You know like, when you have those moments when you realise the world is at your feet? Like, it’s literally underneath you, so WALK IT LIKE A RUNWAY and HIT YOUR POSES.
When I lived in London, on my birthday each year I’d hop on the Circle Line and do a full loop of it. I guess it was something I did, quietly, just by myself, to mark another year of my stupid crazy life at the time.
It just seemed sorta fitting too, I guess, that life felt like that fucking endless Circle Line at peak hour; with all these people coming in and out of the carriage day after day, and me sitting there in all the glory of the pop stage of my baby goth phase, listening to Brodinski’s Drive By mix on my iPod. The beauty of the Circle Line is that you never go backwards, but ultimately, you always end up getting off at the same damn stop. LYF, AYE.
I have many feelings and thoughts about this trip, but I just put my finger on why I’m apprehensive in particular about going back to the (Third World) Motherland - in a nutshell:
I’m afraid that, because I haven’t been back since my family emigrated my ass out of there and into the First World, I won’t be allowed to enjoy it like the tourist I will actually be when I return. Whether this is true or not is another story, but the pressure from a culture and family I’ve never known is already pushing up on me, resisted with the full weight of a very first world upbringing; along with all the might of a modern, privileged (albeit grateful and hustling), and No Fuqs attitude.
Plus I’m tanned really dark right now - and we all know what meaning Asians attach to darker skin; particularly Asian grandmothers (mine), and um, actually like, a chunky ass slice of society in general.
You can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly.
My cold war tactics