Eleven Twenty-Eight

Cocaine. Coke. Rick James' favorite party favor.

I knew what it was. Kind of. I have heard of the infamous white powder. I know my friends have snorted it at least one time at some point in their clubbing years. The thing about coke is that it's not a social drug. Even Miley Cyrus agrees. Weed and ecstasy, you can do with friends. But coke? You make a beeline for the bathroom and do a line in a stall. Or do a Kathryn Merteuil and sneak some powder in your crucifix pendant. I know I have a locket charm on my bracelet than can do the trick.

Like coke, I had no idea how pricing goes or where to get it. I am probably the worst or best drug addict in the history of ever, depending on how you look at things. You see, I never get addicted to anything. I don't have connections to weed growers (anymore since Cha and I broke up), and I most certainly have no idea where to get hard drugs or know what an eighth is or how much that costs...or if 'eighth' even has anything to do with coke or heroin. See? I suck at drugs.

I always drew my line at weed and molly. Weed guaranteed dreamless sleep, and molly, which I did one time, made for confusing but wild sexy time.

After watching Breaking Bad, I at least knew that meth was bad news, period. Even back in the Philippines, where the drug of choice is shabu (the slang term for meth), the users looked fucked up and I was not about to take up that look.

Heroine is still confusing to me. I sometimes mistake it for cocaine, and I'm still not sure what the difference is. I guess heroin is stronger? Mehhhh.

Cocaine, on the other hand, I had a better understanding. I know the type that you snort can't be burnt, unlike the freebase and crack kind, which you can smoke or inject, among other things.

So it was during a holiday weekend that I decided I wanted to give cocaine ONE try. Just to satiate my curiosity. They say that once you do cocaine, you can't stop because you'll keep chasing that first high. It's like when people say once you ride a bike, you'll never forget how, or that once you go black, you'll never go back. I will tell you right now that those are bullshit. I fell off a bike when I was 10 and I have never been able to successfully pedal forward past two feet without toppling over, and one of my friends went from black boyfriend to Asian fiancé. So spoiler alert: I tried coke and I'm not itching to do it again.

Here's what happened:

I had a three-day weekend. I wanted to do coke during one of the first two days so I had at least one day to recover before I go back to work.

A little bag of cocaine was procured. It may have cost $30. I'm not sure. I didn't tag along during the buy.

I tried pushing back the snorting til the end of the night. It was just me and my sponsor. He had been doing a couple of lines while playing Destiny on his Xbox. Finally, around midnight, I declared that I was ready.

He cut me a small, thin beginner's line with a card. Shorter than my pinky. Probably an inch and a half long.

I asked him a million questions while he cut the line:

I sat in my car on a Monday afternoon, enjoying my lunch break by annihilating a box of Twinkies. I was aware that it was a very unhealthy venture, so I washed it all down with a 1.75-liter bottle of açaí berry juice. The container said it promotes "Beauty and Energy", not like I needed one of the two. My job barely required energy as it was.

I did, however, realize that there was something inherently sad about a twenty-five-year-old pigging out on America's favorite snack cake inside a locked sorry-looking maroon Toyota Camry, windows rolled down a few inches, during the hottest hour of the day in summer. I was sweating. I could feel the layer of foundation and concealer on my face melting. Worst of all, I could feel moisture on my upper lip. There is nothing more unattractive than a sweaty upper lip that you are unable to wipe off because [1] you are double-fisting Twinkies and [2] you do not want to smear your lipstick all over the back of your hand.

With a furtive glance around me to make sure there were no other fellow humans within sight, I jammed the whole Twinkie I held in my right hand into my mouth. As I chewed, I reached into my center console and grabbed a napkin. I kept a wad of them from my many trips through the KFC and McDonald's drive-thrus. I dabbed my upper lip as daintily as I could, considering I looked like a hamster with my mouth filled with sponge cake and white cream. I also used that same napkin to dab the beads of sweat along my temple. An inspection revealed I had lifted off much bronzer and foundation because the once-white napkin was now a lovely shade of sandy beige courtesy of Maybelline's Fit Me 210 and Milani's baked bronzer.

