I’m off. First to London, and then Bedford — this itty-bitty town — for a pair of days.

It’s part of my new regiment. You know, the whole, “You’re young, so you’d better party it up like it’s 1999.”

Except it’s not. It hasn’t been 1999-party-time for 7 years.

Shit. Who am I kidding. I wasn’t partying back then, either. Seven years ago, I was still eating paste and running around with safety scissors.

Funny.

I’ve been going to the gym.

Five days a week. Sometimes six.

Same time. Same place.

But Anna — she’s like gone, man. Vanished. Poof. I haven’t seen her since.

It’s like she never existed.

Her last words to me were, “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Damnit. She lied. She totally lied.

I got the “see you around” brush-off from Anna Stern. Anna Stern.

Oh man. That’s depressing.

In my last post, Give us a chance, Hollywood, I griped about how asian men are continually snubbed in movies and shows, never allowed to play it out in interracial romances.

My friend Dave — bless his jealous heart — pointed to Daniel Henney.

A google search later, I came across this.

It turns out that Mr. Henney has done quite a few commercials with the very lovely (and might I mention, very white) Gwyneth Paltrow.

See? It’s not so bad.

Come on, Hollywood!

Stuff like this makes me mad.

Because it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Where, oh where, does that put asian men?

See, asian women have gotten a few breaks over the years. Michelle Yeoh got her mack on with Pierce Brosnan in Tomorrow Never Dies. And Maggie Q was Timothy Olyphant’s sexy partner-in-crime in Die Hard 4.

But when will Hollywood cut asian guys a break?

Surely someone out there finds us marginally attractive. And surely, somewhere out there, in Hollywood-movie land, there’s some desperate and dateless white (or god forbid chocolate-y) girl who’s willing to settle for ’sloppy seconds’.

Thank you for all the support, guys. You know who you are.

One of my most beloved high school teachers passed away very suddenly on the weekend. I know it sounds absurd to say that I’m feeling at my lowest right now. It feels selfish. As if somehow I’m more important than any of her close, personal friends or god forbid, her husband of only a year.

But if you’ve read A Tale of Three Mugs you’d know how important high school was to me. So important that last night, I found myself tossing and turning, unable to sleep because it felt like a part of my past was gone. Poof. Just like that.

And suddenly, I was left grasping for memories that were no longer there.

I know, god, I know I wasn’t the only one. Hundreds of other students are mourning; friends and family by the dozen. I feel wrong. Self-centered. As if now, there’s nothing left of her but these tiny crumbs. And I’m just greedily lapping them up — not thinking that other students, other family and friends — better ones than me — they may be suffering as well. But I just can’t help it. I loved her.

I’ve handled death in the past. Three funerals in the last three years. But this one is the hardest to bear.

Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I was supposed to finish school and then return, so I could see the expression on her face. You know? That expression when she’d realized I’d finally done what I’d set out to do all those years ago. But now none of that’s going to happen.

She’ll never, ever know.