Sunday, again.
What even is the world I am living in right now?
I have no idea.
Anyway, I’m still drunk after staying out all night partying at the gay club. I think I went to bed at 6am? Woke up at noon, still drunk. No idea how many vodka sodas I had last night. Maybe thousands? When did I start consuming this much alcohol? Ugh. Ridiculous.
Made lots of new friends, as I always do. I am making lots of friends here in Hong Kong. Friends are good. We are not alone in the big bad international city anymore. Time to move onto the next step, which is to find a new apartment and some kind of income.
Oh god, I don’t want to work anymore. I just want to stay at home and write in my pajamas all day, which I am great at doing. I’m also great at sitting in bars and cafes and writing, which is exactly what I’m doing right now.
Today I set off in search of a Bloody Mary. This place was rated very highly, but it’s only halfway decent in my expert opinion. They only garnished it with a lemon. Where is the greenery? Where is the lime? Where is the celery stick? Where is the pickle? Where are the olives? If there isn’t a fucking forest on top of my Bloody Mary, it’s literally not even real. It’s just a vodka with spicy tomato juice.
And you’re telling me you’re charging me HKD$100 for this shit?
As we say in New York, get da fuck outta here!
This is Bullshit!
I just have to buy the shit and start making my own. Ugh. I really don’t want to keep liquor in my house. It’s not a good life choice for me.
Anyway.
I am supposed to meet my friend for bottomless wings and drinks in about two and a half hours. Yes, it’s a real thing. I will probably need to carried out on a stretcher by the EMS. Dear Jesus, why?
So my friend is like my editor/agent. He is not a Muse. This is not romantic at all, which is refreshing AF. The last thing I need is another goddamn Muse.
I can’t even think straight since my night with that Irish Guy in Bangkok, aka Mark Antony, aka Mr. International Man of fucking Mystery. I can’t even look at Tinder anymore. This man stole my one true joy in life away from me. It’s not fair!
There I was, minding my business, collecting my hoes in different area codes, living my best life, and then he swoops in with his posh little accent and his dark curly hair and his black card and his weird, shady James Bond shit, and ruins EVERYTHING!
He’s a life- ruiner. He ruins people’s lives. Like mine.
I am obsessed with him and I am angry about it. I don’t want to be obsessed with yet another stupid fucking man, okay?! I want to use them the way they use me. What is a man even good for besides literary content? Definitely not sex!
Ugh!
This never would have happened if everyone had just told me who he was! But no! We have to mess with Betsey. We have to make it into a whole game because literally what else is there to do in Bangkok other than eat, drink, and fuck? Why not trade in the massages for endless blog posts speculating about this man’s identity?
So mad.
I got even madder last night when I was recounting to this story to a friend who recently hooked up with a married Irish Guy. The difference is that the man told him he was married UP FRONT, and the three of them all went home together, and like, had a therapy session, I guess? I don’t even know what that story was. Gay men are just on a different level than the rest of us.
Anyway, I told him this story and he literally said to me, “Maybe he was a CIA agent and couldn’t tell you.”
Excuse me, what? Sir, is this something that happens to you often? I am from Washington, D.C. and I’ve never heard someone say that shit in my entire life. Like, what? I got so mad. I was like, “That’s what I said! I knew he was on that James Bond shit! I fucking knew it! There’s only two types of people in this world that would spend money to buy my fucking data package: gangsters and spies!“
He just shrugged and said, “I mean, basically, yeah.”
I’m mad as fuck now. Even sitting here recounting it, I’m just like… you dirty, dirty dog! How dare you deceive me in this manner! It was bad enough that you said girlfriend instead of wife, and then sent in your little messenger boy to feed me some fake, bullshit story, but this? How dare you try to lie about being James Bond when I totally called that shit right from the start.
Ooh, if I wasn’t a lady, what wouldn’t I tell that varmint!
I feel like I fell into an IRA honey pot or something. Like, send in the beefcake brigade. This one will fall for it every time!
Jesus tap-dancing Christ. I don’t even know what the Irish secret service is called. Do they even have one? Do they even call it a honey pot, or is it just a vat o’ Guinness? What is even happening in this blog post right now?
This is what happens when you stay up all night drinking vodka sodas with gay men after narrowly escaping the “Manchester Derby” at the Irish pub. What even was that? I heard the word derby and I thought there would be horses. They were no horses. On top of it, there weren’t even any hot men in that pub last night! There are never any hot men in that pub except for the rugby players on TV!
