Ramadan Day 2 & 3: sicky

Hello! Hope this note finds you well.

Here’s a poem I scratched out at the Denver Airport:

i’m sick this is not a trick / i’ve been away from home / two months now / in a denver pass through / one flight canceled / second flight canceled / change from sjc to sfo / blah blah blah / i’m in a great mood / not really / i love writing poems / that make no sense / i love to have thoughts / that are delayed / too / make me wait at the gate / thoughts that travel economy / and take the middle seat / flotation devices / it cheers me up to whine and moan / i said i’d be gentle / didn’t i? / Allah loves me in this state / not unlike fasting

Here’s a recount of my last 48 or so hours:

For those of you who don’t know, there are numerous instances when folks are excused from fasting: illness, pregnancy, menstruation, travel…so I’m not fasting at present.

My flight on Tuesday was cancelled. I caught a cold on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning. I fought through said cold to arrive at Pele’s for the first Iftar this Ramadan. It felt like a homecoming with many old friends and also like I was a visitor in a new land. I was cheered by the event even though halfway through I thought my face would fall off from the cold meds. It was overwhelming, as there were so many new people in a familiar space, and I noticed many of my old friends also didn’t know the people new to me. All of it mixed together in my cold-fueled brain and I’m reflecting on how community is built, how important it is to form meaningful relationships rather than rely on shared identity to stand-in for connection. How much work it takes to build community, and who puts in that labor vs. who comes to the table expecting it to be set.

Why I was taught, growing up, never to arrive at a meal without bringing something to contribute. How I’ve grown lax about what I bring.

Yesterday, Thursday — I continued to live in a travel nightmare, arriving at the LGA airport yesterday with a very bad cold only to discover my flight was again cancelled. The next available flight to San Jose was scheduled the following morning, and I felt too sick to travel back to where I was staying in Flatbush.

I called my sister for moral support, and she was home sick too, but she helped me research other airlines to the Bay Area for a while, to no avail. Eventually, I went back to the counter to a very annoyed, very rude, Southwest agent who seemed to hate both her job, and me. She shuffled me to another agent when I couldn’t tell her the number of the flight I wanted (yes, it’s as bizarre as it sounds) and she wanted me to leave the line and come back to go look up the flight number of the LGA <> SFO flight on the board. This new guy was very kind and seemed to pity me as I was very obviously sick. He did what the previous agent and the numerous calls to Southwest couldn’t do. He listened to me as I explained I just wanted to leave NYC that night and booked me in mere minutes on the last minute flight to San Francisco (although I live near San Jose). After another two travel delays due to weather (2 hour delay at La Guardia, 3 hour delay at Denver), I was in transit for about 14+ hours and luckily my brother was able to pick me up at 3am PST (kind of wrecking his next day too) and drive me for an hour back to Cupertino.

Those of you who’ve flown when you’re sick with any form of cold know that the air pressure in your head is terrible. The pain in my ears made me want to scream during the descent, but I think it’s worth it to have arrived home, if only to be in bed all day. I woke up even more sick and sore. I don’t feel I have the energy to deal with the tasks piling up left and right. I want to exercise, or I want to fast. But I’m not doing either. Instead, I’m feeling SO HAPPY TO BE HOME!!!

I’m so grateful for resources right now. For the dear friends MSG & Jully who let me stay for two more days in their apartment and even placed an extra blanket on the bed when they heard I was sick. For Pele for feeding me and actually wanting me join Iftar even though I was sick. For all the friends who texted and checked-in on me during the day. For the money to have taken a car service from Brooklyn to LGA while I was sick. For the money to buy sudafed and other meds to get me through a day and night of traveling. For my family members, especially Justin who stayed up until two in the morning to pick me up from an airport an hour away. For my mom who had hot oxtail soup waiting for me in a warmer.

I know this is just another chance to be super kind to myself, so I’ll be watching videos all day and sleeping and doing nothing and trying not to go nuts about that. Wheeee.



Ramadan Day 1: #Haramadan

Day One – #Haramadan

That’s what all the cool kids are calling it. At first, I didn’t like hearing the phrase. After all, if I can’t put up some virtue during Ramadan, when can I? Well, one thing led to another, and the eve before Haramadan — I may have ended up somewhere haram-y (a queer/poly mixer) at the local lesbian bar in Brooklyn and one of my favorite watering holes, Ginger’s. I was playing a game of pool and my opponent gave me some queer eye. A friend leaned over and asked me, are you looking right now, are you open to hooking up? You should go for it! I said “No.” It was the first time I’d said that out loud about my sex intentions, proactively, to another person, in a chapter of my life when I’d been whispering, over and over again, inside myself – I just want to love and be loved by a great person. But love wasn’t what came along, or so I thought.

