Friday.
Currently feeling oddly refreshed after yesterday’s hike up the Peak. Must have been the combination of intense exercise, writing a story, and eating the cheeseburger. Also, I didn’t drink any alcohol yesterday, so that probably helped a lot.
I didn’t sleep as well as I was hoping to, but I also didn’t have another nightmare. Unfortunately, the British Guy (who you may remember from many moons ago as the total fucking jerk the Hot Beef Stew/Mr. Antony rescued me from) was very much a presence. Still gross, as per usual.
Regardless, I woke up feeling like a brand new version of me. Strong, confident, ready to get up off my ass and work. More importantly, motivated to clean up my apartment.
The baristas said I was glowing this morning when I came in. Hmm. Interesting. Okay, so I admit that maybe I needed him more than I thought. Whatever. It’s fine.
Now he can take comfort in knowing he’ll forever be immortalized on the page as both the man who rescued me from that stupid bloody English wanker AND as the man who motivated me to walk up a big hill. Most Irish thing ever. I’m sure he would just thrilled, hahaha. And probably somewhat relieved.
I have to laugh because the combination of the stories about Hermes and Antony really make Uncle Jason look totally paranoid and unhinged IRL. Sorry, what was it you were so upset about me writing again? The world will never know!
Sooo… Antony… you’re pretty grand at this whole “life coach” thing. You’re hired! Same time next week? LMFAO!
Gotta love being Betsey Horton, Writer Extraordinaire!
I realize that I’m pumping this shit out at a rate that most people can’t keep up with in the modern era. Attention spans are pretty low these days thanks to TikTok slop. Still, I keep at it in the hopes I can get something out of it someday.
It’s amusing for me these days to see depictions of writers in media who write one short story, agonize over it for years, and refuse to show anyone out of fear. No wonder people keep policing me for dumping everything I write onto my blog. I just grind this shit out. Normal people can’t keep up with my neurodivergent superhuman strength.
I can sit down and write a post in less than an hour, churn it out, and be done. Definitely going for quantity over quality at the moment, but that’s only because I had the worst writer’s block during the pandemic and after my dad died. I didn’t write anything for like 5 years. Now I’ve gotta make up for lost time by meeting as many ridiculous people as possible, having as many experiences as I can, and writing it all down.
I am in such a weird position in life right now. I know this is who I am and what I want to do for the rest of my life. However, I also know the financial question is real, and that I have a hard time working with/for other people because I tend to be targeted and bullied for my neurodivergence. It takes a significant toll on my mental health. So I just need to figure out how to be a writer and support myself.
Men will say, “Just get married!” And in the next breath attack me for being “too old and too bitchy and too feminist” or whatever. This is why I say… A Man is Not a Plan! But also, it would be very helpful to me financially if I could find a patron of some sort, but only to pay my rent and feed me. That’s really all I need in life.
Oh, and the occasional shopping trip every once in awhile, which for me tends to look like digging through secondhand bins for unique pieces, not racking up $50k at the nearest designer store. I think those big designers are so overrated these days, especially after living in Hong Kong. Most people are carrying Super Clones or wearing fakes. You can only tell the difference if you’re snobby and look too close. It’s just some dumb status thing, which is really just a way of trying to elevate oneself above everyone else. I’m not about that life.
At the end of the day, it’s like… who cares? I would be perfectly happy with a Birkin Super Clone straight from the Chinese factory line. I’m not gonna play their “Spend more money so we can put you on the 10-year waitlist for a bag, only to offer you one in a color you don’t want and kick you off the list if you don’t take it.”
That is the dumbest fucking shit I’ve ever heard in my life. Sure, I could do that, or I could just save time and money by digging through secondhand shops until I find one on my own. Who really gives a fuck? It’s just a bag. You’re supposed to use it to carry all your shit around every day, not put it in a glass case to display in your closet like a rare artifact in a museum. What is that?
All of that being said, I do kinda wish I could do the Guinness Mistress thing. It’s a job, with perks, like a seaside cottage in Ireland! No, seriously, it’s a good arrangement. I get a place to live rent-free where I can write and only have to deal with a man part-time. Don’t have to have kids, don’t have to play house, don’t have to take on any responsibilities. Maybe I just get a little dog and a cat. Dream life right there!
Haha, I’m just kidding. We all know I’ve had “relationships” with married men before. They were not fun. They did not feel good. It’s not fun to play second fiddle to someone else. Also, neither of them was giving me anything back for my trouble. They weren’t paying my rent or taking care of me in any real, meaningful way. They weren’t supporting my writing career. They were just using me and I let them take, take, take because I have ZERO boundaries and no idea how to actually conduct myself in a healthy relationship.
I guess my experience with my various gentlemen callers in Bangkok was supposed to teach me that. It was definitely supposed to teach me some kind of lesson. Anyway, we’ll just call that era of my life “my slutty phase” and be done with it. Time to find someone who is serious and proper and will treat me with the kindness and respect I deserve.
Lol, it’s a nice fantasy. We all know what men are like in reality. Most of them are just… straight-up energy vampires. All they do is drain the life out of me. That’s why I started taking their essence for myself and using it to inspire my stories and characters. They have no qualms about taking from me, so I just take from them right back. Gotta get something out of this, after all!
This is also the reason why I hate it when men give me the “Caveman Speech” about how men are natural providers and women need to stay at home in the cave. I say, “Okay, so pay my tab. If you’re such a natural provider, then fucking Provide!” They always, ALWAYS have a meltdown over “gold diggers” or try to flip the script by saying, “Well you’re such a feminist, so pay for yourself!” Okay, you can’t have it both ways. Either you go out there and bring me home a fucking mammoth, or you shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear it anymore.
That’s why I don’t care about all these dumb men in Bangkok who bitch about my writing. Every single one of them would use me for sex and discard me the next day if they had the chance. Now they get to experience being used and discarded for creative purposes instead. Amazing how I don’t feel sorry for any of them! Next time don’t be doing so much of your thinking with your dick!
Anyway, I need to go now. I have an apartment to clean and errands to run. Let’s see how much I actually get done…