This entry was originally supposed to discuss how everything in my life has conditioned and rewired me to be trapped in vicious cycle after cycle with no way to escape. The title of it was supposed to be some lame pun about Catch 22 and how I’m 22 years old. But that entry was never written for I had lost the motivation to keep up this blog. However, I just woke up at 4am, haunted by a certain little incident that happened a month ago. It’s another layer of icing on this poisoned cake that life has given me. (“Poisoned cake”… that sounded lame and melodramatic… I hate myself for writing that, and continue to hate myself for pointing it out but not actually going back and deleting it.)
I have this joke where I say that my mother has a habit of crashing the car. It sounds funny and it’s kind of true too. To be fair, she doesn’t crash THAT often. It averages out to maybe one crash every 3 years, so it’s not like she’s crashing everyday, but it’s still pretty frequent. I don’t go out much and I remember this one time when I was walking past my mom at the stairs and telling her I was going to use the car and she responded matter-of-factly that she had crashed the car and it was in the shop. It was kind of hilarious how she wasn’t hysterical about it, about a collision as big as what had happened. I was going to move on from this tangent so I can tell the main story, but I might as well finish this tangent since I can sum it up in one line. Apparently, she dozed off while exiting the highway and fell off the highway ramp.
Now for the main story. It started on May, 2012. It was a typical afternoon at around 4 pm. My mom had gotten off work and was about to head out again to do some banking or some other mundane shit. Five minutes after she left the house, she came back in and reported to me that she had crashed the car into another car right on the driveway outside the house. I was forced to go and check out what happened. Not that I was too reluctant to do it, but it was a hassle nonetheless. The other driver is a Chinese man who can’t speak English. Those are the worst Chinese men in the world. Those entitled bastards who come to Canada (or any other English speaking country), refuse to learn the language, and proceed to ruin the Chinese reputation and everyone else’s lives. My parents are also these kinds of people but that’s a little beside the point. For the next hour or two, I had to deal with this angry Chinaman. What a treat.
The collision itself was ridiculous. It was a rear bumper to rear bumper collision and my mom hadn’t even left the driveway yet. The fucker was pulling some retarded three point turn or some shit. If you look at the geography of the road, it made no sense whatsoever for his car to be in the position that it was in. Two houses down the road, there’s a large area to easily perform a U-turn. But nooo, this Asian fucker who can’t drive decided that it was better to do a three point turn right outside my fuckin’ house and crash into my mom’s car. For all I know, he could’ve crashed into our car on purpose to solicit cash (which he did). Surely my mom is partially at fault too for not looking at the fuckin’ rear view mirror which could’ve prevented this whole ordeal. Or maybe she did look at the rear view mirror and sat silently as she watched the fucker fail to perform a three point turn and crash into her. I don’t know which is worse but they’re both stupid. I once wrote this racist and sexist joke saying that my mom is the worst possible driver because she’s short, she’s Asian, and she’s a woman. Don’t you love it when a stereotype manifests itself in life?
The other guy’s bumper was dented quite a bit and it was kind of funny how my mom’s car sustained no damage at all. Seriously, not even a scratch. It was like karma decided that the worse driver should have to sustain all the damage. But you know what? The universe works in funny ways because this story somehow ends with me being the one who’s figuratively raped in the ass. I wonder if this is called foreshadowing, even though the reason this story is being told is because I’m ranting and whining like a little bitch. But a better question is, why am I caring about the technical term of what I’m writing instead of just fuckin’ telling the story?
What’s worse than talking to a Chinaman who can’t speak English? Talking to an angry Chinaman who can’t speak English. And it’s worse for me; Because I’m Chinese-looking, Chinamen will walk up to me and start speaking Chinese instantly. Then when they find out that I actually don’t speak Chinese, they try to shame me for it. Fuck them. Go back to China if you want to speak Chinese so badly. As a Chinese Canadian, I have even more reason to hate Chinese people than any white man out there. Not only do I have to talk with this fuckin’ angry Chinaman, he doesn’t understand shit I’m saying and speaks Chinese right to my face. Two people speaking two different languages and neither one can understand the other. What a fuck fest that was.
This whole incident is another example of why I hate the world. The world we live in has to put up with crazy people and the crazier your are, the more the world gives in to you. In an argument, logic doesn’t matter; the louder person wins. Basically, this fucker felt even more self-righteous because he was the angrier one. Some days, I just want to turn my back on sanity and be the crazy one for once and have the world deal with me. Being calm and collected is apparently just an invitation for crazy people to dump their crazy shit all over me.
