Post-Op Inquisition

This was an honest-to-goodness conversation. (I must credit Jeremy Polio for the style and format of the following...)

In his book of essays entitled "Fresh air Fiend," Paul Theroux made the very good point that no one really wants to hear about the maladaptations of your innards. However, my gastrointestinal region is really what prompted the situation that is the background of what follows, so here's the quick summation: I have had gross disgusting diarrhea intermittently since August, and non-stop since last week. I went for a doesn't-need-to-be-named procedure this morning that called for anaesthesia (and oh, I was GLAD for anaesthesia!). Here goes...

I pick up my head...
-Do you feel giddy?
-Wha...? (Groggy, confused)
-Do you feel g..i..d..d..y..?
-Oh Ohhh (Mental reminder to myself: giddy means dizzy in Malaysian English). No, no I'm not... giddy.
-Good. Are you mixed?
-(Offended silence) Yes. (I am not offering details.)
-Chinese?
-No. (Stubborn offended silence. Get the hint!)
-Japanese?
-(I nod yes wearily...she's not going to give up.) My mother is Japanese, my father is half-German, half-English. (I specify the German/English because otherwise the next question is... "Oh, and your father, he is American?" I hate that question because it relies HEAVILY on the assumption that American=White.)

I fake 'giddy' and ask to go to the bathroom so I can take another piss out my ass. I'm glad that even in my pathetic state, I can still do the public service of informing yet another person's curiosity about my racial makeup. I'm sure she's going to save the world with this information.