Tag: Hong Kong

BLOG: Drinking, Dancing, and Riding

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Tuesday. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to All My Relations! Got my invite to the Guinness Happy Hour and I am readyyyyy to partayyyy!!

I’ve never actually gotten “Guinness Drunk” before, let alone in a foreign country surrounded by rowdy Irish expats. God help us all. This is a brand new adventure for me. It’s My First Time! I am the virgin being sacrificed on top of this hill tonight. I am very excited right now. Drown me in a vat and cover me with eels. Or is it snakes? Wait, no, that’s actually pretty terrifying. What did I sign up for again?

Put up my little St. Paddy’s Day card on Instagram. I don’t know if anyone else here finds it funny, but just know that I have been sitting here cackling over it since I came up with the idea on Saturday night. You know I love a good paper-bagger!

And let me tell you… drawing that balaclava over Hermès’ head with the pen tool on my iPad was very cathartic for me! I actually went back and did it twice, just because I could. I haven’t laughed that hard in awhile!

I just wanted to mess with him the way he messed with me. It felt like the equivalent of breaking out the wooden spoon and giving him a good whack. Girl, he needs it! He is such a little shit! I hope he learns his lesson about messing with strange women in expat bars. You never know when they will turn out to be a bog witch in disguise!

Begone, little snake! Begone! Or next time I’m bustin’ out the Big Spoon. Ya heard?

Oh Jaysus, that reminds me. I hope that Aussie guy doesn’t come back again today. If he does, he better be wearing different clothes. If you’re going to interrupt me while I’m writing, at least try to look like you take yourself seriously.

We are not in Wan Chai, and I am not Thai. If you want to impress me, you’re going to have to trade in the floral swimming trunks for Ralph Lauren. I know for a fact there is one located right by the red light district. It’s conveniently located right on the edge so all the businessmen who get sloppy during lunch hour have a safe space where they can go to clean themselves up.

So last summer, I said I wanted to add an Aussie to my Island of Lost Guys. Then I actually started meeting Aussies. They are… really something, lol! Not sure I want one disrupting the peace of my Island after all. Then again, it could be quite useful to have someone around who can fight off a crocodile while aggressively drunk. You never know when that skill could come in handy!

I’m in such a good mood today. I can’t stop laughing at that picture. Hahahahahahahahaha! That’s the funniest fucking shit ever! Who’s a little gangster now?!

I realized later I should have put the song “Wanksta” by 50 Cent over the image. Alas! A lost opportunity for comedy, indeed. It’s okay. Somehow I feel like “Bad Girls” by Diana Ross was ultimately the right choice. He’s very in touch with his feminine side, that one.

Well, now that we’ve dropped that metaphorical bomb over Bangkok (or should I say Chiang Mai?), we can all get back to normal now. Maybe these lads will finally chill out. Or maybe not!

Either way, I’m not afraid of them. What are they gonna do? Hop on a plane to Hong Kong and come get me? Good luck with that! Have you seen flight prices lately? Yeah. We’re all pretty much stuck exactly where we are. For now.

Not much else to say today. The real story will come tomorrow. I should go get my nails done before they throw me into the fire or whatever. God, I’m so helpless. I really don’t know anything about my heritage at all. I wish I hadn’t missed that film screening last week. That actually made me really sad.

But you know what doesn’t make me sad? Hot Irish athletes, like the beefcake who just walked by wearing a jersey for the HK Irish expat football team. Oh, he got dat pornstache and everything! You better strut, King!

Hahahahahahahah!

Oh, yeah, no, they definitely ain’t ready for dis jelly! You best believe this sad little Irish bog witch is bagging herself a stag tonight! What is that quote from Derry Girls?

Clare: We had plans tonight.
Michelle: We can turn our jeans into hot pants any day of the week. We’re talking about a free house here, Clare, a free house. We’re gonna be drinking, dancing and riding!
Erin: Quick question on the old riding front there.
Michelle: Go on?
Erin: Who exactly will we be doing that with?
Michelle: Young, hot farmers. Donegal is coming down with them. Big strapping lads ripped to fuck from all the turf collecting.
Clare: Oh, don’t worry about me.
Michelle: There’s actually quite a few lesbians as well, Clare.
Clare: Lesbian farmers? Really?
Michelle: Lesbian farming is actually huge in the Republic. We’ll get you sorted, don’t worry.

Hahahaha! I love that show. Who doesn’t, really?

