Friday morning. Sitting at the coffee stand writing, as I am doing every day.

Today I have been going through my binder of notes from my various post-pandemic projects. It includes the blog plan and multiple book and script plans. One of these is Strange Little Town, which is the book I was writing about my life in South Dakota. There’s a 15 page list of characters from the town. It’s a whole town! Crazy how many adventures I actually had while I was living there. There’s stuff in there I forgot about, lol.

I forced myself to look over it because I was having such bad feelings about it. When I looked today I thought, “Okay, it’s not as bad as I remember, but I’m still not ready to write this yet.”

That’s okay. I have a whole blog to redesign and monetize. Ugh. Such a big project. I have so much to do. I get overwhelmed every time I look at it. I get overwhelmed whenever I do anything. Yet somehow I have made it through four months abroad without a major incident, so it must not be as bad as I think it is.

I’m trying to take my mind off the whole sordid incident with the British Guy. I cannot, simply because it forces me to get creative and use fancy vocabulary words such as “sordid.” I’m just having a whole dialogue with this character in my head, which is basically impossible to do in real life because all either one of us seem to have done since we met is monologue at each other in various forms. He monologues when speaking and doesn’t allow me to interrupt, and then I monologue back via writing. It’s odd, but it is what it is.

As far as I’m concerned, I’m just creating another character in my head at this point. Like with Andrew. Oh man, I was reading some of that stuff this morning after not looking at it for a very long time. I was struck by how bizarre all of his behavior actually was. I have so many notes on his weird behavior. I wrote down all of it. There was stuff in there that I had forgotten about, like him following me into an alley way one time and always showing up wherever I was at weirdly-timed moments, and using third parties to pass messages. It was so bizarre! And then, of course, there are the two manuscripts about him I wrote, which are sitting in a closet collecting dust at my brother’s apartment.

So weird. So strange. I can’t explain that one. It is what it is. The feelings were real, they were there, and they manifested as multiple books. And then they moved to opposite sides of the world and never saw or heard from each other ever again, except for the occasional annoying dream. The End.

So many men on the Island of Lost Guys, but there is only one Andrew. I accept this for what it is now. It is what it is. I am finally at peace with that fact.

I refuse to go back and read his book today. I already know it’s going to fuck me up. Next thing you know, I’ll be blacking out at the American Bar on Big Changs and making another bad choice I regret. No, no, I simply won’t have it, as the British Guy would say.

Good news: there is so much more in my treasure trove than I expected. I have so much raw material to work with. As per usual, I am simply overwhelmed by all of it. I am paralyzed. I don’t even know where to start.

Maybe take it back to my studio and take all the papers out of the binder and just sort them into piles. Then just go through each pile one at a time? Ugh. Overwhelm.

I am actually quite annoyed that the British Guy turned out to be a fuckboy for another very specific reason, and that reason is his job. He is a “Website Creator.” I have not heard it phrased this way before, but he’s British and they make everything sound so fancy and elegant. So he’s sitting there blabbing on about the Roman Empire or whatever, and I’m just sitting there thinking, “I need your help with my blog. Please stop talking and look at me as a human being for once instead of a piece of meat you can jerk off all over and discard in the trash. I need this.”

It’s like being at IKEA. You can see the item you need on display in the showroom, but you can’t touch it or take it home with you. You just have to keep walking through the infinite maze until you reach the section that actually has the piles of items you need.

Right now I am lost in that IKEA maze, ya’ll. My soul got lost in the one in Hong Kong and never came back out ever again. Now it’s having a one-sided, unrequited love affair with the resident Minotaur, lol.

Hahahaha is he a terrible person? Yes. Does he inspire jokes on jokes on jokes? Also yes. Behold: the dual nature of humanity. In darkness, there is always light. Yin and Yang. Wow, so deep, you guys. Namaste.

I am the Dragon.

And this Dragon is sitting on top of a pile of raw ore that needs to be forged into something more useful so it can be profitable. I can’t sleep in this cave forever. I came here for a reason, and that reason is to become a real professional writer. Instead all I’ve done so far is get drunk, do drugs, and mess around with the farang fuckboys. Oh, and eat copious amounts of food, of course. Okay, and a bit of spas and shopping, but in my defense, I used to live in the middle of goddamn nowhere. I didn’t have access to any of this crazyass shit. Of course I took a moment to live La Vida Loca in Bangkok before sitting back down at the table with my accounting book and saying, “Shit, I need to get a job.”

What to do now? Head back to my apartment and hope the housekeeper showed up after skipping me yesterday. Do the laundry. Clean out the fridge. Do some yoga. Try to work on this pile of shit instead of sitting on my yoga mat staring at it with curiosity while taking Puppy Pose. Look for jobs. Actually apply for said jobs instead of daydreaming about what having that job would look like.

Always keeping in mind my mantra: “I am here to be a professional writer. I will become a professional writer. I will elevate my career. I will make money. I will whip this messy pile of papers into shape and turn them into something worthwhile. This is why I am here.”

But first, I’m going to lay down on my yoga mat and stare at the ceiling and wonder why I can’t just find someone who will have sex with me on a regular basis. All these guys online ever complain about is not getting enough sex, then you offer it up to them on a silver platter and they run off screaming into the night, never to be seen or heard from ever again. It’s exhausting. I’m tired. I’ve completely given up hope over here. Where is he?

Alas. I am doomed to be alone, as I learned on the terrible date last week that was completely out of my control. I just sat back and watched it all fall apart. I didn’t try to argue or interfere. I just let that movie play out the way it was going to play out. It really fucking sucked. I’m so tired of this crap. I’m still mad that Indian Guy left me in Dubai after promising me marriage and a family. Now I have to go back to the meat market and deal with assholes like the British Guy and guys who vanish into thin air like the Rare Pokemon and oh, don’t forget all the other creepy, weird troglodytes hanging around this part of the world. Ugh, what a fucking nightmare. If there is a hell, I am already living in it. It’s called “Dating straight men.”

I am feeling very overwhelmed by everything right now. Time to hit the yoga mat and practice my Dragon Fly sequence. Have a nice day!