Life is full of surprises, and I wasn’t even supposed to be in Brooklyn.



My love(ly) life is nothing to speak of, but I did indulge in very strange behaviors the past five months. I enjoyed a series of romantic interactions with women and genderqueer white folks who didn’t share my values, politically in some cases, personally in others. I know why I did this – it was a sense of loss and defeat. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about each of them, or that they didn’t care about me, it’s that none of them were available for a monogamous partnership and relationship yet wanted to connect with me. I still allowed intimacy to develop, despite how trite this story can be. I was thinking: what could it hurt me? It did hurt me.

I didn’t account for a one-sided open heart. My heart. I’m so grateful for it. It was showing me that all along it knew how to love.

The best part about each fling was that it happened no sooner than I put out an intention that I was done dating and needed to be single for the next period. But then the fear and the burnout of trying to get pregnant single would chip at me and my resolve. And, without variation, these folks would be attractive to me. That sexy beat between genders and femininity and masculinity that always makes me want to dance. A song my body knew before it knew shame and a song that other people have wanted to learn too. Sometimes, we hear the song but we don’t see the singer. It was, the Doctor said, as if you put out an intention and then Allah gave you a chance to show you were committed to it.

So I’ve been gone from home for two months. I’ve been in Oregon, Virginia, Baltimore, DC, and am writing from NYC. Oregon and Virginia were writing residencies. Baltimore/DC was a few days with beloved friends Courtru and Melissa and Corki and Virgie and Day. NYC was also supposed to be a weekend swing-through for the purpose of hanging out with my queer Muslim family. It was great. I ate salads and healthy things. And then I went through a few nights of burgers and bodega sandwiches. I mean, it was my last couple nights, what could it hurt?

At one point, I visited friends in the atrium at Wall Street, and afterwards, a friend asked what my intention was for Ramadan. It was so easy and simple: I said that I wanted to be loving and gentle with all my decisions during Ramadan. Fasting or not. Writing or not. Being sad and doing nothing or being bold and doing too much. Choosing to reach outside myself or inside myself for support. I wanted to be calm and accepting and at peace with me.

I packed the next day with focus, happy after two months to finally get to see my mom, sister, brother, my two nephews. I made one last trip to my favorite Café Madeline, and while chowing down, I saw an e-mail that my flight was cancelled. I felt disappointed. Two months is a long time for me not to be home. I decided that at least I could make Iftar on the first night of Ramadan, and hadn’t I spent quite some time feeling sorry for myself that I didn’t get to fast with the queer Muzzies of New York? Here was my chance. An Iftar to be hosted by Pele was already on the calendar. Pele is one of my spiritual guides so it was a wonderful time to be with them. I took the option of rescheduling my flight two days away, rather than one.

So of course, now that I was facing Ramadan eve, I felt that I could really dig in to my time. I hung out with T and had a lamb burger. We read tarot. Everything was great, except that the allergies in the air were intense. T and I went to the grocery store because I wanted to stock up on some items for Suhoor. Eggs, turkey slices, bread, fruit. Somewhere between the ice cream and the frozen pot pies I felt a chill, and then I walked through the rain to get ready for a night at the queer/poly mixer at Ginger’s. It was awesome. I even reunited with a friendly face I hadn’t seen for years.

On the way home, I ignored the tickle in my throat. I was excited to wake up for Suhoor. Around 3:30am, I realized that I couldn’t breathe, my throat was sore, and I was very congested. I tried to fight it off, and I had half a bodega sandwich for the morning meal. But after another hour had passed, I realized I had a cold, and so I had water and Sudafed, and I broke my fast.

I felt distraught. I wasn’t home. I wasn’t traveling. Should I not have postponed my flight? Should I not have gone to Ginger’s? What was I doing?

Oh right. I was in the process of loving kindness – calm acceptance – of all my decisions this #Haramadan.

Well, I’m off to a queer Iftar in NYC. See you soon!