I used the remaining minutes of my lunch break to contemplate how I had gotten to that point in my life. How had I resolved to eating ten individually-wrapped cakes in my car and thought that was okay? If I pinched my midsection with both hands, I can probably get at least two inches of excess skin. Granted my decline from crop top-worthy body to spare tire carrier began over a year ago, there was no excuse as to why I didn't make more of an effort to bounce back into shape when the problem wasn't as bad.

My height has been a subject of much speculation. My Kaiser check-ups state that I am five feet, two inches tall, but during routine medical check up for the California National Guard, I was told by a medical officer that I was five-foot-three. What was amusing, though, were the bets the drill sergeants made about my weight. They all thought I would clock in at around a hundred pounds. They were surprised when I stepped on the scale and was declared ninety-eight pounds. With my height and weight taken into consideration, and the fact that I took over twenty minutes instead of the average twelve to run a mile (something that gave my drill sergeant a change of heart because he went from screaming angrily to cheering me on towards the end), they informed me that I was underweight and needed to work on my fitness. As if I didn't already know that. (That didn't stop them from assigning me a job as a "fuel specialist" stationed in Mather Air Base. Imagine me carrying a huge gas hose for jets. They must've been nuts. For a completely different reasons, I asked to be discharged from the National Guard before they could ship me off to basic.)

But while I have gained seven more pounds in the four years that have passed since then, my BMI barely register me as normal weight, not that BMIs really matter (I read somewhere it is utter bullshit). I did use the information about my fluctuating height to my amusement. My driver's license states that I am "5'-04"". If I get pulled over and the cop questions that detail, I can tell him that Asians shrink as they age. It's true! I used to look up at my mom and now she's shorter than I am.

I have three theories concerning the spare tire growth around my waistline: [1] I quit martial arts and the sudden inactivity caused the fats in my body to accumulate around my belly; [2] a month after quitting, I tried to gain fifteen pounds in fifteen days for a bet, which I won--unfortunately, now that I think about; and [3] I dated a guy who appreciated good food.

Cha was a horrible influence on my overall physical and emotional health. Not only did I stop going to Kovar's at least four times a week like I used to, but I also partook in much wine and weed. The emotional rollercoaster he shoved me in was the syrup-dipped cherry on top of the fat girl cake I baked for myself.

Because I was a sex-crazed fiend, I cut my Kovar's sessions from four times a week to around twice a month so I could hang out with Cha after work. Not a good way to spend the $150 dollars a month that I was paying. So I quit. No more sit ups, push ups, squats, and sessions with Bob and the Wavemaster. Thinking about it now, I don't know why I chose Cha over the Thai pads and Gordon's esoteric Archer references in between lessons. He said amusing and insightful things such as what I think was the single most golden piece of information I learned about baseball, America's pastime: "If you have time, you guys should go. It is a game, a free-for-all barbecue, and an MMA fight all in one."

A month after I retired my black Kovar's-issued gi, gloves, and newly-acquired violet belt, Cha proposed a bet. He would bring me to the Halloween Ball at Cal Expo if I upped my weight from 100 to 115 pounds by October 15th. It was September 30th. I agreed, because I was dumb and slutty like that. I was also competitive, and I Challenge-Accepted it like I know Barney Stinson would.

Over the next two weeks, I ate like that fat kid in Matilda. I went to Target for a calorie-rich grocery shopping spree. What I did was compare all the items of one kind of food and pick the one with the most calories. Oatmeal, milk, cereal, bread, protein bars--the higher the calorie content, the better. I even bought a mass gainer from a vitamin shop. I gorged in an effort to meet my near-impossible goal. I weighed myself twice a day to make sure I ate the right amount or to check if I needed to increase my intake.

I won that bet. Of course. Cha bought our tickets and I squeezed into my Baby Doll from Sucker Punch costume. I was going to wear my slave Leia outfit but the way I looked bloated wasn't sexy. I then spent that night pregaming with two different Four Loko flavors, rolling on four molly tablets, and smoking joints with whomever handed me one. The next day, Cha took my hungover self to Golden Corral, of all places. Cotton mouth, the smell of greasy food, sweaty lunchgoers, and screaming children did not ease my rolling stomach so I had half a plate and promptly passed out for twelve hours as soon as he took me back to my apartment.