So anyway, this guy claimed his car was brand new and wanted us to pay him for the full repairs. He wanted us to give him $1200, and he’ll bring back the receipt to settle the difference. Paying cash up front is one thing, but who would actually trust an irrational angry fucker to bring back change? The funniest part about this whole negotiation process is that he’s talking fast and angrily, while I’m speaking slowly and using my fingers whenever I’m talking about numbers, as if I was speaking to a retarded infant. Not that I felt this guy deserved to be paid, but I just wanted to hurry up and get this over with and get him out of my life and off my driveway. Eventually, we reluctantly agreed on $800 and not deal with bullshit change. Neither party was happy with it but at least it was finally going to get over and done with. This whole thing is like one silly nightmare. We didn’t even leave our own driveway yet and this fucker comes crashing in and tries to extort money. It’s even worse than the tax collectors in biblical times because at least they weren’t stupid angry Chinamen.
I went back into the house to type up a little contract. I never liked the idea of contracts because they’re easily forgeable. Truth is worthless in the face of evidence, whether the evidence is fraudulent or not. But it wasn’t like I was going to take this fucker’s word (in another language that I can’t even understand), so I had no other choice. I typed the shit up and used Google Translate for a rough Chinese version. Both parties signed it and it seemed like this ordeal was finally coming to an end. By the way, this story isn’t even half over yet… Fuck, this story’s long and taking a hell lot of time to type.
We didn’t have that kind of cash in the house, so my mom had to go to the bank. This shouldn’t be a problem for the guy since he was at our house; it’s not like we could run away or anything. My mom wounded up getting stuck in traffic for over 30 minutes and I had gone back into the house. About 15 minutes in, the guy rang the doorbell to check on the situation. Now this part is kind of funny because up until that point, my mom was translating between me and that Chinese fucker (I’m getting tired of calling him fucker and Chinaman, I need to think of some new names). I speak Cantonese and English, my mom speaks Cantonese and Mandarin, and that guy only speaks Mandarin. Even though I came out to have a discussion between men, my mom had to translate. Not that she was any good at it, but it got by. So now that my mom is gone, the Chinaman and I no longer understand a word the other person is saying. He was essentially defanged and powerless because he cannot speak English.
When my mom finally came back, it wasn’t cash she brought, but she brought her sister instead, to help with this whole situation. My aunt was against paying him the cash and recommended us to deal with our individual insurance companies instead. I had brought that up once in the beginning but my mom feared the risk of rising insurance rates. I didn’t really care either way so I slowly backed away and became a bystander instead. When the accident happened, I had to take control of the situation a bit, as a man, since my mom had no idea what to do. Now that my aunt’s here, I’ll let the adults deal with it. Soon, my dad came home from work as well and things got a little heated again. Because everything’s so messy and there are so many people throwing their opinions into the situation, we finally decided to not deal with the cash and just file the insurance claims. Since we didn’t make a transaction, the contract was nullified, and was just a total waste of my time and effort, despite how little I gave.
After the douche finally left our house, we went to the police station to report the collision. I had to help my mom with all this paperwork and “talking to white people” because my mom can’t speak English. The officer that was helping me was super chill. We had a chuckle about how ridiculous a rear-to-rear collision is, and I told him that we sustained no damage but the other car did. When I finished filling out the report, I asked him if I was done, if I needed to report to the insurance or anything and he told me I didn’t need to unless I was making a claim, which I’m not. At last, I’m done with this whole annoying business. Or so I thought. For the next six months, this situation didn’t come up anymore and I lived normally ever after… for six months. (I couldn’t bring myself to write “happily ever after” because I’m never really happy…) This is the end of the back story, just the back story.
One Saturday afternoon in late November, my mom got a call from her insurance agent telling her that her rates have increased because of that accident. It was understandable for my mom to question the agent further to find out what was going on, but my mom didn’t do it in a calm manner. Both sides were ticked off and now I’m thrown into the mix again, because I have to deal with the insurance and police to figure out if there’s a way to fix this. I have to “deal with white people” again because my mom can’t.
One of the reasons things have gone awry is because our insurance company claims that they’ve called us tens of times, left messages, and even sent 2 letters to get our story behind this incident. But we didn’t get any of that. I don’t deal with mail but apparently my parents never received those and the phone calls never came. I have no life and I’m home 24/7 so if they really did call tens of times, I would’ve known. How this major miscommunication mishap happened I’ll never know, but talking about that wouldn’t solve anything; I need to do what I can, given the current situation, as shitty as it is.
My parents yell about stupid shit all the time and this is one big stinking mountain of shit that they could yell about forever and still not get anywhere. Over the years, my brain has actually been rewired so that every time I hear either parent’s voice, I feel an immediate overwhelming pain in my head. Whenever possible, I would close all doors, plug in headphones and blast music so I can’t hear them. In the past, I’ve tried defusing the situation, but it would just perpetuate the yelling. When angered, my parents lose all sense of rationality which they never had to begin with. I can go on to write books about how messed up my relationship with my parents are but I won’t. That was originally a big part of what this blog is supposed to be, but I had lost the motivation to do that. Without going into too much detail at this point, just take my word that tuning my parents out is a relatively decent coping mechanism. But now, because I have to talk to white people for them, I can’t leave the room but I can’t let their yelling give me an explosive headache either. Every time they start a sentence in the yelling tone, I instantly tell them to shut up and let me deal with it. I despised having to “win” by being louder, but there was nothing else I could do. Rude as I may have been, they couldn’t do anything about it because they needed me. I would have gladly opted out from participating in this ordeal again but my parents had no one else to turn to.