Q’Eid Mubarak 2017: thinking about Pokemon, Racism, and Dumplings

I’ve finally wrapped up most of my Eid celebrations and am happy to have a quiet moment to write. But, I find myself with less than usual to say because it all seems so boring, but hey — that can be good too. I think it’s because I’ve had such a happy and fulfilling last two weeks. As many of you know, I decided to take a break from writing to work on (wait for it) writing another piece about my pregnancy journey. I think I pretty wrote non-stop for a week, plus, and whoooo I churned out some tears and words. I was also really glad to take a break and see Queen for a 24-hour joyride and to go to Half Moon Bay and to meet new friends at a Q’Iftar. Also, I had to stop fasting, and that super bummed me out. I felt as if I’d lost something, and I wanted my fast back, but I also wanted to take care of my body. Finally, I had some big questions that I had to go splash through my inner river to answer. I guess I lived and am living the questions as Rilke said to do.

Usually, my Eid is a bit on the strange side. This year I couldn’t make it to Saimo and her family’s to kiss that Irvine grass. I didn’t have the queer Mozzie community over in NYC and our lovely Eid-BQ. (Copyright?) I thought it was going to be bit of a disaster Eid, but instead it was an adventure in rolling with it that was unbelievably excellent and fun!

I went to Santa Clara County Fairgrounds for the Eid Prayer. Thanks to a video that Nour, the owner of the most awesome hijab and women’s clothing store (Hayaa Clothing in San Jose) made for me — I was able to actually pray without tugging at the corner of my hijab to make sure it wasn’t slipping.




It was awesome if honestly the most lackadaisical Eid prayer yet. The Takbeer went on for possibly an eternity. The Khutbah was a long equivalent of get out the vote and at one point cited 401K’s as being a priority for people, though I think the Imam meant to urge people not to only think about their security. I prayed next to some kids (definitely elementary school age), so I ended up having to ask Allah to forgive me for being a terrible prayer guide for those kids who were possibly more confused than I was and yet continued to follow what I was doing. Thank you to my friends who continue to try and teach me – I want you to know that I did do many things right, just not everything. *forehead smack*

After, the food lines were a mess because it was at the Fairgrounds. But, the racial/ethnic composition at the San Jose prayer was different than the mostly Arab (Murfreesboro), mostly South Asian and Arab (Irvine), mostly Black (Chicago) Eid prayers I’ve attended previously in my many travels. It was nice to see a lot of faces that looked possibly Malaysian, or more likely Cham. A new friend who’s attended the SBIA masjid since she was a kid explained that there’s a huge Cham population in San Jose. Chams live near the Cambodian border of Vietnam, and have a distinct cultural and religious identity from the Vietnamese. It’s made me think a lot about race and Islam.

A while ago, I wrote that Islamophobia is a disguise for racism and racism is a disguise for Islamophobia, and back…and forth…and back. I witness this in how racism operates both outside of Muslim communities and within it. A lot of work can be done with non-Muslims in understanding that race, culture, and religion aren’t separate, especially when it comes to the socio-political realm. Queen and I were talking before Eid about the importance of acknowledging the political statement that we make when queer folks choosing Islam — that it is about our self-determination and the inescapability of our cultures, for many, which would be like asking us to say we’re not who we are. (I’m an exception in the sense that I wasn’t raised Muslim).

None of us are here for the inevitable demonizing (read racism) that comes with people asking people: WHOA, you’re Muslim, why would you be Muslim and queer? How do you deal with your “identities” hating each other? To me, the prevalence of this line of questions after Orlando is basically fueled by an effort to legitimize one (ahem, white supremacist) view of what Islam is, rather than the beautiful diversity of Islam, practiced not just by one group of people, but by so many (mostly) people of color in this world. It’s not just race, it’s the cultural patina of Muslims — so many different people are Muslim. Hate-filled racism leads people to claim one version of what being Muslim is — one story, meant to make Muslims seem like they’re a teeming mass of sameness, when in reality, the folks who’ve brought Allah into my life are a.) people of color b.) queer and c.) awesome. To me, there’s a messed-up element of stereotyping and bigotry in the discussion around requiring queer Muslims to say they exist in the first place.

This is also why I can’t handle the weird racist stuff around being people asking me why I would support a religion that isn’t feminist. First off, faith is complicated. Seriously, you don’t see me judging you for your belief in God, or your atheism for that matter. Second, one woman’s definition of feminism is another woman’s definition of imperialism and colonization. The reason we fight so hard to be who we are as people of color is because we have the right to create our own identities, not to have to answer to the powerful who demand that we justify why we are not exactly the same as them.

