Consider for a moment that pussy is a tradable good in the sexual marketplace, and that its quarterly performance, whether good or bad, has measurable impact on the majority of men. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, this majority does not include you. Pussy’s fluctuation on the S&P bears no consequence on your personal life, because by virtue of your being a Western male of Asian descent, you don’t own even a single one of its stocks. Like a Wall Streeter who’s been caught red-handed cheating the system, you’ve been banned from ever reveling in the joy that is trading the commodity of a warm, gushy vag. Of course, your ban is more for night-and-day reasons than the Wall Streeter’s—that is, due to your race—but it’s a ban, no less. Knowing this, you do your business elsewhere. In fact, as I scribble down these words, you’ve just finished negotiating a very different type of exchange: trading in your useless cock for yet another set of Magic cards.
The dismal reality you find yourself in is that women don’t want you for anything except the occasional help on a computer or numbers-related problem. Without knowing it, you are at all times competing with your one billion brothers and cousins to be the World’s Least Fuckable Man. Your own female counterparts are producing half-white babies at a spiraling rate, but you, on the other hand, have been left virtually unchanged amidst the media’s push to promote interracial dating; women of other races would sooner make love to a cucumber than to be seen with you in broad daylight. You are, for all intents and purposes, an uncool, unsexable, unfriendable, school-sentimental, library-loitering, grade-greedy, work-wallowing boob of a fucking loser.
Of course, this prejudice extends far beyond the vaginal sphere. Men don’t respect you. The public neither supports nor stands up for you. Your social value is zero. You lack a diversity of friends. Those few members unfortunate enough to be considered indispensable to your crew are, without doubt, Asian themselves, and therefore just like you. Together you roll to any and every event with fake unapologetic pride. But you and I know better, that behind the veil it’s all just overcompensation for the feelings of worthlessness and self-hate engulfing you whole.
“I Am At Cause”
The problem is twofold. Number one, consider that, despite all the above, you haven’t yet discovered your true threshold for pain. Sure, it hurts to be reminded that you’re a loser, but regardless of my saying it here, you already know this to be the persistent mindset held by society at large. So that’s not the problem. The problem is that either you know but are denying, or don’t know and are therefore oblivious to, the fact that everything so far discussed in this letter is a product not of other people or things, but of you.
Up until now, you’ve shown adamant resistance in taking responsibility for the totality of your life. You cause the successes, but the failures, especially regarding women, you keep imputing elsewhere. Stop playing that game. Retire. Cut the bullshit and change right now. I am responsible for the totality of my life.
Transcending Your Race
Number two is equally important and it’s the problem I’ll be discussing from now until this letter’s conclusion: it’s the problem of never having transcended your race. This, my fellow Asian men of the West, is the real reason I’m writing to you now. Not as a coach in the dugout, not as a spectator deep in the upper deck. I’m right where you are, on the field of experience, playing the same game you’re playing, sporting the same exact digs you’re sporting. The difference is I’ve already withstood the onslaught of my being an Asian male in the West long enough to ascertain the best way to slip the cuffs and taste the freedom that is pussy in abundance. The solution is right there, contained inside those three words, “Transcend Your Race.”
The term serves as a very simple but powerful reminder that, despite everything you’ve been taught, you do not have to identify as being whatever race or ethnicity chance so blindly conferred upon you as a life sentence all those years back. You had no say in the genetic makeup meeting that took place prior to your birth, so to spout pride (or shame, even) for being a certain skin color or for belonging to a certain ethnic group, is like bragging about “your” Seattle Seahawks winning the Superbowl. Your contribution was illusory. There is no merit. There is no achievement.
Get this on an emotional level and you’ll begin to wake to the consequences that inevitably follow:
1. You are now required to turn your back on that which you’ve made both your life’s sultan and scapegoat: the media, with particular emphasis on Hollywood.
The lone script you’ve been reading from since catching a TV airing of Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time—that it’s fuck the yellowface, the caricatures, the “herro” accents; that you’re done with the fobby landlords and the fried rice and the Jackie Chans and Leslie Chows of the world; that you demand an Asian George Clooney be cast as a repeated lead in non-math, non-kung fu blockbuster hits—that same horrible script you’ve been clinging to can now be ripped, torn, crumpled, and disposed of in the nearest trash can. Hollywood can now depict Asians any way it likes. The correlation you once thought to be indelible—the “less Asian” and more desirable the character, the better your sex life—is no more. You now realize the inanity of such a sick, dependent relationship, and can acknowledge that celebrity “role models” are for women, not men.
This picture doesn’t affect you anymore.
2. You have a new mantra regarding all things Asian-related, and it’s simply, eloquently, inexorably—”Who gives a fuck.”
The infamous shy, effeminate, good student, bad driver, big brain, tiny wood stereotype. The derogatory names and even the Holy Grail of Asian betrayal: white-cock worship from your own females! None of these can sway your sensibilities one way or the other anymore. Tina Lu can stuff John Smith’s meat in her mouth as many times as it takes for her to feel full, and it’s fine by you because you’re now on the other side of the walls meant to fortify Calvin-esque, predetermined identities.
This picture doesn’t affect you anymore either.
Moving on now from the mental to the somatic…
3. Working out and improving your physical appearance becomes mandatory.
The revelation sets in rather quickly that you do not have to be bound to bad haircuts, thrift shop wardrobes, nor prepubescent body frames forever. The “I’m fill-in-the-blank because I’m Asian” excuses don’t work anymore. You’re short, skinny, and feminine-looking in the face? So what. Life is unfair. You’re dealt the cards you’re dealt—now play. Nick Vujivic is without all four limbs and still it would be a gross understatement to say that the man has been getting along “just fine.” You can keep marinating in the misery of conceded defeat, or you can resolve to work your ass off to sculpt a physique that women find desirable. Do for yourself what needs to be done and in three months’ time you’ll be shocked at the new man reflecting back at you in the literal and proverbial mirror.
4. With your armor of excuses now completely dismantled, you have nothing to hide behind anymore.
It’s time to start approaching beautiful women, Asians and non-Asians alike, with the intention that you are going to date and bed them. Remember that success always follows failure, so long as you’re prepared to keep failing.
The above in its entirety is my solemn promise to you. Take responsibility for your life. Stop being Asian, not out of self-hate, but because you no longer wish to be a prisoner of inherited definition. You’re done representing an entire race, ethnicity, skin color, country, and area code. You now represent yourself. For better or worse, you are your own man. Learn to become what serves you best, vow to quit the excuses cold-turkey, and holy shit, put the fucking Magic cards down and go get your goddamn cock back.