I left Cha a month later and started dating Dru, who ironically had suggested I do an In-n-Out diet when I asked Facebook for weight gain tips. Dru liked to cook and take time crafting our sandwiches. My idea of a sandwich was two pieces of white bread held together by two layers of peanut butter, Nutella, or Speculoos cookie butter--easy and ready in under a minute. Dru's sandwiches were ground turkey molded into fat patties, brushed with barbecue sauce, and topped with shredded cheese and strips of bacon in between toasted sourdough slices. I simply did not have the patience to prepare that kind of meal. Thankfully, he did, so he kept us fed.

His semester with an Environmental Studies class affected my diet for a good while, as well. Because I was a supportive and curious girlfriend, I offered to watch the videos for that distance learning class and take notes for him so he could focus on his other courses. That led to me being interested in going zero waste and watching vegan-centric documentaries such as Food, Inc., Earthlings, and Vegucated. I realized our meaty meals were offensive to the environment. But no matter how hard I tried to push salads and more leafy greens into our diet, the more he waved bacon in my face. So I relented and let him feed me turkey sandwiches.

It would be unfair for me to blame Cha or Dru for my present state. Instead, I will blame my tenacious sexual libido and competitive nature for clouding my better judgment regarding the following:

• my abandonment of the only legitimate exercise I had in exchange for guaranteed sex, which at the time I thought was "the only workout I need"
• my agreement to binge-eating for a bet that meant I got to party, get high, and have sex
• and bacon, because who doesn't get wet for bacon? (Answer: the vegans, that's who)

After the Twinkie party, I walked back across the short parking lot and into the break room to clock back in. By the time I sat back down on my desk, I was red-faced and panting. I won't blame my poor health on that, either. It was the hot sun, I swear.

Candice was one of those girly girls. You know the type. They wear dresses even during winter and they gather heat from the residual warmth of their long hair that they spent an hour curling in the morning.

Candice lived across my apartment unit for a short time. I met her when she was standing out in the hallway in front of her door, her tiny Shih Tzu Bichon trying to gnaw its leash off.

"Hi," she said as soon as she saw me. "I'm Candice."

I shook the tiny hand that she offered me. "I'm Sam," I told her.

"Wow, it's so nice to actually see a fellow Asian my age in this complex," she breathed. I smiled and absent-mindedly played with my keys.

"Are you Filipino, too?" I asked. I surveyed this chick. Even with her stilettos, I could tell that she was shorter than me by about an inch, and that is saying something. She was also more petite, which was even more of a surprise. She was all dolled up and I inwardly cringed when I realized I had no makeup on, my hair was in a messy bun, and I was wearing an over-sized sweater, sweatpants, and flip flops that had been slightly mangled by a cat's claws.

"Oh my gosh, yes!" she exclaimed. Her dog let out two nonthreatening yips, startled by its owners excitement. "Which part of the country are you from?"

We learned that we both came from the same island. She got even more excited. I guess I was, too, but not really. I did not want to speak in my native dialect with this chick. We had already started out talking in English. I didn't like shifting. Thankfully she didn't switch.

"We should totally hang out some time," she said.

"For sure," I said. I learned that from Sara, my roommate from when I lived in a two-bedroom unit. Sara rarely said yes, no, maybe, or you're welcome. Her go-to was always 'for sure', and I picked that up after a few months of living with her. I also picked up her music snobbishness, and went through half a year of listening to nothing but indie or whatever I could Shazam when she was blasting songs from the bathroom.

I quickly found out that Candice and I had very little in common. Besides our adoration for cute dresses that were out of our price range, I couldn't really keep up with her. We were both bookworms, but while I read a lot of fiction, she devoured books on subjects like economics and business. We couldn't really book swap.

We hung out at her place a few times. She had no qualms taking pictures of herself on the full-length mirror, me sitting idly by the side watching her. She liked to bunch up her shirt and tie it around the back, exposing her thin waistline. She would strut around the living room in her high heels, placing a stack of her business books in the background, and then taking a dozen pictures, which she would then filter like crazy on Instagram.

"Ugh, this is so frustrating," she would say, pinching her navel. She wouldn't really gather much flesh between her fingers. "I ate, like, half a cheesecake last night but it's like I just can't gain weight!"