For a very long time now (incidentally before I knew anything about Islam) I’ve heard white people (and those of us poc invested in whiteness) criticize different (usually non-Western) countries and cultures as barbaric and sexist because the people in those places were darker-skinned and/or “oriental.” It’s the same crap I have to hear about how terrible Islam is for “making” women cover. It never ceases to amaze me how much the rest of the world needs saving and how many generalizations are made about women who wear hijab. It makes me wonder why all this rage and constant complaint doesn’t seem to materialize against the 100 richest people in the world (for instance). Why aren’t we demanding them to turn over their $$ and criticizing them for supporting a global economic system of wealth disparity which causes poverty, which in turn fuels violence and frankly, world environmental destruction. Why aren’t we upset that they’re covering up? So, it seems pretty obvious to me that racism disguised as Islamophobia operates hand in hand to give the sense that there’s this foreign group of darker-skinned people out there who somehow are more homogeneous and more dangerous rather than . . . the actual oppressors who somehow are really different than each other and harmless, even though nobody seems to be that interested in whether they are liberated from their clothing.



Anyway, back to my Eid which was so lovely and fun. I then eventually left the fairgrounds and was able to eat an amazing loco moco at a Hawaiian joint near my mom’s place. I met up with my sister, my newphew, and two cousins, where we joined my sister’s friends families (3 kids, 2 adults) to take down a Lapras and then a Tyranitar at this new “raid” where groups of players get together and defeat Pokemon to gather high CP (combat power) creatures. Let’s just say that I caught some major raid bosses, creatures I’ve never had before. This was a major highlight.




Then, exhausted, I took a nap and then jumped up and made it out to Oakland to an awesome activist PrEid party thanks to a new friend Yve (who I’ve never met before). It was a chill queer family party w/ queer babies and a garden, and I loved the delicious cauliflower and lentil options. The sunlight was filtered and smooth. The awesome host forced me to walk away with a tub of organic fruit. Of all the amazingness, Yve really helped me put into perspective that any queer Muslim organizing needs to dig deep and confront anti-Black racism. I asked myself a lot of questions about how I could help or hurt those efforts now that I’m living in a new place.

I next drove to another amazing Eid party in Berkeley, invited by my friend Blissey. It was hosted by Kashmiri activist Huma Dar@baalegibreel 

I first need to mention that food-wise, it was the opposite of the first party. It was a BBQ with mutton and chutney, roasted duck and peach, kebabs of chicken and beef, and tons of thick bread. Both parties really killed it with dessert, but I don’t have a sweet tooth, so I won’t make you all salivate.

Huma was present, but in a lot of pain, thinking and discussing the dire conditions for so many people in Kashmir. It cost her deeply to try and find what joy she could in Eid. It was humbling to share space with Huma. Many of the folks at the party were also actively working to help the Dalit community, and it was good to understand how activism feeds itself for justice. Witnessing these linkages in person, I feel so grateful to be allowed to share this space, and to have learned more for myself about what is happening in Kashmir.

When I finally made it home, I was so tired, but the best part was that my mom was home from Taiwan. She’d only come back the day before when I picked up her, my aunt, and my uncle from SFO. I slid into bed and after sifting through my Poke herd for just a little, I fell fast asleep. I knew my Eid wasn’t over.



(yes, i know it’s haram to eat gelatin…but mmmm…late night snacking i’ve missed yeh!)


Monday night, a group of us gathered to celebrate Q’Eid at Kamdesh, a lovely restaurant serving Afghani food in Oakland.Winnie and I traded Eid tales as we carpooled to Oakland from the South Bay. A friend, Verse, I hadn’t seen for maybe six years was visiting the Bay from LA. She suggested folks get together for dinner. That’s when i realized: every culture that has a dumpling be blessed! The mantoos were outrageous, and my chapli kabab was among the best I’ve ever had. It was SO delicious that I couldn’t resist the baklava they gave us for Eid. But I digress, because over this amazing feast, Verse told me that she had decolonized her mind to come to terms with her sexuality and gender. She’s now in a relationship with a trans man, and when I’d known her in LA that hadn’t been the case. I felt such a radiant light emanating from her, and such gratitude that she had gathered this group of people together. They are new friends here in the Bay — many of us different in our politics and cultures and race, but holding space for each other for Eid. It felt like a true homecoming.

We wrapped up the night, five of us who managed a second wind (after gorging ourselves), over at Fenton’s creamery, which I haven’t been to in over 15 years, since before it burned down and then remodeled. I even ordered a cherry pie with (decaf) coffee in honor of Twin Peaks (yassss – that’s right!). We talked about astrology and what our Harry Potter houses/dementors would be (though I didn’t get a chance to talk about Harry Li Potter, my take on the series). It was sweetness personified.

