Tuesday. Took me a minute to remember what day it is. All the days blend together here. It is what it is.

Currently in the process of my visa extension. I’m not having any issues so far because the new rules don’t affect me. They are going after people who do too many border runs or who try to live here with the wrong visa, specifically remote workers who live here on tourism visas so they don’t have to pay any tax. I am not affected by this. I am classified as a tourist who left before her previous tourism visa expired, traveled to two different countries, then came back to find a job because she loved it here so much. So yes, I am allowed to stay another month to find a job. The tricky part is to stop being lazy and actually send out applications.

I am motivated to stop being lazy after my trip down to the American Bar last night. What a shitshow. Once again, everyone laughed at me when I walked in. I am the only person who is not in on the joke, I think. Maybe I am the joke?

I said, “The last few times I’ve walked in here, everyone has laughed at me.”

This guy I have met here several times before, who I will now call Whiskey Guy because he drinks far too much of it, said, “Well, what does that tell you about what people here think of you?”

“That I’m endlessly entertaining, hilariously witty, and irresistibly charming. Clearly, my blog is very popular with all of you, and therefore so am I.”

I said it as a joke because I’ve been through this song and dance before. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to write a book. It’s two completely different things. You really think I give a fuck what a bunch of Passport Bros think of me? Hell no.

This guy rolled his eyes at me and said is a very nasty tone, “Keep telling yourself that.”

I said, “Y’all just don’t know me very well. There’s way more to the story.”

“I hope so,” he snapped. “Because if this is it, it’s pretty pathetic.”

Wow, okay, Mr. Whiskey. Go off! Let’s hear what you have to say about my life, as if I actually give a fuck.

So I got into a conversation with this guy, which was partially a mistake because he did not listen to me at all. He would ask me a question, cut me off when I started answering the question, then start arguing with me about why I’m wrong even though he didn’t actually listen to my response because he was too busy interrupting constantly and shouting over me.

Then I had to sit there and listen to this man, who is much younger and far more immature than me, mansplain sex workers to me like I don’t know or understand, which was just so hilarious. So hilarious! These men really think I am stupid. It’s hilarious. I used to get so angry about it, but now I just sit there like… “Sure, Jan. Whatever.”

The “argument” we had was pretty fucking dumb. He was basically insisting on using the word “prostitute” and refused to change his language to the internationally recognized legal term “sex worker.” He says Thais don’t use that term. I just laughed in his face. Uh, yes, actually, they do. He was like, “Oh you think if we went down to Nana Plaza right now and asked these women if they prefer to be called a ‘sex worker,’ they would say yes?”

I said, “Of course I do. Let’s get the clipboard and go right now. It’s survey time.”

Suddenly, he started questioning my ability to speak Thai (I have none) and insisting that the women are too stupid to understand me. Again, I just laughed in his face. Right, because you really believe that the women who out there on the front lines of the Thai sex tourism industry, whose job it is to fuck all the creeps who come here looking for cheap, easy sex with tiny, childlike women and “ladyboys,” don’t understand any English whatsoever, nor do they know what a “sex worker” is? Come on, bro. This is Thailand! These women aren’t stupid. They see you coming from a mile away. That’s how y’all end up getting water buffalo’d. You just don’t want to believe it because you want to stay living in a fantasy world where all cats look grey in the dark. In reality, you’re getting played harder than the dirty old Irish fiddle down at the community pub.

Now who is the delusional one?

Ugh, anyway, speaking of fantasies, I was spending way too much time creeping on someone’s Instagram page trying to find any trace of my Mystery Man from a few weeks ago. Bad News: I think I found him, and he’s not actually hot at all. I mean… I’m not actually 100% sure it’s him. If it is, wow, that Thailand Nighttime Effect is way stronger than I thought. I mean, this guy looks like a full-on potato! I was like, “There’s no way this is the same person.” But there’s just enough doubt in my mind now…

Luckily, right at that moment, my Irish Faerie Godmother came along to teach me a lesson. She appeared before me in a shower of sparkling lights and green shamrocks and said, “Did you ever hear the story of the faerie princess who went to a midnight garden party and danced with a handsome stranger all night? Well, the next morning, he turned back into a potato, and she still had to finish her visa paperwork and find a job.”

I was like, “Is that even a real Irish story?”

“I don’t know, but it could be. It sounds like it could be.”

“I feel like there’s probably a lot of stories in Ireland about intoxicated women falling for handsome men who turn out to be total potatoes in the light of day.”

“Probably.”

Probably.

Like I said… do not underestimate the Thailand Nighttime Effect. It’s real, and it’s strong. It’s what got me caught under the spell of the British Guy. It made him look like a Roman Soldier. Who even knows what this supposedly “hot” Irish Guy looks like in the sun? That could actually be him in that picture and he could be a literal potato and I was just so incredibly shitfaced that night that I didn’t even notice.