I struggled not to roll my eyes. "Are you trying to gain weight?" I asked.

She studied her reflection in the mirror, hands on her hips as she twisted from side to side. "Well, yeah. But it's so depressing when it won't happen. I eat like a pig, but I always stay slim. This has always been flat my entire life," she said, rubbing her exposed belly.

Was she for real? My eyes traveled down to her ass, and it reminded me of pancakes. Not the fluffy kind. I guess her belly wasn't the only thing that stayed flat.

"You should probably eat more carbs. Pasta and bread. Take on an Italian diet, you know?" I said, shrugging. "The Old Spaghetti Factory's Garlic Mizithra is the tits."

I dragged a lawn chair outside and sat down by my front door one night, hoping to catch some fresh air, when Candice comes tottering around the corner on her black stilettos. She looked upset.

"My boss is such a jerk," she opened. "I should go to HR. What he said to me was basically sexual harassment."

I nodded. I didn't want to nod, but she seemed like she wanted me to egg her on.

She leaned against her door and clutched her temples, as if battling a headache. "He said that he was really impressed with how I dress up everyday and that I should be, like, an example for all women in the workplace."

My eyes darted from side to side. Am I missing something?

When I didn't say anything, she stomped one high-heeled foot. "Right?!"

I didn't remember agreeing to anything.

"What a pig, huh?" she said dramatically.

"Mhmm," I said quietly. I did not say anything else. She took that as a cue to open her door and step inside.

"I'm going to read this new micro-economics book that I just got," she said, tapping her large purse. "You have a good night."

I decided that I had enough fresh air for the night and retired to my bedroom.

The next day, I found Candice in her crop top, skinny jeans, and black heels sitting on her stoop. She was busy reading Principles of Microeconomics with her fake hipster glasses on.

"What up, Candice," I said raspily. I really did not want to talk to her today. After a long day at work, I I had planned on dropping my pants, taking my bra off, and jumping into bed with a cup of hot cocoa while marathoning Weeds on Netflix as soon as I got home. That's one thing I preferred telling people--I don't binge watch shows, I do marathons. It sounds more active and less sad that way.

She looked up from Principles of Microeconomics and smiled up at me. "Hey, Sam. Whatcha up to?"

"Oh, you know," I said, swinging my arms like a drunk gorilla. "Just got off work. About to shower and make dinner. How's the book?"

"Halfway done. It's a very challenging read," she said airily. She probably wanted me to be impressed.

"Are you reading that for fun or for school?" I asked. I knew she was taking classes at Sierra but I didn't know why exactly.

She shook her head and closed the book. "Just for fun. Enriching myself with practical knowledge."

In my opinion, practical knowledge involved learning how to make fire out of sticks and learning different types of knots. You know, in case the world reach singularity and the robots decide to cut off all source of power. You wouldn't believe how handy fire starting and knot tying can be then.

"I bet the guys find that hot in a woman," I joked.

I must have said the wrong thing, because she huffed and puffed like a wolf ready to blow a straw house down. "You can't even imagine! Do you know how hard it is to find guys who are into me for more than just sex?"

Jesus. I visibly slumped, but she didn't notice. "Gee, Candice, tell me about it," I said dryly.

"They see these hot pictures of me online but once we go on a date and they find out I'm into reading professional-level books, they turn tail and run," she said, indignation oozing through her voice. And what did "professional-level books" mean? Did she mean Principles of Microeconomics?

"I don't know why they'd do that, Candice," I supplied, "you're clearly a catch." I hoped my voice didn't sound robotic.

She nodded anyway. A part of me wanted to channel my inner Regina George, because her reaction reminded me of that scene in Mean Girls where Regina complimented Cady and Cady thanked her, prompting Regina to ask, "So you agree? You think you're pretty?" But I held back.

"I think guys can't handle me being a contradiction to everything they believe is sexy," she said, shaking her head.

"What do you mean?" I asked. I was starting to wonder if she was high.

She stood up and held her arms out as if to say 'Look at me!' Then she waved her book.

"Duh! I wear heels and I read smart books," she said as-a-matter-of-factly. That tone I did not appreciate.

"Candice, you do know that heels and books don't contradict each other, right? It's like apples and oranges," I said slowly. "Did you think you can't look sexy and be smart at the same time? It's not a dichotomy."

