Here we are. Saturday morning. Up on my rooftop, which is unusual for me. I had to come here to clean up the mess I made last night, so I decided to stay for a coffee, a smoke, and a blog.
Somehow still fully intact after I ran into Hot Neighbor Guy on the roof last night. He had already been out, so he was very drunk, and very chatty, and very friendly. He wanted to show me the trailer for the new movie he’s in that just came out yesterday. Turns out he’s an Actor AND Athlete, and that’s why he’s such a sexy beefcake!
Dear god, help us all.
Not what I expected, tbh. I thought he was some kind of day-trader or something and that’s why he keeps such strange hours. Wrong. As he said to me last night, “Just because I’m from Hong Kong doesn’t mean I work in Finance. Not everyone here is born with a pile of money in their hands and an investment account automatically set up for them.”
Oh yeah, just like how not everyone in the UAE owns a private jet, right?
LOL.
He told me he gets nervous around me because I’m a writer. He said, “I’m always careful about what I say around you because I know you’re going to go write everything I say down for later. Every time I walk away from you think I think to myself that I’ve said too much or said the wrong thing and I wonder how I’m going to look on the page.”
Hmm… he’s good. He must have some sort of prior experience with this. Oh really, an Actor is concerned about how his character will appear on the page? You don’t say.
I said, “Yes, I have written about you. I wrote ‘Dear Diary, My neighbor is sooooooooo hot! He is such a sexy beefcake! He has the cutest little British accent. I have such a big fat crush on him!’”
He just laughed at me and said, “You didn’t really write that!”
Oh, but I did.
Then he told me that I’m cool and he likes me, but I need to chill out because I’m too angry and high-strung all the time. He suggested I go to a rave-themed junk boat party to level myself out. LOL, okay.
Uh, sure, yeah, I’d love to pay $1000 HKD (~$128 USD) to go drink and do drugs with strangers in a place I can’t escape from for at least seven hours. That sounds like so much fun. I’m sure that would totally chill me out and not be a potentially traumatic event that could go horribly, horribly wrong, especially with my mental health history.
…
Okay, I’ll think about it, but I’m taking this guy with me. I’m not getting on any boats or going to any parties alone. I said as much to him and he said, “Okay, I know a good bar around the corner. My buddy is the manager there. I’ll take you to the neighborhood spot and introduce you to some people.”
He continued his brutally honest monologue full of hot takes, delivering the bad news to me with extreme levels of politeness, as only a British person can:
“You need to be more direct and ask for what you want. You can’t just stomp around screaming and passive-aggressively demanding things. I heard you ranting about me one time and I thought to myself, ‘Why didn’t you just come knock on the door and politely introduce yourself? I would have helped you out. I’m a friendly guy.’ But you didn’t do that. It was so strange. What is wrong with you? Were you always like this? Usually Americans are much nicer and more straightforward than this.”
Siiiiiiiiiigh.
I have forgotten how to communicate in a polite, direct manner. I definitely need a British person to teach me how to do that again. I think the snappy, hostile, passive-aggressive, indirectness of South Dakota has rubbed off on me too much. My family also does not communicate directly. Nobody in my life communicates directly. If I communicate directly to people, they usually shut down or stop communication or run away. Clearly I need a new tactic.
He continued on: “What are you even doing here anyway? You can literally do anything you want to do here. Anything in the world. Your view is so limited. You need to get out and be around more people. I don’t think you know what Hong Kong is really like.”
Okay, teach me your ways, Master Yoda. Let’s pre-game at your friend’s place and hop on this junk boat. Show me The Real Hong Kong!
He imparted me with some advice for job hunting that I had never thought of before. Then he reminded me to knock on his door and ask him politely for whatever I need and he will do his best to assist me. He followed this up by going down to his apartment and bringing me back a little stuffed animal he won at a fair or got out of a vending machine or something.
I know what you’re thinking : does this guy have a girlfriend?
Well… first he referred to her as “the missus.” Then he said she’s “not his girlfriend, just a girl he’s seeing.” LOL, okay. Then he explained that he doesn’t want to bring her over here because he doesn’t want her to see how shitty his apartment is.
Uh huh… We’ve all heard this shit before. A likely tale. One minute, he’s saying she’s not his girlfriend, the next minute you find out they’re married and have a baby together. How many times has this happened to me now? I’ve lost count.
Anyway, it’s good I ran into him. We were hanging out for quite awhile. He definitely cheered me up. His energy was much brighter and happier than usual.
Truth be told, I was feeling pretty down last night. Very lonely, very depressed. Also still stewing over The Russian, which is not good. I’m just replaying the highlight reel of moments where I went wrong so I don’t fall for that same shit next time.
Seriously, that Russian guy just needs to call the number in the executive escort ad at the back of the in-flight magazine and leave normal everyday women like me alone. Ridiculous. Pretty sure at a place like the Mandarin Oriental, you can just call ahead and they’ll arrange it for you. They’ll have a whole line of girls lined up waiting for you when you arrive! Why do you have to leave the hotel and go out in public and bother women like me, who are busy trying to write articles about real, serious things like Art Basel? You can’t just pick me up and carry me out of the bar and hold me hostage at a luxury hotel for two days! You have to actually pay someone for that service! So pay someone for that fucking service! You know why you’re paying them for that service? So that they will LEAVE! So they will be discreet and disappear once you’re gone. Not me. I’m not going to leave and disappear just like that! You don’t get off that easily! I’m gonna be a pain in your ass! And screw you for even thinking for one second that it’s even remotely acceptable for you to treat a Lady in this undignified manner!
So annoying!
I’ve had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!
“You should forget about that Russian Guy,” my neighbor said. “You don’t want to get involved with him, trust me. Nothing good comes from dealing with the Russians.”
SO. TRUE! That’s why I called the story “Sleeping with the Enemy.”
Anyway, what was I talking about again? Oh yes, my Island of Lost Guys. What a truly ridiculous place this is.
It’s okay. Now I have a leading actor to cast for the role of Andrew when the time comes. I’m sure the real person Andrew is based on will be thrilled to see himself played by a hot sexy beefcake imitating a slightly-off Minnesota accent. Not sure he can pull off the red plaid flannel shirt and beanie cap as well, tbh…
And that’s the story of how I befriended my neighbor. Chill, platonic vibes, for certain. Show me the Island, friend! Take me to a real party! Introduce me to some real people. Teach me how to be properly Britishly snobby instead of messy emotional trainwreck! Let’s go!
For now, I need to go get brunch. I need brunch friends. Bottomless mimosa and avocado toast friends. Girl talk and LOL friends. There’s only so many times one can watch Sex and the City repeats before they think to themselves, “I want that.”
I definitely need a Bloody Mary and avocado toast today. Ughh…