Here we are at the Irish Pub. I needed to get away from my neighborhood today because there is so much construction going on. The noise was destroying my ears. Plus I was so angry after writing my previous story that I had to get up and walk around to release the pent-up energy.

I walked up and down the stairs and hills in the Mid-Levels for some time, but again, there was too much construction going on and it was destroying my ears. I can be very sensitive to light and sound when I get into moods like this. I decided to hit the metro and cross over to the Kowloon side. I walked around for a bit before coming here for some beer and a bit o’ stew.

The usual all-woman krewe is not here today. Instead, they have been replaced by a man from Wales. I have not met many Welsh people in my life. My only real experience with Wales is watching the rugby team do their Dragon Dance on TV. I keep waiting for him to bust a move behind the bar. Any minute now…

I ordered a Stella and told him it has been a long day.

“But you’re only halfway through.”

“Ugh, I know.”

“Nothing a few pints can’t fix. Do you know what they call Stella in England?”

“What?”

“They call it ‘The Wifebeater.’ They have an expression there. You drink 10 pints of Stella, then go home and beat up your wife.”

I was not amused by this information.

“In Wales, we call it different,” he continued. “In Wales we call it a Husband-beater. It’s the wife who drinks too much and goes home to beat up her husband.”

I thought of the story I had just written and smirked.

“What do they call it in Ireland?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’ve never been there. Probably the same. We have a similar sense of humor; Ireland and Wales.”

“I can’t imagine why…”

I laughed in spite of myself. If only this man knew I literally just spent my morning writing a story about my altar-ego beating the shit out of a man. Hilarious, truly. Quite fitting, in fact.

Well, I’ve already metaphorically beat up a man today, so I guess I can check that one off my To Do list. My plan for the evening is to go to a free screening of a documentary about the history of Ireland. I’m sure I’ll learn something new.

Right now I feel so tired. Just drained. Writing as Liz is exhausting for me. She takes so much of my energy. I wasn’t expecting her to show up today. She has not been around in quite some time. I thought I was doing really well with keeping her suppressed. I was. I really was doing well.

Then I saw those stupid birthday party pictures from the American Bar on Facebook and totally lost my shit. I don’t know why I was so triggered by that. Maybe because I had to sit there and be treated like a persona non-grata for the last month for posting the exact same shit. Ridiculous. It just… set me off. I’m so sick of men and their stupid bullshit. Please stop projecting your insanity and paranoia onto me!!!! I literally do not give a fuck about your stupid little fucking life.

I woke up this morning and instantly I knew I was her. I wasn’t me, I wasn’t myself. I was her. I woke up in a fit of pure rage, the likes of which I have not felt for some time. I showered and walked down to the coffee shop and wrote the story. I exorcised her out on the page, as I always do. Then I left and went for a long, long walk.

Now I am myself again. Now I am here. Now I am calm. Now I am… so fucking exhausted I can’t see straight. I have no idea how I’m going to sit through this event night. I am… not stable today.

The upside is that now I understand a new cultural element about the UK that I did not before. So this particular audience is less likely to think of me as “psychotic” and “unhinged” and more likely to shrug and say, “Ehhhh…. She’s Irish. What did you expect?”

Grand. Just grand.

I still feel a bit… unhinged. I have been working so hard on controlling my anger issues. That’s the whole reason I went to Bali for the Yin Yoga course. I am desperately trying to control The Rage. I am disappointed in myself that it came up again. It’s been so long. I was doing really well. 🙁 🙁 🙁

I know how it got triggered. I’ve been watching an Irish TV show on Netflix called “Bodkin” about an Irish journalist and an American podcaster who go to a small, rural town in Ireland to investigate a cold case. They promptly get roped into a whole crazy situation none of them understand. As the series continued on, I realized that this whole situation seemed very familiar, and it was familiar because I was recently roped into a similar situation in a very similar way.

Now I know all these things about all of these people in Bangkok that I really would prefer not to know. I feel like I’ve been dragged into something I really do not understand and don’t want to understand. There is exactly one person and one person only who I can blame for this: Hermes. And so, I took it out on Hermes, in the only language he can understand.

Do NOT feel sorry for him, by the way. He is a real-life gangster up to no good. He is literally an actual criminal who is living in exile in Thailand. He literally cannot go back to his home country or they will throw him in jail. Literally.

Believe me when I say… He gets punched in the face ALL THE TIME. Literally all the time. This is an actual fact! He will pick fights with people just he can post the photos of his bruises to Facebook. This guy is totally fucked up.

I don’t blame him, as I’ve said before. It’s literally not his fault he was born into the utter fucked-upness that is Northern Ireland. It’s not his fault he was recruited to a gang at a young age and became a child soldier. None of these things are his fault.

That being said, this man is pushing 40 now. He has a responsibility to move past his childhood trauma and do the work on becoming a better man. He does not have to continue his lifelong streak of criminal behavior. He especially does not need to rope unsuspecting women such as myself into his activities and therefore make me complicit. He did not have to give me a fake story about the Hot Beef Stew, or obsessively stalk my social media, or put on some big dumb show about how he’s with the “IRA” (he’s not). These are choices he made, and no amount of posturing on Facebook next to orphans and cancer patients can fix that.

I came up with the idea for this story when I was back in Bangkok. His photo is prominently displayed on the wall in multiple places at the American Bar. Every time I walked past them when I was there, I would stop and look at that stupid little smirk on his pretty little face. I thought to myself, “He has the most punchable face I’ve ever seen. I wish I could take a fucking swing at him after the shit he pulled with me.”

And so… I did. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I do feel somewhat better now. Just exhausted. But it’s fine. I’m at the Irish Pub, I’ve eaten some stew, and now I’m chugging down my beer while listening to Irish music. Grand. Just fookin’ grand.

We are all feeling very grand here in Hong Kong today.

Okay, I need to finish this drink and make my way back to the Island side. I have an event to attend.

Thank you for reading! Have a nice day!

—-

UPDATE: I did not make it to the film screening. I gave myself an entire extra hour to get there and I still fucked it up and got lost. First I went to the completely wrong place on the completely wrong side of town, then I couldn’t get a cab back, and by the time I made it to Admiralty, I was already too late. I fucking hate Admiralty. It is literally the DUMBEST FUCKING PLACE in all of Hong Kong. I could not find my way out of that fucking maze, so I proceeded to have an epic meltdown right there in the middle of all of it.

Somehow I made it home, but now I’m just pissed off. it’s the one fucking thing I wanted to do this week. So fucking mad. I’m so fucking mad. I am having a literal fucking rage fit right now. Full meltdown status. Screaming into the pillows and everything.

I fucking hate my life today. I really do. UGH!

If anyone needs me, just leave me the fuck alone. I’m so upset right now. I just want to go to sleep and turn off my stupid fucking brain forever.