To deal with this situation, first I went to the police station to retrieve the collision report I had submitted. The receptionist told me that it would cost $60 so I held that off for the time being and decided to call the insurance company to see if I absolutely needed it and to see what they have to say about the whole situation. I called the agent back and boy was he ticked. I was calling for the first time and only wanted directions as to how to fix the situation, but that didn’t stop him from hating me through association to my annoying mother. He was only an agent and isn’t in charge of the situation and after enduring several minutes of him being snippy with me, I was able to get him to give me a number to call that deals with specific claims. I tried to not let the unpleasant conversation bother me too much since I got what I needed from it.
I called the claims department and the person helpfully gave me the number of the person in charge of making decisions on these cases, the one that judges who’s at fault and who’s insurance rates increase. Apparently, it’s just some woman named Tania Ercolani who has absolute say in all of this. She tried to sound friendly and reasonable, but in the end, she was basically just a self-righteous bitch. I had to jump through hoop after hoop and a lot of the hoops collapsed on itself. At first she decided that I needed to give her the collision report before she can re-evaluate the situation. That report isn’t strong evidence or anything, it’s basically just my version of the story, which I gave to her many times verbally already. I don’t know why the report makes any difference, because I made her admit that she has the power to dispute everything from it on a heartbeat since they’re not hard facts. Regardless, she wouldn’t budge unless I got the report so I tried to get it. Back in the police station, apparently they have no record of that report. I had the report summary with the report number and everything but nope, they don’t have it and there was nothing I could do. Chances are, whoever files the reports decided it’s a non-collision since there was $0 damage and discarded it after a week, or a month, or 5 months. I followed the procedures and even confirmed that I did everything I needed to do, but apparently, following the rules only screwed me over.
There was pretty much no hope left but I called Tania back and asked her if there was anything left for me to do. The other guy had reported the incident as “our vehicle was struck by the other vehicle” and she just takes his word for it. She looks at the pictures of the damage and says that even though it’s on the rear bumper, it’s kind of on the side. Somehow, the douche’s story is more credible than mine even though mine is the truth and his is manipulated to make him sound completely innocent. I put all my cards on the table for her. I didn’t try to conceal any information that might benefit me. I clearly stated it was really stupid for both parties because I’m not afraid to insult my mother. She kept insisting that it’s my story against the other guy’s and that she needed some evidence, some pictures. But there is no such picture that could prove anything. Any picture taken, it is arguable that it was taken after the collision. I made her admit that but she tries to defend the system by saying that the chance of the other party lying is very slim. What the fuck? The chance of her making sense is very slim. There are clearly contradicting stories so one party is definitely lying already. How the fuck is it a slim chance? Why is the other guy getting the benefit of the doubt? How is one vague sentence more believable than the hours of conversation I had with her, describing everything in detail? For all I know, this whole thing could be an inside job. I give Tania credit for being patient with me, but it doesn’t change the fact that the other party had the benefit of the doubt and she practically agreed that there was no possible way for me to not be at fault unless the other party just outright said it’s their own fault. They don’t even need to put any effort into lying and they already win by default. What’s annoying is that Tania tries to maintain the illusion of objectivity by saying she’s always open to re-evaluate, but when I grind out the details, nothing would actually suffice for her to change the verdict. Which is worse, a bad person or a hypocrite who thinks she’s a good person but isn’t? It doesn’t matter because they both ruin the world.
Okay, so now it’s over. There’s nothing left to do. But for the next week, I couldn’t sleep because this whole injustice is causing me heartaches. I spent nights forming arguments in my head like the fact that the physics of the other guy’s one-line story has a far less chance of happening than my lengthy detailed story that never contradicted itself. But I didn’t bother calling again because I knew it was futile. Whatever. We’re stuck with paying several hundred dollars more in insurance and on a conscious level, I knew that I just had to deal with it. But that didn’t stop my stupid mind from being haunted by the conversation over and over again. After a week or so, I was finally able to forget about it.
A few weeks passed and I hit my worst depression to date. It’s far stronger and longer than any other depressions I’ve ever experienced. That was when I wrote the first 3 entries of this blog. I’m at the stage now where I’m passively suicidal as opposed to being actively suicidal. I know my life is pretty good by most standards so I’m not just going to kill myself. But I’m practically looking for a reason to do it. If I had just one extra little push, life would feel so terrible for me that it wouldn’t be worth living anymore. Another couple weeks passed, and today, I awaken to the haunting memory of this story again. Yes, rationally, I know this ordeal sucked but it wasn’t that big a deal. On the irrational, emotional level, it haunts me to no end. If I kill myself in the next few days, I will be doing it with Tania Ercolani and that fuckin’ Chinaman in mind. I hope they find out and feel shitty for it. But they probably won’t since they’re heartless.