Over the holidays, I met Tila Tequila. And we had a long heart-to-heart.
We were introduced at a house party, a surprisingly low-key affair (I say “surprising” because I expected to meet her at some place like Area, where you’d never find me unless hell froze over, splintered into a million icicles, and was then cleverly marketed as a newfangled low-calorie popsicle, available in bulk at Costco). The first thing I noticed was that her tits had gotten bigger. They had also changed shape somewhat and hung down like swollen teardrops. I sighed at how fake they looked. They still resembled party balloons, but the way they look the day after a fete, when they’re drifting sadly and inevitably towards the floor. I tried not to stare at the keyhole they made out of her cleavage.
When she asked me what I did for a living, I told her that I was a writer and my friend and I had this little blog, DISGRASIAN. Her face fell, and it became clear to me that she had read all of the bitchy, harping things we had ever written about her. I was dumbstruck at first, because I didn’t think homegirl could actually read. I’d seen her “poetry,” for one thing. I might’ve felt flattered next if she didn’t look so surprised and, frankly, wounded.
I ground my molars together and prepared for a fight. I sensed a full-on H-town rumble brewing, the way a person with arthritic knees feels an incoming storm. It was going to go down like a UFC prizefight, no holds barred, nothing off-limits.
But then, incredibly, she continued with the wounded bird routine.
“How can you write that stuff about people?” she said, her voice cracking. “How can you live with yourself?”
Oh Jesus. Really? She was going there? I had readied myself to rip those sad balloon tits off with my teeth, but this? Hmm.
“Well, uh,” I began. Sputter, sputter. People? Live with myself? I willed my thoughts to kick in, the way I used to crank the ignition on my first car, a yellow, triple hand-me-down “Ho da” Civic hatchback (the “n” had fallen off before the car had gotten to me). I launched into a halting speech about what we do, making some distinction between celebutards and real people (that sounded false even to my ears), saying something about how we tried to be fair, even when we were being nasty coozes, and, at the end of the day, we were just taking the piss out of stuff, and she shouldn’t take us so seriously, because we were really nice people, nice people who were a little twisted, maybe…
But she wasn’t having any of it. She continued to look at me sadly, her falling face joining her tits in a downward-spiraling pity party. Lord. Were Diana and I really bad people? Did we really need to take a hard look at ourselves and reassess what we were doing? Did I need to go on one of those silent meditation retreats or do a master cleanse or get a colonic to purify myself of all this haterasian that I was being accused of? Even though I resisted making New Year’s resolutions, because I never manage to reach my Hardass Asian Goals and that makes me feel like shit, should I make one in 2009 to try to be a nicer, more equivocating human being?
Mercifully, I woke up then. From this nightmare. My meeting with Tila was, as they say, all a dream. But you know how, when you wake up from a particularly intense dream, you’re still enshrouded in its emotions? Maybe being a more thoughtful, less judgmental person in ’09 was not such a bad goal. A little vague, perhaps, but not bad, and probably not unattainable.
I realized once I had shaken off my dream-stupor, however, that wanting to rip Tila’s sad balloon tits off–metaphorically, of course–well, didn’t that qualify as trying to make myself a better person, in a way? By helping her be a better person, and less of a clown-whore? Wasn’t self-improvement, after all, not only about helping yourself, but helping others, too?
Gosh, I thought, this whole resolution thingy was going way better than expected. Still is. And boy do I now feel…resolved. So Happy New Year, everybody! May all your dreams in 2009–except the ones where you’re accosted by wounded, midget celebutards–come true!
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