Category Archives: Fail

2016: Year of The Rock

This past weekend, I had a friend staying with me for New Year’s Eve. K and I tricked her into stretching out her visit out way longer than she had planned, and the three of us spent most of the weekend holed up in my tiny studio apartment, playing out an extended version of a 12 year old’s slumber party. We even watched The Craft!

Amongst the many conversation topics it takes to fill two straight days of talking, we spent a good chunk of time going down an Enneagram* rabbit hole. (If you’re not familiar with Enneagrams, think Meyer’s Briggs, without being a complete piece of shit like Meyers Briggs. Don’t try to put me into one of 16 discrete boxes, you reductionist survey! YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!) Comparing our personality types quickly devolved into comparing the worst, most unhealthy aspects of our personality types, and boy was it fun. Here are some choice excerpts from my profile, Five:

Continue reading 2016: Year of The Rock

Hatoful Boyfriend Logo

Hatoful Failure

This past Monday, my friend No H invited me over to her place to play video games. “Hatoful Boyfriend was on sale for $5!!” she said enthusiastically. Hatoful Boyfriend is a Japanese dating sim that No H has been desperate to play ever since it was featured on Day9’s old Geek & Sundry show, Meta Dating.  For those of you that don’t understand any of the words in that sentence, a dating sim is a type of video game that basically functions as a choose-your-own-adventure romance novel, where the primary objective of the game is to date someone. Choices you make, such as what outfit to wear or how to flirt with another character affect which of the love interests you can end up with as well as your ultimate success in the game.

Continue reading Hatoful Failure

Perception Filter

Last night, as I waited for the kettle to boil, something disturbing happened. I turned to my right, faced the hallway, and saw this:

A beige, metal box was mounted to the wall where stairs once led to the basement. It had a small lock asking for a key, but nothing else. The Box was both brand new and immutable, as if it had been there all along. Having never seen The Box before, I stared at it for several seconds, contemplating reality. The Box stared back, mocking me with its permanence.

Eventually, I decided that reality needed a second opinion. I made my way to the living room, half-convinced The Box would disappear in my absence. I asked EG about it. Her interest was piqued. She returned with me to the hallway, where we stared at The Box together. She had never seen it before either.

We discussed the possibility of contacting our landlady, asking if The Box had recently been installed. This would seem a silly question to ask if it had, in fact, been there all along, although we were sure it couldn’t have been. I replayed the past two and a half years in my head. Nope, definitely no Box.

Like Veronica Mars, EG got a chair and checked the top for dust. It seemed The Box had been there for a very long time.

I went upstairs and opened my computer, looking at all the photos we’ve taken during our tenure here, mostly from parties. I scrutinized each shot for evidence of The Box. The Box proved elusive. In every photo, it was hiding just out of the frame or behind someone’s head.

Finally, I found proof.

Mind blown.

USPS: An Open Letter

Dear USPS,

Last Tuesday, I came home to find a delivery confirmation notice in my mailbox. I was extra delighted because the return address was–well, it wasn’t technically anyone I know because your postal worker is apparently too lazy to copy down the return address properly, but it was what I can only assume was Former Housemate, KS. This! This was the package I had been waiting for! It was the happiest Tuesday of my life!

Now, I was given two options on this notice. First, I could take the form to a post office in Northeast DC and collect the package with proper identification. This was clearly impossible, because a) if I had time to dick around in NE during the day, I would have time to be at home to sign the package and b) since the package was addressed to “Losers at [REDACTED] St, NW, Washington DC, 20001,” it would be rather hard to bring appropriate identification. So I took Option B, which was to sign that the package could be left with no one home, and put the slip back in my mailbox.

Wednesday, I came home and checked the mail, and I have never been so disappointed to find a package with my penpal’s handwriting on it. Not that she doesn’t send great stuff, but I thought for a second that you had actually delivered KS’s package, the very day after I signed for it! Like a normal shipping company! But no, instead I found the confirmation slip crumpled at the bottom of my mailbox under all the other mail, because your mail carrier was too lazy to do his/her job and pick up outgoing mail! So I got some tape and stuck it to the mailbox, sure that it couldn’t be missed a second time.