I want to thank you all for reading. I hope to someday share with you the piece that I wrote over the past two weeks. I want to thank T for guiding me on my journey through babylandia and giving me comfort when I needed it; Queen for giving me that beautiful blessing/greeting while I was at SFO and for keeping me company and easing my loneliness. I feel like my problems are becoming easier. Gratitude to Bollywood Superstar for being this dear friend and person supporting my fast and my efforts to become a mother; Winnie for sharing Ramadan with me and for inviting me to the Bay with such warmth and giving me so much time and energy; all my wonderful NYC friends, my queer Muslim community especially: Pele for checking-in on me, for supporting my writing, and making space for me to join book club remotely, the Imam for reminding me to hold Lucille Clifton close, and too many others to name, including Mirna for giving me baby-making advice. Special shout-out to P—- for that e-mail about cervical mucus and much, much more; B’Andrea for making space in her ache for hope for me; Courtru for being one of my dearest and nearest friends and for encouraging me always with this blog; Saimo for always teaching me to be a person and a better faster; Thanks to Tanzila Ahmed and the Ramadan Poetry-a-Day community; thanks to Andrew for sharing with me such a beautiful part of who you are; thanks to Lisa Ko for our perfect SF day during your book tour (The Leavers – buy it); thanks to Crystal for being an accountable fellow writer and for allowing our Ramadan time to overflow with spermutations of solidarity; thanks to my many VONA friends; thanks to my work buds Miriam and Mags for continuing to be there for me and giving me an anchor; thanks to the Doctor for so much, esp for urging me to pray the Istikhara; thanks to the poets whose words kept me company; thank to those of you who gave me love quietly; thank you if you took the time to text me or pray for me this Ramadan.

I’m sure I forgot people, but I won’t forget my amazing sister who holds it all down, the job, the chores, the two kids, and does it while remaining a generous, sweet person who doesn’t fly into fits of rage and who still manages to keep her pokemon addiction alive and to convert people into pokefiends. My brother for being there in this part of the journey while also stretching his wings to find the right path for him. My cousins, aunt, and uncle — for giving me that feeling that my family is endless. And of course of course of course, everything to my mother who is herself everything. I love you.

Allah – you kept it real. thank you for bringing the Awesomeness and for giving me this blessed space to reconnect with myself after moving from NYC. I can’t wait to discover all the blessings of Ramadan that will manifest through this next year, Insha’Allah.



Ramadan Day 29



Ramadan Day 17 – Pulse

Today my heart aches for the Latin@/Latinx community, for the dear souls that lost their lives or were wounded by the homophobic violence at Pulse. I kneel and kiss the ground in memory of Orlando.

Today I can barely focus remembering the personal despair of that time. It’s blurry to me. Yet the pain of today, of Orlando, is fresh and sharp. Is this how I should’ve felt last year?

I feel light-headed not fasting — as if I’ve lost something.

Weeks before the shooting, after my breakup, I no longer had my mental health. I couldn’t fast. I couldn’t speak to friends. I wanted to mourn, but I was already grieving. I was isolated. I lost my connection to community. I was consumed with rage. I was depressed.

Many people called me, queer people, queer Muslims, queer whites. friends, acquaintances. people who needed to talk about Orlando. they were depressed. who asked me to listen. but i couldn’t help. i said no. i said other things too, but i don’t remember.

i’m foggy as to who asked me how i was doing. were you there for me? i can’t remember. i did think about the difference between the straight people in my life and the queer people in my life. the straight people were more present. there were exceptions. i did think about the reaction in the latin@/latinx community and the reaction in the queer Muslim community. did think about the way that queer people turned on each other, the way we do. did think about the way that straight people continued not to care, unless somebody made them care.

but i don’t want people to know that i was mainly thinking of myself.

i was so ashamed.
i am so ashamed.
i didn’t have a big enough a strong enough heart, to mourn what was being done to my people by my people.
i was already broken.

A queer friend of mine, Blanca, shared with me that she was at a baby shower a year ago today. She had endured a chemical pregnancy loss and yet still went to a friend’s second baby shower. Blanca is Colombian and wanted to be with her community for a dance vigil for Orlando. She left the baby shower early. When she did, a straight friend told her off for leaving.