She looked offended. I can tell by the way her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth opened with a slight sneer.

"I'm sorry, but it's not a special snowflake moment. I don't think those guys ran because of your heels and the books you read," I told her and then threw in a Kanye shrug for good measure.

"I don't believe you get what I'm saying," she said.

"No, no, I get it," I said as I started to turn my key into the lock on my door. "You're saying girls who read aren't expected to wear stilettos. Or that girls who wear nice shoes are dumb. I may be reading far too deep into this, but it's what I've gathered anyway."

I may have insulted her, because she turned in a huff and slammed her door shut. I did not hear or see Candice after that. She may have moved. Besides, who would want to live across a self-important bitch?

When I was twenty-two, I lived in a duplex with two other girls. After having been kicked out of my mom's house (story to follow later) and let back in, I decided that it was time for me to jump out of the nest and explore the world on my own. Without curfew. Also, without a car.

So like any clueless, new-to-America, twenty-one-year-old, I hit up Craigslist in search of lodgings. I already had enough money saved up from temping at the polling center that my mom managed, and I also had a bit coming in from unemployment. I could afford at least $300 a month for rent.

At the time, my needs were simple. A private bedroom, access to WiFi, washer and dryer, no curfew, visitors allowed, and along bus routes.

After exchanging e-mails with a few sketchy characters, obvious sexual predators, strict homeowners, and college students, I narrowed it down to one person. I was in the middle of Art History class when I got the email from Gloria on my iPod. I had a basic phone then, so I relied heavily on my iPod and the free WiFi within American River College. Gloria had agreed to give me a tour of the three-bedroom duplex the next day around five-thirty. I hurriedly sent her a casual thank you before running to the bus stop before I missed my ride. I didn't want to sound too eager; it puts off the ladies.

The next day, I promptly boarded the wrong bus to the duplex in Rancho Cordova. Technically, it was the correct bus. Number 21. But it was on its alternate route, and that meant I had to wait a full half hour before it circled back and went the way I needed it to go. Thankfully, Gloria was understanding when I sent her a text to apologize for my impending delay.

This duplex was on the corner of Bridlewood and Zinfandel, right across a sketchy apartment complex and WE Mitchell Middle School. Because I boarded the 21 bus, I had to walk two miles from the bus stop on to the right street. It was already getting dark.

I knocked on the door and I was greeted by two pretty brunettes who were all smiles. They were Melissa and Gloria, two twenty-year-olds.

"Don't worry about the clutter in the living room. Those are my stuff. I'm moving back in with my parents tomorrow so my fiancé and I can save up for our wedding," Melissa explained as we stumbled past the boxes and chairs.

Gloria led me to the bedroom that I would be renting (fingers crossed!). It was the smallest and cheapest in the house. I would definitely need a twin bed and nothing bigger if I still wanted to fit a small dresser in there. The walls were painted a dull off-white. There was a small closet in one corner and a window across the door. To me, it was perfect.

Across my room was the bathroom that I would have to share with whomever would be occupying the mid-sized room next to mine. Gloria, who was in the master bedroom, had her own bathroom.

The allure of freedom was intoxicating to me. Also, it was almost Halloween, and I wanted to be "free" by then. As roomy as my fuck buddy's Lexus was, car sex was starting to give me a bad back. I sure wasn't going to be doing it while dressed as slave Leia either. My slutty self was thinking and planning forward.

I left the duplex with high expectations and unwavering hope. Gloria said she would e-mail me after she interviewed all prospects.

Days later, I got that room. I immediately rented a U-Haul truck to transport what little I had hoarded in the two years at my mom's to the little bedroom in a duplex. I broke a full-length mirror on the way there, but I didn't sweat it because I had two of them.

Since then, car sex and adult sleepovers were no longer issues. Although he lived ten minutes away on Gold River, Nick, my boy toy at the time, would still come over and sleep in until he had to leave for work at Big Lots.

The same day I moved in was also the same day nineteen-year-old Rihanna and her furry cat Reka moved into the mid-sized room. Like me, Rihanna didn't have a car. But unlike me, Rihanna already knew Gloria and Melissa, since she was dating Melissa's cousin at the time. She and Gloria got along great and would chit-chat about where the other got her nails done. I was usually in my room stealing the neighbor's WiFi.

