So in an effort to be more social I decided to sign up for Nerve.com’s dating service.

Online socializing is still socializing, right?

After about twenty minutes of filling out all these tedious questions about my eye and hair color (why do they need to know this? won’t they see my photo?) and things you like and dislike (I wrote that I like steak and beer), I viewed my final profile and noticed that under gender, I was listed as a man.

So I tried editing my gender but Nerve.com requires that you contact Customer Service in order to update your gender.

But I wasn’t updating my gender like it was some facebook status–I was just fixing a mistake that the computer system made in the first place!

So I deleted the account and started over and AGAIN my profile was listed as a MAN. Do you think a man would use the screen name petite_lala????

I emailed Nerve’s customer service and the dude who emailed me back told me that in order to update my gender I had to make a payment or something and then I realized that online socializing takes more effort than socializing with real people so I retired my lofty ambitions of going back to the online dating world.

Plus, I am not paying money just so I can tell the world that I’M NOT A MAN.

In random news, I was thinking about a weird childhood memory this morning. I guess sitting at a cubicle and staring at a computer screen will create a state of hypnosis and evoke random thoughts from your memory’s periphery.

And I remembered the first time I went to sleep away camp. I was in the fifth grade. And I went balls to the wall during the camp meals because it was like the first time I got away from my mom’s korean food and could indulge in all this American gastronomic glory like beefaroni.

God I loved beefaroni.

Anyway, so my endless consumption of starch and curious meat products ultimately led to the clogging of my digestive system and I was severely constipated. I don’t think I went to the bathroom for like three days straight. I couldn’t really participate in any of the camp’s physical activities because having three days worth of beefaroni in your system really limits your athletic prowess. I literally felt like I had a stack of bricks in my stomach.

So I went to the camp infirmary.

The nurse asked me what was wrong.

Except at the time, my limited fifth grade mind did not know the medical term for being clogged up. My mind was racing. My brain was like a rolodex, just flipping through vocab words, trying to figure out what to say to this nurse. How could I explain my ailment in a mature and succinct way to this nurse–this little old white lady???

So I just resorted to using a word from my Miami patois. A word that all the young Latin kids in school used to discuss their bowels.

I said:

I can’t ca-ca.