Blanca wrote me: I remember things the past four years in relation to our losses, even our community losses. Never danced as gratefully as I did at that vigil party.

These days, I wrote her, I’ve coupled my personal loss with the community loss very much so. I don’t know how to separate them right now.

She wrote back: No, we can’t

Ramadan Day 16


Ramadan Day 14 – It’s all Fun and Games Until Somebody Starts Bleeding

I’m not a bloody mess. But I am. No fast today. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or not. I feel like I have 50% energy, and I’m not sure I like it.

I may not get to fast for the rest of the time until I try to knock myself up. I’m supposed to prepare my body for pregnancy.

Who wants to talk about my cycle? I think one unintended bonus of being on this journey is all the ways in which I’ve had to get comfortable talking about my cycle. I’ve never paid this much attention to my body. Actually, I’ve never had this many people pay attention to my body at once.
It makes me feel kinda hot.

No really.
I mean I’m knocking myself up and all.
Ok, ok — What’s like a period?
That was the start of a joke about periods, but I don’t really remember it. IF you finish it, OR BETTER YET if you e-mail me or submit in my comments the BEST PERIOD JOKE EVER — I will let you submit a name into the running for my future baby(ies.) Of course I reserve all rights in naming my baby(ies.) Also, on your honor, please don’t randomly google period jokes – or if you have to do that — maybe modify it or at least have some taste!


Today I picked a donor. I won’t go into all the gory details (yet), but I will say that I basically had a breakdown that led to a breakthrough in the last 24 hours. I had to call Queen, Bollywood Heartthrob, and T, and then literally hold a family meeting / conference call that was interrupted by a rat exterminator. No joke. Then I got mad and interrupted the rat extermination.


Here’s a member of the family who didn’t say much during the conference call.



Turkey was really into the extermination.


Here’s another fun game — attribute comments to the right family member for points.

“This guy has the sexiest voice.”

“Do you think he’s gay? Can you rank them in order of gayness?”

“Guys, none of these donors really strike me as being gay.”

“How would you know?”

“I’m just saying he sounds like he might be gay.”

“He has really big lobes.”

“Big lobes are good luck for Chinese people.”

“Is this lobe conversation helping you? Because if not, can we move on?”

“Is it okay if he’s an ugly baby?”

“Don’t worry, our genes will kick in and take care of that.”

“Oh, Koreans are the same as Northern Chinese anyway.”

“My best friend is Korean. We have lunch once a week.”

“He’s a doctor.”

“That guy’s a dick.”

“He reminds me of dad. He can build anything, and he’s getting a Ph.D.”

“This guy’s essay was the most concise. I kept imagining how his grammar would really bother you.”

“He has a mole on his forehead. But don’t worry — you can get it removed like the two of you did in Taiwan. Remember?”

“Oh my God, Oh My God — this guy looks like Daniel Henney. Daniel Henney is so hot. He is soooooo hot. Forget these guys. Let’s get you sperm from Daniel Henney. Oh my God he is so hot. So hot. Oh, don’t worry I won’t say this about your kid.”

“Ok, that was weird.”

“I think this guy would make a pretty girl. I mean, he would make so many pretty girls.”

“So you ARE really shallow.”

“He’s kind of fratty.”

“Oh he’s very smart. He wants to save the world. He’s a good person. Pick a good person.”

“I’m not picking for you. I’m just offering my suggestions.”

“I read that he and his mom were on his own for a while. That’s a bonus for me.”

“We have cancer and everything else so it doesn’t matter if he has MS in his history.”

“Who cares? Everybody has problems.”

“He had a happy childhood, and he seems like he’s pretty happy with what he’s doing in life.”

“Do you have a height thing?”

“His ears really stick out.”

“So do mom’s”

“I said he was a dick, not an asshole.”

“His answers are really clipped. Let’s just say if I discovered this was my donor when I was 18, I wouldn’t want to meet him.”

“When we open our sperm bank, we’re getting baby pictures from the celebrity look-alikes so people can see what they really looked like. Look at our _____________. He was an ugly baby, but he was really cute now.”

“I was an ugly baby.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I don’t think the celebrities will give away their baby pictures.”

“No, but don’t you think their mothers and aunts, and grandparents will. Just offer $100.”

“Wow, you’re meeting much nicer men than if you were meeting them on the street. These sperm banks have really nice men.”

“I’m not meeting any men on the street.” (yeah, you know who this is.)

“I call heads.”

So many gems here.

A spoken word poem waiting to happen.

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