It’s official. I’m quitting this job. I can’t live like this for a year. It’s over. It’s done. And believe me when I tell you, I am a much better person for it.

Last night, I came home from work and I was just… dead. I don’t mean tired. I mean like… all of the work that I’ve been doing on my mental, physical, and spiritual health since going to India had been completely destroyed. It was not a good feeling.

I have been here exactly ONE WEEK, and in that one week, every bright flaming red flag that I saw (and ignored) on the internet reviews reared its ugly, ugly head. I learned that not only are the reviews accurate, but that I am not willing to destroy myself to keep a job like this.

I’m gonna be real with you right now: it’s not worth it to me to sacrifice my mental health for ANYTHING in this world. I already know where that road leads, and it’s right out the window and straight down 25 floors directly to the pavement. That’s not how I go, okay? We’re having a Big Fish moment. That’s not how I go. It’s just not how I go, okay?

I’m not going to tell you the name of this company. I will not give them the dignity of putting my infamous name on their shitty little google account so bored people can google me at 3am while drunk and find out every little piece of info about my life without me feeding it to them directly in this exact format. Fuck that. You don’t need social media to stalk me. You can just read my blog. I have no secrets. I hide nothing. I just prefer not to use real names or be connected with real names for legal reasons. Thanks again, Dad!

I will say that this company is known to be shitty and if you’re ever bored enough to do the detective work required to figure out what it is, you will see all the red flags fast. I saw the red flags and I ignored them because I was desperate to get out of the situation I was in. Turns out they love to hire people just like me, who are desperate to get out of even worse situations than the one that I was trapped in. It’s predatory, exploitive, and gross.

They’re messaging me right now asking if I’m on my way to work. Nope. No, I am not. In fact, I am actively making an escape plan as we speak. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, actually, it is you, but really, it’s me because I refuse to compromise my mental health to serve this shitty fucking company, or any shitty fucking company, for that matter. I will not be punished for not being the perfect robot you want me to be. You can’t fire me. I quit.

Don’t ask me what my plan is yet. I don’t have one. My plan is to be out of this apartment in 24 hours, find a hotel, and then go blow off steam by dancing my heart out at the Brazilian festival. Then I will make a proper plan.

So, yeah, that’s my plan. Bye Felicia!

What have I learned from this experience? That life is too short to spend it suffering. Hashtag, Buddhism. I am Siddhartha. How can you ever understand the level of suffering we endure in this world if you never venture outside the palace gates? Well, I am very far outside of my palace gates right now. In fact, I haven’t even seen the palace in about 20 years. Maybe even longer. Who even knows how time is really measured anymore? I just observe the sundial going round and round and round.

Btw, have I ever mentioned that I can read a sundial? It’s actually not that hard. Very useful skill. I never thought I’d brag about being the type of person who could survive a zombie apocalypse, but here I am. Somehow I did it without even trying. Turns out you just need basic observational skills about the environment around you, the willingness to give up every luxury you’ve ever known in exchange for a shower with a bucket, and a strong desire to avoid psychopaths who hoard all the stuff so they can be the big guy on the block. Who knew?

How do I feel right now? Relieved. I feel relief. Damn, I am getting so good at setting boundaries with toxic situations and people. If only this skill would lead to a situation where I could find meaningful work without exploitation involved and get paid for it. The true American Dream.

Time to play the theme song. Samba de Orfeu from the famed Brazilian film “Black Orpheus,” one of my favourite movies of all time. It’s the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice from Greek Mythology reimagined at Rio Carnival in a favela. It’s one of my favourite movies ever. I play the end song all the time. In life, there is death, and in death, there is rebirth. I am reborn again and again and again. Hashtag Hinduism.

What would my life be without the five major world religions? That shit is real. If I hadn’t left Christianity, I never would have found Judaism. If I hadn’t left Judaism, I never would have found Islam. If I hadn’t left Islam, I never would have found Hinduism. If I hadn’t left Hinduism, I never would have discovered Buddhism. If I hadn’t left Buddhism, I would never have known about the Indigenous Way. If I hadn’t left the Indigenous Way, I would never have found all of the traditions that exist somewhere in between all of the above.