That was one thing Gloria failed to mention and I failed to ask. The duplex did not have its own Internet connection. But our next door neighbor, not our duplex neighbor, had an unsecured connection. We leeched off of that. (Coincidentally, a day before I moved out of that duplex, the neighbor put a password on their shit. Talk about close calls.)

Gloria and I bonded through our shared dislike for our duplex neighbor, Glynnis. Glynnis was a hermit-like elderly woman who drove an old-school red sedan with a black top. She did not like it when we had visitors over, and she did not like it when we played the radio in the garage, which was adjacent to her living room.

One day, after a shopping trip from the Korean Plaza Market, Gloria and I found Glynnis pulling up in front of her house. Gloria and I began unloading the groceries.

"Hey, Sam, is she still sitting in her car?" Gloria whispered as she struggled with her keychain in search for the key to the door.

I flipped my hair back to disguise checking Glynnis out behind me. Yep, the old hag was still in her car, both hands on her steering wheel but with the engine cut off.

"She is. What's her problem?" I asked.

"She does that all the time," Gloria said. "I think she's scared we'll say hi. Or, like, jump her when she's getting into her house."

Gloria and I decided to check that theory. As soon as we finished unloading the groceries, locked the car, and closed our front door, we crouched down by the window and peeped through the curtains. Glynnis slowly climbed out of her sedan.

As soon as she was halfway up the driveway, Gloria and I ran outside. I had the mailbox key in my hand, just in case. Glynnis jumped back like a sneezing baby panda, but not cute.

"Hi, Glynnis!" Gloria greeted with matching wave.

Glynnis, in her old age, sprinted to her front door without even greeting us back. I had to run to the mailbox to hide my obvious laughter. She slammed her front door and I swear we could hear the locks and deadbolt click into place.

Glynnis has called the cops on us for noise complaints, but nothing has really come out of it. We had been told that she had made quite a reputation for herself as The Bitch Who Cried 911. The cops around town no longer took her seriously after all the complaints she had lodged against everyone on the block.

Rihanna and I never really got a chance to bond, mainly because her cat Reka got on my nerves. You see, Rihanna and I shared a bathroom closet. She had the top shelf and I had the bottom. I stored my cosmetics, toiletries, and spare bags neatly, but now and then, I am greeted by the sight of her furry friend nestled among my purses.

Reka would not go away. I had tried cooing to it softly and gently pulling its leg to get it to stop nuzzling against my purses and decorating them with cat hair. But all I got was an indignant hiss.

However, I knew this wasn't an issue worth fighting about, so I didn't bring it up to her. But one fateful day--February 13, 2011--Rihanna and I were about to face a moment worth bonding over.

Gloria, Rihanna, and I were all at home, being it was a Sunday. I was in my bedroom, looking at DVDs of movies that I would want to waste my time watching. Rihanna was in her room studying. And Gloria had just knocked our door, letting us know that she was leaving to go dogsit for a friend a few blocks away.

This was in the middle of a so-far-uneventful day. Gloria had just left and I was ten-minutes deep into Grandma's Boy. I heard a knock on the front door, but because it was Sunday, I was extra lazy and did not want to put pants on. I slowly turned up the volume of my movie and pretended that I didn't hear it. I guess Rihanna was doing the same, too, because I didn't hear her get up to open the door. If anything, it was probably just Gloria coming back to pick up something she left. I sure wasn't expecting visitors.

A few more seconds of knocking, and then it stopped. Only to be followed by a loud boom and a resounding crash of metal and wood. That sound was not normal.

I sat frozen, unsure of what I had just heard. Then Rihanna's door opened, and I could hear her tiptoe to the living room slowly. I also heard her gasp.

I quickly jumped into action, grabbing the one thing that stood out in the rubble around my bedroom floor. I wrenched my door open and bounded into the living room. Rihanna was standing by the door, barefoot and peeping outside.

She turned back to me and said, "Someone just tried to break in."

My insides turned cold. I looked down at my hand and saw that I had grabbed a plastic lightsaber. Not even the metal one that Nick and I had assembled together from parts that we got from Lowe's. At least the metal lightsaber had a chance of delivering tetanus onto our assailant.

