I was Bullied at a Szechuan Resturant

When I woke up, I had to defecate. There is nothing worse than pooping in my dorm room as the walls are thin and I'm developing ulcer like symptoms due to an unhealthy caffeine addiction. With no help of a bathroom fan, I've turned to have the shower run when the defecation process is in motion. It's totally normal and not odd at all having my roommate stare at me coming out of the bathroom completely dry after having the shower run for twenty minutes. For some, this whole pooping while the shower running concept might seem overtly weird and it is, but transparency is the key to overcoming poop anxiety, that's what a Reddit post titled, "So, You Have Poop Anxiety" told me. Guys, I'm just joking. I needed some form of comic relief before diving into the topic of having an unusually large group of Chinese exchange students bully me due to my chopstick incompetence at a Szechuanese restaurant. I figured bathroom humor in the form of a mental health disorder like poop anxiety would be hilariously funny. Regardless of the tangent I went off on for comic relief, I'm about to tell you something in which I bare you to refrain from laughing. I was a victim of group bullying. The perpetrators, 10 or so Chinese exchange students equipped with designer clothing and Macklemore like haircuts, trendy if it was 2012 again. It was a Sunday night. My college cafeteria was serving hamburger mac and cheese, leftover from some school banquet, a potpourri of everything I morally stand against as a human. School banquets and fast-food fusion food combined screams bad bacteria. In my current pre-ulcer state, taking such brave actions in the form of hamburger mac and cheese consumption wasn't going to happen. Instead, I set off to Chong Qing House, a Szechuanese stronghold in the heart of Providence, to find some form of solace. And I did find solace at first. A menu offering quintessential Szechuanese dishes like Chongqing Stew The Cock W/ Spicy Sauce and Beer Duck provided a laugh. I didn't settle for Stew The Cock as I was alone. Ordering something by yourself with the word cock in the dish title isn't amusing alone. Instead, I fell for the classic throwbacks of Mapo Doufu and Chili Rice Noodles, two of the hardest dishes to consume as an inexperienced chopstick user. On arrival, portion sizes of both dishes were uncomfortably large for one person even as a lifelong American stemming from Suburbia. Handed only a set of chopsticks and a spoon in which I wasn't going to use for fear of Chinese exchange student mockery, it didn't matter. My first attempt going head to head with the glutenous nature of a single chili rice noodle didn't make entry into my mouth but instead made contact with the floor. That's when the first giggles of unknown dialect developed from the table of Asian Macklemore's. Embarrassed, I turned back to reading The Economist as I was before the arrival of my meal for 12. The giggles, now mixed in with long eye contact and the occasional finger point from several of the Asian Macklemore's, as to signal, "Look at this kid reading The Economist, he can't use chopsticks!", was defeating. Nonetheless, I powered through and attempted an ill-advised stabbing technique, piecing the chopstick end into noodle flesh. It didn't work. This again prompted laughter. The Asian Macklemore's were now in cahoots with my waiter, talking freely in Cantonese. Betrayal, strictly in the form of waiter betrayal, was all too much for someone that didn't want to eat school banquet fast-food fusion. So I left, taking my chili rice noodles with me, finishing them in true solace with a plastic spork in my dorm room. Away from the world, away from my conniving waiter, away from the bullies that laughed at my demise, I was beginning to regain the little confidence that I once had. That was until my roommate opened the door, sweat-drenched from an apparent gym workout, and said without hesitation, "What the fuck are you eating."