Wednesday. Back at the coffee shop after unexpectedly deviating from my routine yesterday morning. The owner had a smile on her face like, “I heard you have boyfriend…”
BoyfriendS. With an S. As in Multiples. I got a 3-for-1 deal on them here in Bangkok. Yup, picked ‘em all up at that bar right next door. Who knew they were having a sale on men?
I just want to write to the British Guy and say, in a very posh British accent, obviously:
“My Dearest Darling [insert long, grandiose, 3-syllable name here],
I have taken your advice and returned to the meat market to find a much larger bull better suited for my purposes. I am pleased to report the mission was a success. The feast that was prepared was, in fact, very satisfying.
Thank you again for everything. Best wishes in the future.
Sincerely,
Your Dearest Darling Friend,
Ms. Betsey Horton, Writer Extraordinaire.”
Hahahahaha!
Too bad he doesn’t read this blog. Perhaps I should hand write it in cursive with a quill and ink on a piece of parchment and have it delivered via carrier pigeon. He’ll really pay attention when it comes with a charge of 500 Baht.
You see, not everyone gets to be a character. For example, the guy from this weekend, Mr. Studhorse. We do not find it mean to call him that due to his frequent and unironic use of the terms “alpha,” “beta,” and “simp.” He also talked about “breeding” women, I mean, feeeeeeeemaaaaaalezzzzzzz. Ugh. Therefore, the term Studhorse is actually perfect for him because he is obsessed with “breeding.” It’s not mean at all!
Anyway, he is more like a caricature of a man already. Plus he was very overwhelming. I don’t think he said anything I liked or agreed with the entire time we were together. He barely asked me any questions about myself. He mansplained everything. Then he told me I don’t listen to anyone. Sigh. This nonsense again.
Yet somehow, the sex was very satisfactory. So satisfactory that I don’t want or need to see him again. I don’t know how to explain that. It’s just a fact. I also don’t really want to write about him. At least, not in a playful way, write-you-a-fake-letter-in-a-fake-British-accent way like I just did with the British Guy. Two vastly different things.
Now I am sitting here giggling to myself while everyone around me stares at me like I’m crazy. So fun, lol.
It’s probably all in my head, like most things.
At least I have content for this blog, lol. Too bad none of it is organized or sensical. Well, we’re still in collection mode. We’ll go into archive mode later.
I need to stop messing around and work on my portfolio today. Stop being afraid. Just do the damn thing.
Sometimes I feel like I need an editor. Like someone I can just hand this pile of crap to who will make sense out of it. Then they babysit me while I sit there and fix it and/or write more. And then actually hold me accountable to my deadlines.
This is what I truly need in life. Not more of these ridiculous men who just come and go as they please. Like someone who is going to push me just enough without completely taking over and trying to control everything. I’ve had quite enough of that in my life. I don’t want to be controlled. I want to be guided in the right direction with the freedom to express myself as I truly am.
The bad news is: I don’t know how to find that. However, I’m quite sure it’s not on Tinder, and probably not at the American Bar.
Isn’t life hilarious? Yes, yes it is. Crazy to think how far I’ve come in just a year. Literally one year ago, I was in DC, staying on Embassy Row, standing outside of the Indonesian Embassy wishing I could go there. Now I have been to Indonesia, and many other places as well. Wild. Just wild.
Behold, the power of manifestation. Anything is possible if you truly believe. And right now… I believe I can find an editor to sit down with me and my manuscripts and help me sort all of this shit out.
Hashtag: Priorities.
Speaking of priorities, I need to sit down with this stack of stories from South Dakota and make something out of them without having a total and complete nervous breakdown. I keep reminding myself, “That part of my life is over now. I never have to go back there ever again.” Still, it hurts. The leftover pain is so real. It’s definitely not easy to “just push through.”
For now, I am content to sit here and watch the streets full of endless traffic and people constantly passing by. This is what I truly live for…