Rihanna grabbed her phone and called Gloria first. I ran out into the street, but I saw nothing moving. Whomever it was had gotten away quick. Rihanna didn't even get a chance to see anyone because the guy ran away as soon as he heard her door open. Those knocks had been to check if anyone was home. They probably hadn't taken into account the two car-less tenants left behind.

As I walked back into the house, I saw the damage. The door had been kicked in so forcefully that it wrenched the lock from the frame, and then slammed against the wall where the door knob cracked it.

Rihanna and I huddled together until backup came. (That was the extent of our bonding.) Gloria got home as fast as she could, Melissa in tow. They called the cops, and then they called Gloria's brother. In less than half an hour, Gloria's brother was in our duplex, surveying the damage. Three hours later, Rancho Cordova's finest rolled around. They took our statements and asked Glynnis if the camera on her porch caught anything. The old hag told him that it was just for show. That was either true (and sad) or a lie (which makes her a bitter unhelpful bitch). Gloria's brother fixed up our door and added a more secure deadbolt for extra protection.

I took that moment as an opportunity to text Nick, asking him to come over after work because I was scared and didn't want to be alone in case the burglar came back. I rewarded him with shots of flavored vodka and a good time later that night. It was just coincidence that Valentine's Day came the next morning.

I have reason to believe that I am suffering from narcolepsy. Possibly. Okay, perhaps the best term is not "believe" but "assume". My assumed narcolepsy has not been scientifically proven.

The scientific method goes:

1. Ask a question.

Am I narcoleptic? Or have I been a frequent target of horse tranquilizer-dipped poison darts?

2. Do background research.

There really isn't much research to do except noting the passage of time between my conscious self and my groggy and sober self during the middle of the day.

3. Construct a hypothesis.

My despise for midday naps is unparalleled, so my unexplained slippage into naps while the sun is still up is evidence of possible narcolepsy.

4. Test with an experiment.

I wouldn't call it an experiment, but I find that sitting idly by myself (whether it be in my car during lunch, or on my bed while reading a book, watching Netflix or porn) results in unplanned napping.

5. Analyze the results and draw a conclusion.

My hypothesis could be right. But who knows?

A quick Google search states that narcolepsy is "a sleep disorder that causes excessive sleepiness and frequent daytime sleep attacks." Daytime sleep attacks is very accurate to describe this condition that plagues me.

Unlike all children and most hardworking and sleep-deprived adults, I do not like to go nap nap in the middle of the day. Power naps do the opposite to my body--I do not feel energized, but I do feel like what little energy I had left had been sapped out of me and now I just want to take a full-blown eight-hour sleep.

When my body forces itself to pass out a.k.a. nap against my will, there is a 100% chance that I will wake up minutes later feeling the following:

x Coffee

 

Coffee does not  give me the rush that coffee lovers talk about in the mornings. If anything, coffee simply tastes good (Starbucks, not the work coffee) but does not put me to sleep nor give me an extra boost.

 

x Energy drinks

 

That 5-Hour Energy drink, which I tried twice, ended with disastrous results. Empty stomach or not, I had an unflattering case of shaky hands, sweaty palms, and queasy tummy. After hour six, I was ready to pass out under my work desk. I now understand why I was carded at Rite Aid when I bought it.

 

Other energy drinks like Monster and Rockstar are just straight up unhealthy. One young co-worker of mine who drank a twenty-four-ounce can of Rockstar ended up hyperventilating and having a panic attack towards the end of the day. Rockstar turned my pee a horrific shade of biohazard neon green.

Red Bull is something I would drink only with Ketel One.

~ At least seven hours of sleep at night

 

Got that covered. Ricky and I are boring. Bedtime is usually around 10:30 to 11, and we don't fully wake up until 6:30 in the morning. That is more than enough sleep.

 

Before I dated him, I was usually up until two in the morning. Not even partying. Just trawling Facebook and getting my eight-dollar-a-month's worth from Netflix. That said, I haven't had any daytime sleep attacks lately.