Thursday evening came, and though the confirmation notice was gone, no package had arrived. “No matter,” I thought. “I bet they just don’t carry the packages with them until they receive the signed confirmation slip.”

But Friday, it was still not there. Nor Saturday nor Monday. And then today I got home, and still no package.

Fuck you, USPS.

And don’t try to blame local miscreants, stealing stuff off the front porch. Because I do a lot of online shopping. I haven’t set foot in an actual clothing store since October. And that shit gets delivered and not stolen all the time. And sometimes my penpal gets her family members to creepily leave things on my front porch, and THAT doesn’t get stolen either. I’m pretty sure you’re the weak variable here.

Look, USPS. You have screwed me over a lot since I moved to this city. My housemates and I have had a lot of key pieces of mail go missing–thank you notes, my health insurance information, credit cards that were somehow activated and used despite never having arrived–and other things arrive three months after they were sent. THREE MONTHS. DOMESTICALLY. I could get things to Siberia, on foot, faster than that! And despite complaining about our mail carrier multiple times, nothing has ever been done about it. I have pretty low expectations for you, USPS. But never has something of such great import gone missing before.

Because USPS, I’m pretty sure that package contained my one true love: pineapple cakes.

Pineapple cakes are possibly Taiwan’s greatest contribution to the world. (And Taiwan makes some pretty cool shit!) I was deprived of the glory of pineapple cakes for many years, because according to KLin, “They are too delicious to share.” Seriously, girl brought eighty back in her suitcase this year. Eighty. But when I met her for lunch last week, she conveniently “forgot” to bring any with her. Luckily, KS is not so greedy as her and started bringing them back for us whenever he went home for the holidays. And then we finally understood KLin’s hoarding, because they are AMAZING.

A box of pineapple cakes that K acquired by harassing A Taiwanese Person at her office

I was a little concerned that my supply would dry up when KS moved to LA last summer, so I started dropping subtle hints prior to his return to Taiwan. That is, for a month, I texted him things like “DON’T FORGET MY PCAKES” and “REMEMBER ALL THOSE CARE PACKAGES I SENT YOU?”

And now it is all for naught, because some assclown postal worker is chowing down on my PCakes somewhere, even though he or she almost certainly doesn’t appreciate how delicious they are. If my package were here, you could currently be reading a post announcing my impending marriage to Pineapple Cakes, including some elaborately photoshopped engagement pictures featuring my beloved. Instead:


This is the last straw, USPS. I can’t even complain properly because you took back the only documentation I had that my package existed. I’M MAD AS HELL AND I’M NOT GOING TO TA–oh wait, yes I am, because you are a state-sponsored monopoly, even though you are the very worst! 



The Ten Shadiest Things Strangers Have Ever Said to Me

Everyday, a harrowing journey begins on this seemingly pleasant street.

Since switching jobs, I started walking to work. I now spend an 35 minutes on foot each way, what would be a pleasant walk if it didn’t also provide an easy 70 minutes each day to be harassed by random men on the street. Yesterday, I was honked at, got catcalled, and had a man ask me, “Haven’t I seen you in a magazine?” I did not stop to hear which publication to which he was referring, but I’m willing to wager it wasn’t the Wellesley Alumnae magazine.

Sadly, I’m very used to this behavior. I’m not sure why I am such a magnet for shady, shady dudes, but I am. It has some advantages–for instance, I sometimes get free food at restaurants, although I am usually just extremely confused about that (“But I haven’t given you my money yet!”)–but mostly, it’s just super creepy and unwelcome. I guess it makes for good stories? For your entertainment, I’ve assembled a list of the ten creepiest things strange men have ever said to me:

10. Champ de Mars, Paris, France – 2008
Anyone want to learn how to French Kiss? Or Vodka Kiss?”

I have to give him props–upon hearing this line, I was amazed that I’d never heard it before (the French kiss part. Not the vodka kiss part. That doesn’t even make sense.). But he was still a miscreant French youth, so he would have been creepy no matter what came out.

