Hua Cheng: Gege Is Perfection 🥰

happy April fools day you weeaboo shits *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you* *hits you*

i don't respect americans and what they refer to as chicken sandwiches because when i was working at my old job as a barista slash sandwich bitch (australian) i had this american tourist come in and order a chicken sandwich so i started MAKING. her. a chicken sandwich. asked her what kind of bread she wanted and she looked at me funny. i said We have sourdough, rye, multigrain, wholemeal, plain white bread. she said I Want A Chicken Sandwich. i, roughly 19 years old at the time and not getting paid enough to deal with rude americans, realised we were at some sort of stalemate, although i didn't really know why. i change tacks for a second and say Okay. Well would you like chicken schnitzel or would you like plain roast chicken. and she says. Are You Listening To Me? I Said I Wanted A Chicken Sandwich. i am smiling at her from behind the counter and gripping a large knife. "i'm trying to make one for you, i promise. i just need to know what kind of bread and what kind of chicken and also what other fillings you want". or at least i say something LIKE that. secretly at this point i'm hoping that she outright yells at me so i can have an excuse to go stand in the walk in freezer for a few minutes. eventually we figure out that her idea of a chicken sandwich and my idea of a chicken sandwich are not the same, and i have to explain to her that we don't have burger buns here and we also don't have fried chicken. she says fine, but she says it in a tone that indicates that she cannot believe this is happening to her and that it is, singularly, my fault. i give her a bunch of options for food we DO sell and she ends up ordering something With Ketchup. i smile at her and i say "oh you mean Tomato Sauce". i was antagonizing her just a little bit at this point. a tiny bit. because she deserved it. she looks me in the face and says, Americanly (smugly) something about my attitude and how she won't be tipping. i gleefully tell her "we don't have tipping here." and then i secretly charged her two extra dollars for being an awful person. and that's my story about americans and chicken sandwiches. okay love you.

Eerm my chosen tags are fine, I guess:

1. First Time Bottoming (accurate)

2. For Want of Nail (ominous but highly accurate in my life)

3. Xenophilia (I love people from all over the world, but I am not a “Passport Bro/Girl/Ho/Them”! My dad my be “Mr. Worldwide,” but I’m not. Idk most Xenophiles tend to be Kardashian level culture vultures.

What are your tags: @effervescent-liminality @scentedpastaclodsoul

Spin this wheel of ~300 AO3 tags three times.

Keep going stink 💖

this too shall pass

Awwwww I can't pester you on anon lol

Anyway here's a Q: what should my Q of the day for the kids at work be?? Ages 4-12

No, you can’t pester me on anon atm.

Possible Q’s for to ask the kiddos:

1. If you were a spoon what color would you be? (IDK I’m trying to be creative)

2. If you were a teacher (or principal) whats one new rule would you make?

When I was little, my dad hired a Cambodian refugee called Jack to help him drywall a dining room ceiling. Jack spoke very little English; he'd recently gotten a part time job in a little Asian deli not far from our home and needed to pick up some extra work. He was very kind to six year old me and my exhausted mom; he brought us day old leftovers from the deli counter often, and liked to tuck the knuckle of his index finger into the dimple in my cheek whenever I smiled at him.

He soaked up construction skills and other information like a sponge, and by the time he left my dad's tiny construction company he'd gotten his GED, learned to drive, reunited with his sister and her family, and had begun remodeling a vacant business on the rich side of town into a Cambodian restaurant. He invited us to their grand opening on lunar new year, and I'll never forget when he gave me a red envelope with five dollars in it and told me, "tonight I am the luckiest man in the world, so this will bring you luck, too."

Years later, my dad told me that Jack had witnessed his parents' murder during the khmer rouge, and was immediately separated from his sister. He had to cross the killing fields at Choeung Ek alone, on foot, eating grass and insects to survive. He somehow made it to Cam Ranh on the coast of Vietnam, where a distant friend of his father's put him on a boat to Seattle. Jack was nine years old.

I tell this story because, even though I haven't seen Jack or any of his relatives in thirty years, I pray he's well and happy and eating like a king tonight with everyone he loves, celebrating the long overdue demise of the pestilential sonofabitch who tried to wipe them out.

Fuck Henry Kissinger's pathetic ghost, and fuck all those who praise him. Fuck Imperialism. Fuck the genocidal war machine. Drink deep for the freedom of all souls tonight, my friends. And tomorrow, keep fighting.

who else is in the mood to walk barefoot over the moors in a blood-red velvet ballgown w anguish in ur soul and wet leaves in ur hair while the wind blows moodily and dramatically?