No, I won’t do your nails. No, I won’t go to the nail salon to translate what they’re saying for you. Do you think those women have nothing better to do all day other than talk about you? Get this through your perfectly permed head: you’re not that important, especially not to my 70-something year old grandmother who spent more than half her life carrying around tubs of water to wash your dirty feet for you. Thank you graciously for your one dollar tips; they’re paying for her osteoporosis medication now.
Should I bow as I accept your money, held disdainfully between two manicured fingers?
No, I won’t tutor you in math. Not unless you want to fail. Did I ever tell you what my career goal is? I’m studying to be a speech therapist. Not so much ching chong ching now when you’ll be paying me to correct your English, is it? Go ahead and rub Tiger Balm on your bruised pride and aching ego. I’ve never used that shit anyways; how would I know if it works? Let me know.
And a burning, urgent NO, I am not submissive. I do not exist for you to act out your fetishes with. I’ve never put chopsticks in my hair (have you ever put spoons or forks in your hair?) and I won’t teach you Vietnamese. If you want to learn so much, buy Rosetta Stone. I’m sure Rosetta is more interested in your success than I am. I won’t flutter my eyelashes and look up at you diminutively. I’m not marrying you to get US citizenship; I was born here, not in Saigon, and definitely not in transit to the US on a rickety fishing boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Thumb through my childhood photos. I was dark skinned and wide eyed; nothing close to the China doll standard to which you hold me to.
Open your eyes. Mine aren’t the ones that are closed.
if my husband doesnt tear up when im walking down the aisle im turning the fuck around
im so miserable but i laugh at everything