Perhaps I just prefer to exist in a state somewhere between them all. This is how I find my peace in these chaotic moments. I bring traditions in from everywhere, Silk Road Style, and find the happy meeting spot. Yesterday I was way on the Chinese Zen vibe, which is sooooooo deep. Zen gardens are my new philosophical obsession. Truly.

Yesterday, I went back to the Zen garden I had my Wednesday meltdown in. Vibes. I know for a fact the spirit of my grandmother was there with me in that moment. She was obsessed with Zen Gardens. She would have loved it. I just know she was so proud of me for being brave enough to take this step and leave everything and everyone behind. So when I met her in the garden again, I just felt like I had failed and disappointed her. But it wasn’t like that at all. She walked with me around the garden and taught me a lesson instead.

The way the Zen garden is designed is to lead you to a point where you have to make a choice between two paths. You think that by choosing one path over the other, you’re going in a certain direction. In reality, both paths lead to the exact same place. You’re just given the choice between taking the long way around, or using the short cut. In this case, I chose the long way round. Yet somehow, I still ended up exactly in the same spot because both paths lead to the same place. And in the end, the path I chose led me right back to where I started from.

I know what you’re thinking right now. Wow, Betsey, that shit is deep. I know, right? Soooooo deep. I was vibing when I went back to work after my lunch break. That is how I saw them all for who they really are in that moment. It’s just like South Dakota. And quite frankly, I’m not willing to live my life that way anymore.

What did I learn from this experience? That I am clearly meant to be a writer. In another life, I would have been a journalist. Identifying red flag situations and investigating them objectively is a real skill I’ve learned to develop over the years. Alas. If only journalism was still a real field with real job opportunities. I see what they did there, I see what they did there.

In the end, I will think of this experience as that one time I saw a massive red flag on the internet, used it as an opportunity to get the fuck out of my shitty situation, and exposed it for exactly what it really was. Mission accomplished. Now I get to go out and experience Hong Kong for real.

What is my plan now? I don’t have one. I already told you. My plan is to be out by tomorrow morning, possibly tonight, find a hotel, go to the Brazilian festival, blow off steam by dancing my ass off, and then figure out where to go from there.

What I do know is that I have a Hong Kong ID card, so if I can find a job fast, I can stay. For me, I’ve invested a lot into this plan, and I know I love Hong Kong, and these papers are extremely valuable, so I am not ready to give up on this city yet. The question is whether or not I can find a job that isn’t going to completely destroy my mental health, right?

I guess I should just be extremely clear in my expression that it’s not teaching that is the problem. It’s the company and their unrealistic, impossible expectations. Also, my co-workers. Ugh. Let’s just say they definitely prefer to hire people from a certain country with a very controversial colonial history. I’ll give you one hint only: it’s located somewhere on the vast continent of Africa, home to many people, many nations, many cultures, and, unfortunately, many colonizers whose presence is increasingly unwanted.

Sometimes when I’m listening to them talk, all I can think to myself is…

Oh no, won’t someone please feel sorry for the all poor white colonizers being run out of the land they literally fucking stole from the people who they invaded, captured, kidnapped, tortured, raped, and shipped overseas to sell into literal slavery in MY country, only to be tortured more by the white colonizers of MY beautiful, indigenous land, purely for entertainment and sport? Then systematically denied all basic human rights for hundreds of years until they were finally “freed” and still denied basic human rights just by virtue of being black? Literally, what do you even think Hip-Hop music is even fucking ABOUT?!

Literally, take a fucking history class and shut the fuck up, you dumbass fucking racist bitch. You literally have no idea what you are talking about. You know nothing. Nothing. How dare someone like you lecture me about getting out of my “bubble” when you’re too terrified to even learn the native language of your people? Get the fuck out of here. Go look up the Middle Passage and learn the real legacy of your Portuguese ancestors before you come for me about my spirituality, my environmentally-friendly dietary restrictions, and my refusal to support billionaire tech bros like Mark Fucking Fuckerberg.

Do I believe there is a more peaceful, diplomatic solution to this problem? Sure. But please stop pretending you are not a direct descendant of the people who committed those egregious crimes against humanity and that you are somehow immune to accountability and the inevitable consequences of those choices.