Okay, well, honestly it doesn’t really matter what his face looks like. Have you ever heard the term “paper-bagger?” Yeah, it’s a favourite of mine. So his face isn’t as pretty in the sunshine as it is in the moonlight. So what? I remember that body and those hands and those kisses. That’s enough for me. I’ll keep the memory of that pot of Hot Beef Stew burning forever.

I’m just sitting here giggling now, lolololol.

Meanwhile, this guy from last night… ugh. He’s just mad because he came to Thailand for cheap, easy sex and got water buffalo’d instead. Meanwhile, I came here specifically to escape my nightmare job situation in Hong Kong and somehow got laid by four different guys without even trying. I didn’t even have to water buffalo them. I just gave them a taste of my Scorpion Pimp Juice and they were ready and willing to get torn up in bed. I had another one on deck waiting for me last night and I totally ignored him just because I can. It is what it is.

Either way, I definitely used the fact that this guy was drowning himself in whiskey to get some information out of him. I wanted to know more about my Irish Minder. What’s going on over there? He says he’s full of shit, he has too much free time on his hands, and he has nothing better to do than to get into everyone’s business all the time. Sounds about right.

Then he said that the Irish Minder told everyone he had brain cancer but he got better somehow but now he’s dying again? I went through all his pics on Instagram and I was like, “Uh-uh, no way. This is some Apple Cider Vinegar shit right here.”

Well, none of this surprises me to learn about him. I mean, he was basically a child soldier for the IRA. They got him young, they radicalized him, and they put him through all this crazy political stuff, only for him to get exiled to a land far, far away from home, where his life now has no purpose or meaning even remotely compared to what he was doing before. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he would be struggling with mental health issues. I would actually be very surprised if this person had somehow magically ended up a normal, healthy, well-adjusted adult after literally building bombs for the IRA at the same age most people are going to high school prom. To be clear, I do not judge him either way.

I can understand how and why he became fascinated with my presence, just as I have developed a fascination with his character. We all know each other here at the Hotel California, if you know what I’m saying…

“Say more,” I asked the man who was drinking way too much whiskey. “Tell me more about what you know about this character.”

“I don’t know if I believe the brain cancer thing is true, but I do know his girlfriend is actually dying of cancer and he’s up in Chiang Mai spending her last days together. I think it’s some kind of soul redemption thing for him. He did a lot of really bad things in his past. He killed a lot of people. He isn’t proud of the violence he committed. I think he really struggles with the guilt and the shame.”

Ah, yes, Ye Olde Irish Catholic Guilt Complex. I know it well from my time with Tom de la Salle.

“So he is trying to resolve his bad karma by helping out people any way he can.” I did not phrase it as a question. It was a statement, as I have already observed this pattern about this character. I pretty much clocked him right away. Actually, we clocked each other right away.

I remember it very clearly. It was maybe the third or fourth time I came in, and I noticed right away that he was watching me. And he kept watching me every time I was there until eventually he introduced himself. He said, “I noticed you coming in here to watch people. You always know exactly who is in the room. You’re listening to our conversations. You are aware.”

Yes. Yes I am. I am extremely aware of who is in that room with me at any given time. It’s the rest of you who are not aware of me and what I’m doing when I’m in that room with you. This is why I call him my Irish Minder. He’s the only one who picked up on the fact that I was writing about them right from the get-go.

I said, “You know, he told me he’s been watching me.”

“Yeah, but he’s full of shit. They’re all just messing with you for fun because you’re new and you’re green and you’re too stupid to know any better. You just come in here to fuck guys and everyone knows it.”

Right. That’s enough whiskey for now, bro. But oh, it wasn’t, and instead he kept drinking more until he got to the point where he was shouting at me. It was all the same shit I usually hear; that no one cares about what I’m writing and no one cares about my opinions and no one wants me here. I told him to kindly stop projecting his own creative inadequacies onto a much more accomplished writer than himself and to stop assuming he knows anything about my life experience. Then I paid my tab and left, still secretly more concerned about my Irish Potato Faerie Question than whatever mess of a conversation I just had with this rando. I really hope that guy takes a strong dose of Ayahuasca when he gets to Peru because he needs it. A couple hours spent barfing, shitting, and pissing in a bucket while tripping balls will do his unsettled soul wonders.

What these people don’t know is that I’m used to people screaming directly in my face about all sorts of crazy shit. That’s why I can sit there calmly and just take it with a huge smile. Then I walk out and write it all down here. Now I’m the one laughing when I walk into the bar, because the joke is actually on all of you. 🙂

Thai Smile Mode: Activated. Now I get it. I totally get it. Just smile, say nothing while your enemy drowns themselves in liquor, then raid their pockets when they pass out in the alleyway behind the bar later after failing to get it up for some cheap, easy sex with the “stupid” bar girl who carried them out back.

Say nothing indeed. Just sit there and smile and wait and watch…

Off we go now. I have some real shit to accomplish today. Plus, a delivery driver on a motorbike just crashed right in front of the coffee stand. It’s a whole scene now. Good news: he’s okay and the bike is okay, but the contents of the delivery box have been lost. That’s why you always wear a helmet, people! You never know when the bike is going to crash…