 
✓ Stay online

 

So far, Reddit's WTF subreddit has kept me on my toes. So do the vapid life updates on Facebook. Blogging has its benefits, too. And it doesn't hurt that Ricky doesn't complain when I send him gross pictures so I can share my disgust with someone.

I was reading Mindy Kaling's memoir Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) on my phone (thank you, Google Play Books!). I was in bed on a fine Saturday morning while Ricky was beside me, watching American Dad on Netflix. Usually, I would either sleep in or roll around and nuzzle against Ricky like a Siamese cat in heat, but I was determined to reach my week's quota of five books a week. Goodreads does that to a bookworm. And Mindy's book was going to be my fifth.

I was on the chapter where Mindy (I'm calling her Mindy because she is going to be my future best friend) was explaining to me how she was in a clique during middle school and high school, and mentioned that middle school was only two years. Since I did not grow up in an American school setting, I turned to my all-American(?) boyfriend.

"Middle school is two years?" I asked for confirmation. "How does that work? Explain things!"

"Well," he starts, shifting so he was more comfortable on the bed, "Middle school is a way to help elementary school kids acclimate to a high school setting."

I nodded, signaling for him to press on.

"We start with elementary school, which is one through six. Then middle school, which is two years. Then high school for four years," he said.

"Yeah? What's the difference?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Elementary school is one classroom and one teacher all day--"

I held up my hand to stop him. "One teacher all day? No switching teachers for different subjects?" He shook his head. "That's weird. In elementary school and high school, we did one classroom all day, but different teachers for different subjects."

He nodded. "That's what middle school is for. And that's two years. Then high school is multi-classrooms and different teachers."

"So...your high school is like college. Students go to a different classroom for the next class?"

He nodded again. Then he asked, "How many years is high school in your country?"

"Four in high school. And six years elementary school before that. No middle school. So we start college around sixteen or seventeen years old," I told him.

Ricky grinned. "We don't go to college until we're eighteen. That probably explains why Americans are smarter than you Asians."

I sat up so quick that I gave myself whiplash. "Excuse me, bitch," holding one hand up as the universal sign for hold-the-fuck-up, "but when something technologically or physically amazing happens, the memes you see will have the caption that reads 'Level: Asian'. You don't see 'Level: American' anywhere."

Ricky starts laughing and slapping his hand on his thigh like a sea lion.

This ho thought I was done. He was wrong. "The highest level you Americans get is 'White Girl Wasted'," I finished.

This sent him into a laughing frenzy that bordered into indignation. "I made you pancakes!" he said, as if that was going to help the Americans' case against the White Girl Wasted epidemic. But he did make me a plate-sized fluffy pancake smothered in syrup and butter for breakfast that day. It had crusty sides and was very delicious. I almost threw it up because he had started to tickle me viciously.

"Americans did not invent the pancake!" I wheezed as I dodged his tickle fingers.

"Yes, we did," he insisted. He finally stopped tickling me long enough for me to grab my phone.

"I'm going to ask my friend Google," I told him. My attempts at using the voice-activated Google Now was a bust, so I had to manually type in my question. (If a Google employee and/or Samsung Galaxy S5 employee is reading this, you might want to look that up. Also, I would like to be able to access Google Now from [1] any screen besides the home one, and [2] while locked, but have it respond only to my voice. Like the Moto X. Make it happen.)

I scrolled past the pancake recipes on the Google results page in search for the Wikipedia page. "I think the Greeks invented pancakes," I declared as we waited for the page to load.

I would have said the Chinese did, since Asian countries came up with a shit ton of useful things back in the day. Gunpowder, flip-flops, the Great Wall, sushi, hentai... Why not pancakes? But pancakes seemed more like a Greek thing than Asian, mainly because I just could not picture pancakes being picked up by chopsticks.

"Hah! North American!" Ricky exclaims upon seeing the pictures of a pancake with a caption underneath it that described it as North American.

"Slow down, bro," I said, scrolling down to the History section. Literally, the first three words were "The Ancient Greeks...." I pumped my fist into the air in triumph. Ricky dissolved into a puddle of goo.

I think I celebrated my victory way too hard because later that night when Ricky called me from work, I told him that I was sorry I missed the first call because I was napping. "But my body forced me to nap. I hate midday naps; it feels like I got hit by a truck. So it's safe to say I may have passed out."