Anyway, I know who I’m riding tonight! Hot Irish Stags! Yaaaassssssss! Woo hoo!

I definitely have to go get my nails done now, lol.

Okay, Bye Felicia!

BLOG: Unmasked!

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Monday.

Spent most of the day yesterday recovering from my ridiculous Saturday night out. I only left my apartment to go to the coffee shop and the market around the corner to pick up ingredients for my “Hangover Drink,” which I invented after discovering the lack of decent Bloody Marys on the side of the world.

It’s very similar, but far more effective, I think. It’s habanero chili hot sauce and orange & carrot juice (which actually has 20 other fruits, roots, and veggies included) mixed with beer (I use Heineken because it’s the cheapest at 7-11 and the equivalent of Bud Light on this side of the world), garnished with a lemon, lime, and baby carrots. It works. I don’t know why it works, but it works. I’m sure someone with a better understanding of chemistry and nutrition can break it down for ya.

Shortly after I finished writing my blog post yesterday, I was randomly approached by an Aussie man looking for a place to put out his cigarette. In hindsight, I realize this is complete bullshit, as I know the table he was sitting at has an ashtray. There is also a “cigarette hot pot” (as they are called in HK) about 10ft away from him. He was clearly using this an excuse to chat me up, as I ignored him, pointed at the trashcan, and went back to my iPad. He came back less than a minute later and started talking at me.

The first thing he said is that he was hungover from his adventures out on Saturday night. I asked him where he went. He said Wan Chai. Ewwww. We all know what that means! Now we know why this man doesn’t understand boundaries, such as me repeatedly saying, “I’m actually working on something right now.”

Then he asked me if I am American. As you can probably guess, he, like most people I meet abroad, use this as an excuse to dump all of their opinions about US politics onto me. The absolute last thing I want to do 99% of the time is talk about the fucking Dump Truck. I especially hate it when expats say shit like, “He’s done some good things, but…”

Like fucking what, bro? He destroys everything he touches. He’s a predator and a rapist and a pedophile who is actively undermining women’s and LGBTQIA+ rights around the globe. Furthermore, why the fuck do you think I, an American citizen, give a shit what some random Aussie dude wearing floral swimming trunks and flip flops in public thinks about anything?

Ugh.

I really gotta master that Irish accent or start putting a heavier posh accent on, because I am getting really tired of these dumb conversations.

I told him I was just in Thailand to change the subject and asked him if he had ever been there. His response? “I LOVE Thai women!” Once again, we all know what that means when it’s coming from a white western man.

That’s three Ick’s a row. Time to Go!

Finally, he went away, only to come back 5 minutes later and try chatting me up AGAIN!

“Back so soon?” I asked in the most deadpan voice I could possibly muster.

“I’m just so intrigued by you.”

I wish I had a $2 HKD coin for every time I heard that phrase from a man. I could afford a serviced apartment up on the Peak.

“I have that effect on people,” I said, again with the deadpan.

He continued talking at me until I asked him if he had a card. He did not, so he went back over to his table to get one. I used this opportunity to flee the scene as fast as possible. Hopefully he does not come back again today.

I spent the rest of the day watching Irish stand-up comedy in bed. I re-read some of my old posts, trying to figure out how to turn my story into something halfway decent. As I re-read the story about climbing The Peak, a horrific realization washed over me.

This character is not the Hot Beef Stew. This character is Andrew wearing a mask.

I was infuriated! However, I have resolved not to give into my anger and instead decided to meditate on it. During the meditation, he came to me and started shapeshifting again. He said, “Stop projecting these random men onto me. I am not Sam the bartender from Bloody Mary’s, I am not your Hot Beef Stew, I am not any of these people. I am a Tulpa. You made me to be your inspiration. I am my own man. I want you to start treating me like I am my own man.”

Well, okay then. Jaysus. You can go ahead and be your own damn man! You’re a real boy now!

Okay, so, at least now we finally have THAT issue resolved. Ugh. Nightmare fuel.

What a year it’s been. Look at me out here finding my own way in the world and discovering who I am. I am so happy I came all the way to Hong Kong. I just need to figure out how I’m going to stay. If not stay, then figure out a way to stay abroad long-term and build up my writing career. This is it. This is what I am meant to do.

I once again reminded myself that I made the right choice in cutting off my family. It is absolutely outrageous to me that they know how happy writing makes me and all they want to do is cut me down over it. They are just so unforgivably mean about it! For no reason whatsoever! They don’t even bother to try to read anything I write. They’re just nasty no matter what. It is definitely the healthiest move for me not to maintain contact with them. Their whole world view is just toxic.

