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When I was seven, I became crazy about wuxiang dou-fwespice beans. My grandma would give me only two or three each time, five if I was good. So I began to steal coins from under her pillow, one at a time. When I got 57 fen, I went to the store and bought half a kilogram of the beans. I took the bag to the kitchen and poured it onto the greasy table. I put my arms around the pile. This was all mine. I didn't have to share it with any one else. I didn't have to pretend to be a selfless daughter or an elder sister. I could eat it quickly or slowly, standing or sitting or lying down, any manner I fancied. I could throw or give it away. I was the master of these beans. The kitchen was dark; the sun was shimmering in sky of the summer noon; the beans smelled seductive. I filled my mouth with a handful and chewed until my jaws ached and numbed. Tears rolled down as I thought life is so good and wouldn't it be better if no one ever woke up from their nap to interrupt my happiness.
Happiness is as much as anything
an illusion, a hypothesis, or a process
of overcoming a series of pains.
The sensation of feeling uprooted and floating,
or stuck in the present,
unable to move back or forward.
You said too bad women don't give you
a chance. But do I really want a chance?
You placed your hand on my shoulder, your eyes
the look of an animal.
One day I asked,
"Mother, something is wrong with me.
I feel dizzy and nauseous, my joints hurt
like hell, my face burns and I'm pissing blood."
"Too much sex, my dear daughter."
"Mother, I just got fired from my job, my writing
rejected, and I might lose
my apartment in the summer. What's going on?"
"Sex brings bad luck. How many times do I need to tell you?"
"Mother, my days are now filled with despair,
and my nights taken over by fever and bouts of sweat.
I can't make friends with women.
Men dump me for lack of tenderness.
Mother, I think I'm going insane."