicinity of my face, not near my face, not even close to my face; right in my fucking face. An Asian dick. No, not Jet Li, like an actual Asian penis. The first and only one I’ve ever seen. Within cumshot of my eye. There’s nothing like a midnight subway flasher to sober you right up. I didn’t know what to do so I gasped, turned my head and shrank away to the left. I hoped that it was all just a figment, a miniscule figment at that, of my imagination. Well, it wasn’t, but thankfully the dude got off at the next stop, where I proceeded to yell, “That dude just put his dick in my face!” repeatedly while pointing in his direction. Thankfully, we weren’t the only intoxicated group on the train, and some man’s man ran off to chase him. I’m hoping it was to kick the shit out of him, and not to get a piece of that action.
I was shaken, but I recovered quickly and soon I was back to myself, slightly less innocent after being exposed to the cruel reality that was the underground New York City Asian pecker flashers. If Jared tried this form of the Subway diet, I’m sure that he would lose more weight; this 6-incher, make that 3, would make anyone lose their appetite.
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