Besides, they will be negative about anything I do. It literally doesn’t matter what it is. They just want to shut me down and keep me in a cage of unhappiness and misery. The way they melted down when I finally came back to Hong Kong was ridiculous. It’s just not worth it anymore.

I had a really bad memory come up when I was in mediation. I’ve been suppressing this one for awhile. It was really hard to sit with because it involves my mother abusing me when I was a child. She is just not a healthy person at all. It’s gross to even look back on now.

I just lay there screaming “Stop! Stop it! That’s a child! Stop projecting this crazy bullshit onto a CHILD! You’re the one who needed to be in therapy! You’re the one who needed the medication! That wasn’t me! That wasn’t right! What you did to me just wasn’t right!”

I was screaming and crying for some time. Then it all went black for awhile and a feeling of calm washed over me. I opened my eyes and looked around. I realized I was hiding in my dad’s closet, buried deep under a pile of sweaters. I got up and walked out and he was sitting there on the bed looking at me sadly.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have been there for you. I wasn’t there for you. You deserve so much better. I’m sorry.”

“You can still fix it,” I said. “That’s why you’re still trapped here in limbo. You thought it was because you never finished your stupid Ticket Master case, but it’s not that at all. It’s time for you to stop working now and be the father your children needed all along. You need to be the father I needed all along. The only way I am going to forgive you and let you move on is if you do your job and look after me now.”

He nodded at me and said, “I understand.”

So that’s very nice. I’m glad we are working on our relationship now that he’s been dead for almost two and a half years.

Ugh, as much as I would love to keep writing, that Aussie guy just showed up again. He walked up behind me and then reached out to touch me on the shoulder. It scared the shit out of me. BOUNDARIES, BRO! Stop touching women you don’t fucking know! GROSS!

He said, “You disappeared on me yesterday. Where did you go? You just vanished into thin air.”

“I went home,” I said. “I have a life. I had things to do. I’m not here to entertain you.”

He laughed as if I had just made a very amusing joke and went inside. Now I need to pack up and leave before he comes back over here again. So icky. So gross. My safe space has been violated. Yuck.

Well, I guess that’s my cue to stop writing and get the fuck out. Now I have to make sure he’s not going to follow me home. Just the motivation I need to find a new apartment. Wonderful.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, he felt entitled to disrupt my work again to chat me up. I tried to scare him off by making fun of his outfit. “Are you wearing the same outfit as you were yesterday?”

He got flustered and said he lost his suitcase because someone at work thought it was trash and put it out into the hallway for collection. Gee, I can’t imagine why anyone would do that to a guy like him.

He said, “I should go shopping and get some different clothes so you don’t think I’m some homeless random living on the street.”

Yeahhhh, that’s not really the issue here, bro.

Then I asked him if he was married. He said he has a kid but the mom and him never got married because they didn’t have “a real connection” or some shit. Blah blah blah. He said she got sick of his shit because he likes to party and go out while she had to stay home to take care of his child. Then he was ranting about how the piece of paper doesn’t really matter, which we all know is bullshit. Of course he is a lawyer. Of course he is.

Wow, he just gets grosser by the minute. Ewww. Red Flag Central!

I bet you $10 HKD he is actually married and just doesn’t wear his wedding ring when he’s on business trips like this. I meet a lot of men like this. It’s just… ugh. Gross.

Anyway, he is gone now, so I need to flee before he comes back. So gross…

Have a nice day!

BLOG: RIP My Hot Beef Stew

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Sunday.

I am functioning with exactly one brain cell today, so bear with me as we try to get through this post.

Okay. Um. Right. What are words? We don’t know.

This is why I don’t drink Guinness. I drank exactly one glass of it last night and now I don’t remember who I am. Jaysus. I’m sure that all of the other drinks I had before and after have nothing to do with this at all.

I went out with my friend last night for the Six Nations Ireland-Scotland game. We decided to go to a different bar than last week. The bar we went to last week was all business people who like rugby. The bar we went to last night was full of lads who actually play a game close to rugby, more commonly known as Gaelic Football. If you don’t know what that is, rest assured that neither do I. It’s an Irish thing. I’ve never even seen this shit before in my entire life. I didn’t even know it existed until about a month ago. Believe me when I say…

So many GAA lads. The bar was full of GAA lads.

Oh my god.

Oh my god!