The part that is bugging me is that when those people leave the land they stole, they carry their weird, entitled colonizer mindset with them abroad. That’s why I have to sit in the teacher’s lounge and be directly exposed to absurd, racist ideas about Hongkongers. You know, like being called “disgusting” directly to my face for slurping soup out of respect for local Cantonese culture. Yet somehow I am the entitled asshole just by virtue of being American? Grow up.

Get the fuck out, bitch. No one wants you here. Go home to Portugal or whoever the fuck your white family originally came from and see how that works out for you. Tend to your own garden for once instead of colonizing someone else’s.

Later that night, I carried my bag of soup home with a heavy heart. I could feel the bag weighing me down even though I knew it wasn’t heavy at all. The Cantonese doorman who I talk to every day stopped me and asked what I got for dinner. I told him it was the most delicious hot and spicy soup I’d ever had. Very slurpable. I said in a direct manner that I loved to slurp the soup. A look of happiness and relief washed over his face and he did the prayer hands and bowed to me. He nodded enthusiastically and said, “Yes, yes, slurping is the best way.” He felt so seen and heard and understood in that moment. It was like it was the first time he didn’t feel completely invisible, like the ghost who haunts the door, watching the world pass him by. I don’t know how else to describe it. I just know what we shared in that moment was special. It was significant. I understood him, and he understood me, and for once in a millennia, our people could truly come together and converse. It was beautiful.

Take notes, Dump. This is what diplomacy looks like. You don’t represent me or my people. You never have and you never will. You represent rich people and their brainwashed cult followers. You don’t represent US.

So many strong, powerful feelings in this post. Hashtag Chinese Dragon Energy. I just knew I’d find my people here. Vibes.

In the end, I’m disappointed. I did like my students. I could see in their eyes that they really needed someone in their lives who finally understood and accepted them just as they are, and not for who everyone else in their lives demanded they be. I know I made connections with some of them in unspoken ways. I could see it in their eyes. I could feel it in their vibes. Like no, maybe they can’t meet that level of standard today, but if they just had a little bit of extra time and assistance from someone who cared enough to actually help them instead of reading aloud their grammar mistakes as a joke behind closed doors, they could succeed.

I saw that, I felt that, and I just couldn’t work for a company that was incapable of seeing that in the people they actively attempt to profit from. Education is not for profit. Education is for the People.

I just messaged them and told them I’m not coming back. I said I wouldn’t be leaving a review, but they don’t know about BetseyHorton.com! Lol! Joke’s on them. As per usual.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Washington State, a bored, unemployed Andrew is reading this blog with the color draining straight out of his face like 😱😱😱.

Mwa hahahahahahaha.

Mwa ahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the Afterlife, my Dad is cueing up the band with the drumsticks to play the James Bond Theme. Yaaassss, Queen, play it, Sam! Give me dat Man With The Golden Gun Energy.

That being said, I still want to stay at the Peninsula on my birthday just so I can write that James Bond remake manuscript. This is what producers don’t get. We don’t want to see a “Feeeeeeeemale James Bond.” We want to see the classic James Bond movies re-written from the perspective of all these disposable “Bond Girls” who are clearly there to be decoration when they have real lives and inner thoughts.

If I was Barbara Broccoli, I would also say “Fuck this” and quit. I see you, Queen. I get your vision.

Literally, where do you guys think the concept of “The Island of Lost Guys” came from? It was literally James Bond. Literally. I kept watching all these movie marathons with my dad and the question I kept asking was, “Where do all these women go at the end of the movie? Does he have an island he sends them to?” As an adult I understand that island is literally a reclaimed plot of sand in Dubai, but as a teenager, I was like, “Well, if James Bond can have a whole island of disposable women, then I can have an island of disposable men. Wouldn’t it just be so convenient to have a place to dump off all my leftover garbage when I’m done with it?” And that’s how the Island of Lost Guys was born.

This is a very old idea. I even have a mix CD someone made me when I was 14 dedicated to “Betsey and her 9 Wives,” directly referencing my concept of the Island of Lost Guys. I’ve published that manuscript I wrote when I was in high school on here before. It’s all there.