9. Dharamsala, India – 2007
“I’m going to teach you Punjabi. Thohade aakha baut Suniya ne. That means ‘Your eyes are looking amazing.'”

This would have been a lot less creepy had his girlfriend not been sitting directly next to him at the time. This was also the same day that I accidentally spent with a punjabi pop star, who I’m sure would have also had some creepy shit to say, had his command of the English language allowed it. Instead, he just kept shouting things like “CUTE BABY!” every few minutes.

Everyone’s favorite Punjabi pop star/stalker. Me also wearing the worst pants
ever because they were the only thing that would dry in Monsoon season.

8. Library of Congress, Washington, DC – September 2011
“You seem like a nice girl, Emma. Are you Jewish?”

7. The Red Line to Shady Grove, Washington, DC – 2010
“Can I like, try something with your hair?”

6. Dharamsala, India – 2007
“really I feel in Love with you and Hope we can share some time with togethere and make Happy and Smile face othere you really so Beatifull & I have no wards to explain [sic].”

Apparently I’d caught the eye of a mustachioed local bookstore owner while on my quest to find the 7th Harry Potter, so he stalked my roommate every day until he finally caught her to give me the first of three love letters. In typical Alix fashion, I handled it spectacularly poorly and just decided to avoid his street entirely, which was difficult as there were only 3 streets to be  had in Dharamsala. Eventually, I had to travel down it in quest of food, and while walking with my hood up and my head down, I literally ran into him. I gave him a very flustered no thanks which was way more awkward than if I’d just confronted him in the first place.

5. Safeway, Washington, DC – 2009
“I like your freckles. They’re really cute. We should just get married, actually.”

Be careful with whom you share an eye roll about that crazy lady in front of you holding up the Safeway check-outline. One minute he’s a friendly-but-lonely 50-something buying a single can of Chef Boyardee, and the next he’s a friendly-but-lonely 50-something buying a single can of Chef Boyardee who just proposed to you. And you’re still trapped into the Safeway checkout line with him for another five minutes, thanks to that crazy bitch in front.

4. Tours, France – 2007
Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, mais vous êtes ravissante. Vous avez besoin de l’aide?

Translation: “Excuse me, miss, but you are ravishing. Do you need some help?” Only slightly creepy, but when compounded with the fact that I was in the process of unlocking my apartment at the time, it becomes pretty questionable. No, shady French man, I do not need your help getting into my apartment. 

3. Just Outside of El Rinconcito, Washington, DC – Last Thursday Night
“You UGLY. You ALL UGLY! Y’ALL UGLY!” [Pauses to reassess.] “No you’re cute. BUT YOU ALL UGLY. You’re cute though I like you. BUT Y’ALL UGLY!”

This was not so much creepy as it was bizarre and terrifying. As L, K, EG, Matt IV and I were making our way to ACKC, a very drunk man in orange lipstick and a wig started screaming about how ugly we all were. Then as he got closer, he paused, looked me up and down, and apparently changed his mind about me and only me. And now until an unspecified future time, all my friends are going to make jokes about my evident cuteness any time I get preferential treatment.

2. New York, New York – September 2011

This next one requires a disclaimer. I am in my mid-twenties, but strangers usually grossly underestimate my age. Two Christmases ago, when I was 22, I got mistaken for an unaccompanied minor at the airport. You have to be 14 to be an unaccompanied minor. So in strangers’ eyes, I’m guessing I’m somewhere in the 15-19 range now. Which is why this next one, courtesy of a homeless man in Murray Hill, is so very disturbing:

“I like your dress… if you were five years younger…”

WTF? WTF?!?! EW!

1. Two Blocks from My House, Washington DC – 2011
“I like them titty bags of yours I want to milk them.”

I went back and forth between this and the last one over which was the absolute creepiest. While I think pedophilia is intrinsically creepier than whatever infantilization/farming fetish shit is happening here, the fact that I had a really hard time even typing this one is what ultimately put me over the edge.

I guess its to these guys’ credit that none of them tried to grope/molest/follow me home, which has happened enough times to merit it’s own damn list. Congratulations on setting the bar so spectacularly low, menfolk! Now stop whistling at me on from the Waste Management truck.