If you knew me, you’d also know that there are basically two people in my life: the Asian and the boyfriend. So if you knew me, you’d be an Asian, or a boyfriend, and I’d have to start out by apologizing for telling everyone who doesn’t know me about all the reasons that this is not altogether a bad or irrelevant thing.

The boyfriend takes some explaining, first of all because he isn’t my boyfriend, he’s just a boy who happens to be a friend, like a bear who happens to be black or an Asian who happens to be Asian, and we’ve actually never dated, as much as people pretend to care about it enough to tease us, our ignore us, whatever floats their boat, really, because facial acne is often the best way to make lasting relationships. In fact, I couldn’t tell you very much about him, because we’re so close that everything we’ve ever talked about is impossibly deep and sensitive.

You might not know that hookers are paid to have sex, while strippers are paid to make people wish they had paid the extra fifty for a hooker.But he’s definitely a boyfriend. That’s one thing everyone knows the minute they see him…that and his lack of chin, but no judging. Not like a Boyfriend, of course, but it’s like looking in the sun—that and his lack of chin. He reminds me of Jack McBrayer, the way everyone reminds me of that green Power Puff girl, the one that wears too much makeup.

Then there’s the Asian, and this takes less explanation, mostly because at this point no one really cares.

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So let’s get down to business: the Asian and the boyfriend don’t ever mix. They were born as separate as two koalas with latent chlamydia, and they shall remain so for all eternity, at least until the Star Trek fad fades. Or oil and water…that actually works well enough as a metaphor, so don’t bother looking up statistics on chlamydia or sexually promiscuous koalas, unless you were going to do that anyway, in which case, no judging. One time they met, and nothing happened, which is about as bad as things get in most people’s lives.

Two koala bears sitting in a tree
"You said you were clean… I TRUSTED you…"

Anyway, since you’re well enough acquainted with the Asian and the boyfriend to know that they’re the only two sides of any white female’s life, you’ll realize that this article is not big enough for the both of them.

The boyfriend collects rocks. Only rocks. I think that’s the closest he’s willing to get to consensual human conduct, so he doesn’t have pets. This is almost never a problem, except when he decides to break the run and put some time in with actual human beings, and we invariably play games that make fun of prostitutes, which I think is inherently unfair, like teasing someone who’s dead, because none of us are prostitutes. By the way, if you’re reading this you might not know that hookers are paid to have sex, while strippers are paid to make people wish they had paid the extra fifty for a hooker. I am reading this, so I will make the conscious adult decision to use these words interchangeably.

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We were playing a game in which everyone was sexually frustrated, so we released our bitterness by coming up with stripper names, instead of volunteering at a soup kitchen or having sex. Each person’s stripper first name is his first pet’s name, and his stripper last name is the street he grew up on. Mine was "Bubbles Stonefield." The boyfriend’s was "Bob Christ," which at least shamed us into thanking someone’s dad that the boyfriend wasn’t as religious as he might have been, raising his rocks as such a prodigious 3-year-old on such a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful street. When the Asian’s turn came, the boyfriend laughed so hard that he lost his virginity for the last time, which really surprised all of us, since there weren’t any real prostitutes there, only fake hookers.

In case you were wondering, the Asian stripper’s name was "Mr. Koala McBrayer," and her virginity is still going strong.

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