Anyway, to whom it may concern, welcome to my Island of Lost Jobs, the sequel to the Island of Lost Guys that no one ever asked for, lol. On this island you will find some of the most ridiculous, psychotic people you will ever meet in your life. I will provide you your own personal 3D-printed copy of the Golden Gun prop from James Bond as protection and an extremely skimpy bikini and/or banana hammock to wear around the island. After that, you’re on your own. Good luck surviving the fun house we all call capitalism.

Anyway, in the end, I’m so happy and grateful I came all across the world to Hong Kong. Wow! I’ve collected more stories on this journey than I’ve collected in YEARS. From Chicago to Dubai to New Delhi to Hong Kong. It feels so good to know there’s a whole world out there still waiting for me. What more can I learn?

Alright, imma head out to go find another zen park or something. Or maybe just listen to more James Bond theme songs. Or just eat my way through my fridge before I leave. Or not. I don’t mind leaving my groceries behind. Just call me USAID because I’m helping to feed an African in need today, lol.

Hahahahaha sorry, that was a horrible joke, but it’s true. It’s not funny at all. It’s so much deeper than you think.

Like, I see this person is struggling and I can provide them with luxury goods they would never have access to otherwise that mean very little to me because I have access to them whenever I want. Therefore, take it. Take it all.

Here’s a lifetime supply of cashews, some hummus, a variety of fancy cheese you’ve never seen or tasted, some deli meats, fancy mustard, pasta, pesto, French butter, tea, OLIVE FUCKING OIL WHICH IS INSANELY PRICED EVERYWHERE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE OF CLIMATE CHANGE, take it all. Just take it. If you don’t eat it now, it’s just going to rot in a warehouse somewhere because it’s not getting to people who need it more than I do. You need it more than me and you won’t have to pay for groceries for awhile. I get to feel good about myself and you get to eat well. We both win.

THAT’S WHY USAID MATTERS!

I did the same thing in Dubai. I bought some luxury groceries and left them behind in the hotel room specifically for the Pakistani housekeeper who has nothing. I hope he was allowed to accept the gift or at least give it away to someone else who needed it. When I leave food behind, it’s because it’s a gift, not because it’s trash. It really fucked me up to see how many vultures descended on my garbage cans when I was moving out of Verm. I can’t even imagine living a life where I have to take my child dumpster diving for groceries, digging through the trash and washing things off just to provide for my child because I would have nothing otherwise. Watching that happen from my balcony was incredibly disturbing. This is why we need USAID in the world. Everyone has the right to groceries. There is more than enough food in this world to provide for everyone. It disturbs me to see so much perfectly good food go to waste in this world, especially in the U.S. That’s why I couldn’t work in restaurants anymore. I couldn’t throw away a full plate of food anymore. I just couldn’t.

The only thing I’m taking in my bottle of expensive ass French champagne. Hashtag Bottomless Mimosa Brunch. I’m already on that vibe, obviously. Why else would I be going full Goldeneye in front of a statue of Ganesha right now? The vibes are real.

Okay, I’m done writing for now. I’m going to doom scroll Reddit for awhile until it’s time to pack up, check out, and move onto my next temporary accommodation. Am I homeless, or am I a “digital nomad?”

Well, right now I’m just grateful I never have to climb up this dumb fucking loft bed again. Don’t get me wrong, this apartment is nice, but I’m too old for this shit. Let someone else have it who needs it more than me. I will be all too grateful to return to the menu of pillows in India, lol.

Just kidding, of course. I don’t know what the plan is but I feel like… 300hr YTT in the mountains of Rishikesh, y/y? I think so. Let’s goooooo!

Haha, they are trying to say I owe them rent after they brought me here from overseas for their shitty fucking job. Uh no, I signed a contract, I worked those hours, and I didn’t work them for free. Just use the money you were going to pay me for my “rent.” Literally, just take the paycheck you were going to give me and give it back to yourself. Isn’t that how this scam works?

Yeah, I’m not falling for that obvious scam. You’re not getting my American dollars in return for literally destroying my mental health. Good luck getting your money, because my daddy was a big lawyer in DC and a university law professor. I have lots of American law connections that will make this go away fast.

Oh, you need “evidence” to corroborate my story? Corroborate this, bitch.

Fuck you, suck a big fat one. Have a nice day.

Bye, Felicia!