Friday.
It is 9/11 today. That means no internet for me today. Speaking as a person who grew up in the DC area, that day was horrible. I do not care to relive it. I do not care to listen to people spew out conspiracy theories about it. I especially do not care to re-watch any of the footage from that day. Horrible. Just horrible.
Moving on…
When did I last post? Wednesday? Hmmm… what has happened since then?
Wednesday night I went to the Cantina to visit a friend who just returned from several months abroad. I was so happy to see her. We chatted and caught up. I told her everything that had happened with my neighbor in the last few months. She just laughed at me and said, “You two fight the way old married couples do. You know that, right?”
My other friend started cackling. “I know, right?” she exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I said! We need to stage an intervention to get them back together so this movie has a happy ending.”
“Ha ha, very funny. How can you reunite us if we were never together? He’s made it clear he hates me and wants nothing to do with me. I’m just the freak who stole his sweatpants in a misguided attempt at revenge.”
My friend called me out immediately. “You’re so full of shit! You took them because you miss him.”
“There’s nothing going on! We had a few conversations in the roof, after which he randomly decided to start picking these weird, random fights with me. He just freaked out because he didn’t realize I was going to fight back, which is ridiculous because it’s clear to anyone with eyes that I have an anger problem.”
The two of them just laughed and laughed. We hung around for a bit longer, then my friends went their way and I went mine.
On my way home, I stumbled upon the infamous SoHo Queen. Naturally, she wanted me to join her for a drink. One drink turned into many. Before I knew it, I was frat house wasted. I have no idea how this lady does it. She could drink an Irish sailor under the table. It’s actually insane.
I told her I have to go to Macau next week. She wants to come with me. Like, I love her, but there is no way I can ever go to a Macanese casino with her. It’s going to turn into The Hangover sequel no one asked for.
Eventually I stumbled home, where I promptly passed out in my street clothes. Big no no here in Asia. You have your outside clothes and your inside clothes, just like you have your outside shoes and your inside shoes. That’s how drunk I was. I didn’t even bother to change into my neighbor’s sweatpants first.
Oh, speaking of my neighbor, I have a fun little story about him, but I’ll get to that later. Haha, it’s a good one.
Okay, back to my timeline.
I woke up several hours later a complete mess. I did not know what to do with myself. I swear to god, y’all. I’m holding it together with a single brain cell right now. I just reiterated to myself that I cannot go out drinking with the SoHo Queen and this is exactly why.
In spite of my hangover, I spent the next few hours working on my book. I managed to get something done. No idea how. There is definitely a reason why all of these famous authors went crazy and killed themselves. Locking yourself in a tiny room with your manuscript will drive you crazy after awhile.
Upon the realization that I was going to lose it if I stared at my fucking wall any longer, I decided to leave and take a walk. Naturally, my walk led me up to the Mid-Levels and straight into the Secret Society. I think I got there at like 4pm or something? Insane.
I told the bartender I was losing my shit and had to escape my apartment. We chatted for awhile. She asked me why I keep insisting everyone call me Liz instead of Betsey. I explained to her about my “Small Town Famous” past as a writer in South Dakota and what happened in Bangkok. I straight up said, “I was trying to hide my identity here because I’m afraid of going through that again. I really don’t like the attention as much as people think, especially because a lot of it is negative.”
She just shook her head at me. “I get it. I’m an artist too, but you can’t run away from it. You just have to be who you are. It’s okay. You’re in here for a reason. Remember that.”
That was the moment I suddenly remembered I had a question for her. I saw a picture of that writer I met up there a few weeks back on their instagram page, so I asked her if she knew who he was. She did, but she did not know his name either. I explained that he had given me a lot of writing advice but refused to tell me his name. He specifically said to me, “If you are a real writer, you’ll figure out who I am.”
Challenge Accepted!
We decided to make this my mission for the afternoon. She said, “There’s a guy who comes in here who always sits with him and reads his work. I think you’ve met him before, but I’ll make sure you’re introduced to him when he comes in later. Otherwise, just ask around when the regulars come in and see what you can find.”
I said, “I bet you any amount of money that (NAME REDACTED) and (NAME REDACTED) are going to know who he is. They know everyone here.”
She nodded and said, “You’re right. This is good. You’re learning.”
While we waited, we decided to ask AI if it could find him. We uploaded his picture to the AI and compiled a list of everything we knew about him. The AI gave us about 5 or 6 completely wrong answers before we completely gave up on it. AI is seriously the most useless shit I’ve ever encountered, and I have met a great deal of completely useless idiots in my life. What a waste of time!
While I waited around for our three most promising sources to arrive, I chatted with a few different people and made some new connections. Hashtag: Networking. I am getting much better about not sitting on my iPad when I am in there. As I said in my previous post, they expect me to socialize when I am there, not to sit in the corner and write. It’s hard for me because I am not naturally a socially gifted person, but I recognize the fact that it is a skill I can learn. So now I am learning!