I am so tired of these Irishmen and their trickery. Lies, all lies. Lies to the left, lies to the right. Nothing but deceit and deception.
Ridiculous.
Anyway, that was a whole aside. Back to my editor/agent friend. He set me straight and got me on track with my writing so fast. Thanks to him, I finished the first draft of my new manuscript. He sent me to the library two days in a row, where all I did was sit at a desk for 7 hours straight and just copy-paste, copy-paste, copy-paste.
It’s a monster. It’s like, what, 1279 pages and 639,003 words? That’s all just blog posts put together on one document. Literal insanity.
I have been sitting on it for a few days trying to figure out what to do with it now. Obviously I have to chop those numbers in half, twice. Shit is fucked.
Obviously I had no idea what to do, so I just went out dancing and drank approximately 10,000 vodka sodas about it.
Oh, and then there was the part where I went out for pizza on Thursday night and got seated next to some creepy old American guy hanging out with two Russian sex workers who looked like actual teenagers. One of them even made a joke about putting 15 candles on the cake they were planning to buy for the party they were planning for the next night and singing “Happy 15th birthday!”
This old guy was like, “Oh no, please, don’t do that. I don’t want to go back to jail again. Just kidding, what’s the FBI gonna do?! Come and get me? HA HA HA!”
Barf.
Looks like we found the missing Epstein Files, y’all.
Gross.
Meanwhile, I was just sitting there eating my pizza like, “Man, I could be a spy. This shit is so easy. I didn’t even have to do anything but sit here and pretend to be scrolling through Instagram. This guy is practically shouting to the entire block that he’s planning a gathering of teenage sex workers tomorrow night and these Russian chicks are talking shit about him in Russian behind his back every time he gets up. Like, bro. Talk about falling into the fucking honey pot. Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to fuck with the Ruskies? If my father was here, he would just laugh and say, ‘How stupid can you be?’”
So, yeah, that’s a real thing that happened in my life.
All of this is real.
So real.
And here I actually thought I was going to be an English teacher. Lol, funny. That’s funny. Nope. Not me! I attract crazy weird shit wherever I go. This shit just falls right into my lap. Literally all I wanted was to fold my pizza in half and dip in a giant bowl of ranch, but the universe was like, “How about I serve you up the missing Epstein Files instead?”
Ridiculous.
Like that night in Bangkok. Like, I literally was wearing my fucking elephant pants. I literally just wanted to sit and talk shit with Old Man Wiley while getting high as fuck and drinking Big Changs, and the universe is like, “Nope. No, no, no. How about I serve you up a side of super shady Irish beefcake carrying around a black card instead? I’m going to RUIN your life tonight! Mwa hahahahaha!”
What in the fuck?
God even knows what I will be witness to at this all-you-can-eat chicken wing buffet today. I can’t even imagine. I don’t know how I’m going to eat anything anyway.
Ugh, I just googled it. They call themselves Spuds for Secrets. Get the fuck out! More like Studs for Secrets, LOL!
That’s definitely the vodka talking. Why eat potatos when you can just put them in a juicer and let them ferment for 97 days or whatever. I don’t actually know how vodka is made. I should look that up.
Meanwhile, my Irish Minder is checking my search history like:
“What is the Manchester Derby?”
“Why is it called a derby if there are no horses?”
“Hong Kong Jockey Club horse racing”
“Hong Kong Derby”
“Year of the Fire Horse”
“Best Bloody Mary in Hong Kong”
“What is the Irish secret service called?”
“Irish secret service in Thailand”
“Irish Secret Service Carrier Pigeon Brigade”
“How is vodka made?”
“Irish vodka”
Oooh, looks like it’s specially known for its creamy, earthy qualities, lolololol.
Hahahahaha.
Yeah, I must be fun to monitor. Like, I do nothing interesting all day. I just ask myself questions and let Google answer them, then take 3 months to put 2 and 2 together to make 5.
Go me.
Now I am sitting here giggling to myself over the idea of a creamy vodka. Hahaha. Everyone in here definitely thinks I’m insane. Meanwhile the Chinese are watching me on CCTV like, “I love American reality TV.”
Okay, this post has officially entered insanity territory. I need to go back to watching people debate old episodes of my favourite TV shows on reddit.
This shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S!
I guess this is what they call… Operation Hot Beef Stew!
Bahahahahaha!
Yes. It’s true.
Gretchen Wieners has cracked.