I'm exempted from our chess final exam. Champed the tournament, women's division. Yeah, hurrah, whatever. I don't need the cheer; I didn't lift a finger. Factoid: women SUCK in chess. But me, I'm not exactly a woman, your typical woman, your "normal" woman. I am a gynandromorph. And I love math besides. Some obscure study says math and chess go together, that both have the same governing principles and multiple parameters of options and setbacks with every move... hurr, brainlag. Brain just died.

Brain just died from excessive insulin exploding in my pancreas due to glutting myself with so much BOORTSOG. Boortsog is a Mongolian cuisine I just cooked moments back. I'm not exactly a cook but I can boil anything real swell, especially water. This weird boortsog thing, it's a project for the food fest kajigger for some stupid class where I reported about Mongolians and Tibetan Buddhism a month ago. The professor of that class, she's short and fat and pockmarked and four-eyed and she squints incessantly like she's seeing giant dancing penises for the first time. Someone just called her squinting mannerism "kuraption".

Professor Kuraption asked us to prepare simple dishes that hail from the places we reported about. Mine's about Northern Asia, about Genghis Khan and his whole angkan of belligerent cross-eyed mongoloids. I don't remember much of it; history fails to impress upon my memory. Most of history is useless information anyway. We all learn the who's and what's and where's and when's and how's. But we don't know why. Why people do the things they do. Professor Kuraption fails to answer that but let me fingerpoint the obvious: history is propelled by GREED. Empires wanting more land, more slaves, more guns and bombs, more power, more whatever.

It is sickening.

Back to boortsog. I have the culinary skills of a circus chipmunk. My boortsog looked like the crusty black end of a pie. It's supposed to taste like something in between a biscuit and a slice of bread, only filled with large amounts of refined sugar and butter and polyunsaturated fatty acids. (Them polyunsaturated whachamacallems are said to increase the risk of transmitting cancer to your progeny. So maybe my mother had cancer because her mother had eaten PFA excessively just as her mother before her did and maybe I have cancer genes too. Eeeeeek.) But my boortsog, it tasted like deep-fried charcoal. I simply camouflaged the taste by smothering it with the right amount of pimiento-flavored Cheez Whiz. And viola. It tastes excellente. That's what condiments were invented for: to mask our inadequate culinary prowess.

Why do you think we dip our french fries in ketchup?
Why do you think we dip our fried chicken in gravy?
Why do you think we dip our veggy salad in mayonnaise?
Why do you think fastfood chains are so successful?
Was it because of their food? Or their condiments?

It must've been a fluke of nature that we have all the plants and animals we can eat but we're not naturally inclined to eat them, you know, raw. Only animals eat raw meat and vegetables. Us humans, we're not animals. We've evolved from animals. We're civilized. We mask our fatal flaw that we simply are just animals. We build ships and study the fixed northern star and navigate the deep sea in search for spice islands that will transform us into gluttons, conquerors, colonizers, usurpers, people suffering from pathological insecurities of wanting to be something else besides an eloquent, intelligent monkey.

Maybe that's what separates us from the beasts: we're insecure.

I mean, what the hell on earth are clothes for?

I struggled in Professor Kuraption's class memorizing shit I have no use for after I graduate. (Given that I am going to graduate.) I memorized a plethora of tedious silly facts but merely reached a passing grade. In chess I didn't lift a middlefinger but was still exempted from the finals.

Do ants fart?
Do ants defecate?

Just some random stupid questions randomly popping in my random brain. Bite my shiny random ass. Haha. Go fingerfuck yourself in the butt orifice.

I was exempted from our chess final exams partly because I deftly painted the youngest Filipino Grandmaster on some cheap black cartolina using cheap rainbow-colored chalks under an hour. The work of a penny-pinching student, always efficient, effective, and cheap. Just when I thought my painting skills have abandoned me it kicked right back in before the deadline. My rainbow chalk-painting of Wesley So looked like he was wearing one of those scramble suits from Philip Dick's Scanner Darkly. Wesley So acquired the Grandmaster title in 2007 when he was only 14 years, 1 month, and 28 days old. A child prodigy, that. That could've been me had I been given the right influences conducive to grandmastership. Like, you know.

Word did you say?

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