When Source #1 showed up, I immediately asked him what he knew about our mysterious writer friend. He said he knew exactly who he was, but he also did not know his name! He asked around and we discovered very quickly that this man has apparently never told anyone in that room his name. Ridiculous.
The bartender and I were both annoyed by this. I said to her, “If he doesn’t know, I bet you any amount of money Source #2 will.” Luckily, right at that moment, Source #2 walked in. I walked right up to him and asked him if he knew who the writer was. He was like, “Oh, yes, of course I know him. Do you want a copy of his book?”
BAM!
Called it!
I went back to the bartender to report on my discovery. I said, “See, I told you he was going to know.”
She just smiled at me.
“I guess that means you’re a real writer now.”
Yes, I am.
I admit it was fun to watch everyone in the room try to solve the mystery. It was like that scene in The Season where they’re all on the yacht and the party gets boring so they swipe a piece of jewelry from a guest and everyone plays the mystery game to figure out who the “thief” is. I thought that was fake, but no… they really do play games like that. Apparently, this was one of those games.
I see what you did there, sir. Mad respect.
This was when Source #3 appeared. The bartender introduced me to him and we chatted for a minute. He asked me if I had a card. I actually had multiple people ask me for my card last night. I used to have one, but I don’t anymore. I guess I need to design a new one and take it to the printing shop. Put that on my To Do list.
I just wrote down my info and gave him a barnap instead. I can’t say what his name is, but I can tell you that it’s a name that is well known in the publishing industry. I guess that’s why he’s always reading that writer’s manuscripts. I could be wrong, of course. I guess we’ll find out.
I went back over to Source #2 and started chatting with him again. I thought to myself, “If he knows everyone here, I wonder if he knows who my neighbor’s family is?”
I took out a picture of him and asked. Source #2 did not immediately recognize him, but he said, “He looks familiar, but I don’t know from where. You said he is English? What is his last name?”
I gave him the name and his eyes widened.
“Ohhhhhh. That is a very, very, very old English name. Very proper. I don’t know them personally, but I can tell you that he comes from money. Old money. Very old money.
“That’s exactly what I thought,” I said. “We aren’t speaking right now because I called him a spoiled, rich, overgrown party boy.”
He laughed at me and shook his head.
“He is,” he replied. “Someone else is paying for those boat parties. He’s probably trying to escape from his family and make his own way.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.”
“You’re the same. That’s why he’s angry with you. You can see through whatever act he’s putting on right now.”
I was surprised by how straightforward he was. It’s like… he knows him, but he’s doesn’t? Maybe he just recognizes “the type.” Personally, I know that type VERY well. I grew up around it. I can spot it from a mile away. I mean, I am that type. It’s not exactly a secret that I’m a spoiled little princess! How else would I be living in HK this long without a job? It’s not that hard to put 2 and 2 together on this one. The only real difference between us is that I’m a nerd who spends most of her time in the library, while he’s a jock running around outside in the field. It is what it is.
“He’s been avoiding me. I haven’t seen him in about a month and a half.”
“Are you sure he didn’t move out?”
“Yes.”
“He’s definitely avoiding you on purpose then.”
“That’s what I thought. I think he’s got a girl somewhere too.”
“Oh, he’s not serious about her. If he was, he wouldn’t be living there next door to you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know.”
See? I know what I’m doing! I can read people! I need to learn to trust my instincts. Living in South Dakota fucked me up way more than people realize. I was treated so badly there. Everyone would call me crazy and make me doubt my sanity. Turns out I was right all along, and that’s why they all hated me so much.
I guess that means I’ve been right about My Andrew all along too. I knew that fucker was contributing energy to his character. You can’t fool me, bro. I know exactly what that sneaky little fucking snake was up to all along. Somehow, I still love him anyway. That’s the last time I pay a witch under a bridge to curse someone. It didn’t fucking work!
It’s like… Really? All of that for a man who I stared at from across the room like five times? Ridiculous! Who the fuck do you think you are, Betsey? Sir Philip Sidney?!
That joke is funny AF, btw. If you don’t get it, you don’t get it.
ANYWAY, that aside, I guess we’re going to start calling my neighbor “Mr. Bridgerton” now. Hahahaha! That’s funny as fuck, actually. I guess that means I’ve gotta go stalk him on Lamma Island. That’s his “hangout spot.”
I told the bartender this and she was sooooo here for it! She lives there. She immediately wrote down the directions for me and gave me the name of “the good spot.” She was like, “I can’t wait to read about what you find over there.”
Oh god, I can’t even imagine. I can only assume the dress code is “All White Everythang.” I guess that means I have to go shopping now. Believe it or not, I don’t wear a lot of white clothing. I much prefer black. You know, like Johnny Cash.
Until we start to make a move to make a few things right, you’ll never see me wear a suit of white…