Because racism is sexy

Let’s look at each other in the eyes and let’s be completely honest with one another: —the reason that I, who am barely 5 feet 3 with swarthy dark hair and hazel brown eyes, is dating you, is because I must look away from my own suffering self, because my own existence is spiteful to myself, because the mere fact I know that I was born out of the fertilization of an asian man’s sperm makes me sick and nauseous, because every moment that I live I absolutely hate my, or what you call my, “asian” heritage—which doesn’t even make sense to me because the word “asian” is still so foreign to me and it makes me sick feeling like to vomit knowing that when I walk down the street and see a bunch of asian FOBs I am actually genetically related to those disgusting shit-skinned people—because there is no way that I will let my children suffer the same terrible fate that I suffered—to be born asian, to be born out of the conflation of a little asian man’s weak and effeminate sperm; and I want you to degrade me, degrade my race and my “asian” heritage because your racism excites me to the core and you can’t feel the tingling sensation down there when you call me those nasty racist names and because what you call my “asian” heritage I don’t even recognize because I have never really identified myself as “asian” (it’s only in America that people call me “asian”) and when you degrade and humiliate my race I orgasmed so much and I don’t even feel insulted because I feel like you are insulting those real “asians”—those FOBs, gooks, chinks who walk down the street wearing fake Gucci bags and you don’t even know the secret relish that mesmerize me when I am with you and all those pathetic little asian men’s stares that just make me feel soooo satisfied.  Let’s see one another in the face, once and for all, you 6 feet blue-eyed Hyperborean, you whose arms are bigger than my entire torso, the reason I’m with you is because I hate myself.  In you I see the reflection of myself distorted and my appearance metamorphosized; you made me new and in your love I will die and rise again.  You are my hope of never having to be called “asian” ever again, and in your embrace I wear that multicultural shade because you do not know the suffering sun that burns my eyes everyday—abolish that horrible name, “What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet;” let’s not call ourselves “white” and “asian” anymore, call me but love, and I will be new baptized.  Let’s call both of us “white” from now on, and you can still fuck those nasty cheap asian cunts that you pick up on your “business” trips to asia and I will still be your chaste obedient asian doll when you come home, and I will still pamper you like a god, I will do anything you ask me to, and I will lick your feet like a geisha, and I will still massage your strong hairy legs every night while you watch the game, just as before, but I will no longer tolerate to be put into the same category along side the rest of those asian women, at least publicly, call me your white girlfriend, call me your all-American cutie-pie, (and I will be more patriotic than any white woman can be and I will denigrate my own father and mother and I will yell chinks and japs at those FOBs) and we can make fun of those asians together, it’s such a turn on for me anyway, but please don’t call me asian anymore, will you honey?  Pretty please?

Author: jennifer suzuki

I have been a very confused—some might say very conflicted—girl ever since I can remember and I have always lived in a fantasy world of my own making.

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