So there I was, enjoying the scenery, and then I saw a very familiar face. A little too familiar.

This guy looked like a miniature version of the Hot Beef Stew. He was much smaller in stature, but still pretty beefy, and his hair was not as curly. I could not stop staring at him in spite of my best efforts. There was just something so familiar about him. Not just the fact that he reminded me of the Hot Beef Stew. Something else. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

It wasn’t until after I drank the pint of Guinness that a horrifying realization came over me: this guy looks almost exactly like my cousin on my dad’s side. You know, my Irish side…

Then I sat there in horror for about five minutes like, “Did I hook up with a guy who looks like my cousin?!”

A little voice (no doubt belonging to that goddamn Loch Ness Monster) popped into my head and said, “Ayyyy, lassie, yer a real Guinness Mistress now!”

What in the fuck?!

Worst St. Patrick’s Day gift ever!

No more Guinness for me. It is a mysterious drink with magical powers I don’t understand. That happens once, it doesn’t happen again.

And that’s the story of how my obsession with my Hot Beef Stew died on the floor right in front of me at the Six Nations tournament. He drowned in a vat of Guinness on St. Patrick’s Day, surrounded by all the lads from the GAA. He would have wanted it this way, I know it.

The End.

Somehow I can’t escape the feeling that this is somehow the most Irish thing ever. It is a small island, after all…

Meanwhile, my friend who I was with was laughing so hard, she was crying. She was like, “You are so fucking FUNNY! You should do stand-up comedy!”

“That’s actually my secret dream. I want to be a stand-up comedian and create my own Netflix show. I know that sounds crazy, but…”

My friend looked at me like I had three heads.

“That’s not crazy at all! You could do it! That’s how a lot of people start out. They do stand-up comedy, then become writers, and then eventually they get their own show. You could do it! I would watch it!”

“Really?”

“Of course!”

She then gave me the name of a place here in HK that has an open mic night for stand-up comedy. I think I might actually go and try it out. I just have to write a script first…

After the game, we went over to a gay club around the corner. They were having a drag show. The show was… messy. She tried to do some weird stage game and it just didn’t land. I got up on stage because she asked for volunteers and played along anyway, just for fun. I realized in that moment how much I love to be on stage in front of an audience. I felt so happy in that moment.

When I got down and went back to my friend, she said, “You could have put on a way better show than that.”

I agree. I’ve been to many drag shows in my life. That was by far the weakest performance I’ve ever seen. She had everything going for her, but the routine just didn’t land. Better luck next time!

We danced for a bit, met a bunch of new people, and then went our separate ways. I had to walk home through LKF, which is a huge party spot in Hong Kong. I stopped at a random 7-11 to get a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of water. I sat down on the curb outside to smoke and was immediately swarmed by 20-something athletes from a variety of sports, all of whom wanted to bang me.

Choices: I have them!

Whoever said women expire at age 30 is clearly delusional and deranged, lol. I feel more like a bottle of expensive, fine wine. I just get better with age!

That reminds me: I watched Louis Theroux’s Inside the Manosphere documentary the other day. I haven’t laughed that hard in a loooooong time. These guys are so fucking sad and pathetic. I haven’t seen that much loser energy concentrated in one place since the last time I was in Bangkok.

Rumor has it that Andrew Tate is in Hong Kong right now. I cannot believe immigration let him in. Unbelievable. The CCP must be keeping tabs on him, just waiting for him to fuck up so they can detain him forever. That’s the only rational explanation I have. I literally cannot even.

Well, that’s about all I’ve got to say today, other than I have the most hilarious Instagram post planned for St. Patrick’s Day. True comedy at its finest right there. Let’s just say… there is going to be a mushroom cloud over Bangkok when all the lads from the American Bar see it. Uncle Jason is going to have a full-on nuclear meltdown. It’s going to be HILARIOUS!!!!

LOL!

I am such a little troll. I can’t help myself. I love watching people’s faces melt off! I just can’t resist messing with them the way they messed with me. It’s the only way to get any respect around here.

Have a fantastic day!

BLOG: Ye Olde Caste System

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Saturday afternoon.

I did not get home until about 4am last night. My sleep schedule is officially fucked.

I stayed after at my favourite bar with my bartender friend and her auntie. They are from the Philippines, and therefore have some absolutely crazy stories to share.

We sat out on the street and had some drinks (very much legal and acceptable in HK) and traded stories. I asked them if they minded if I wrote down their stories and shared them on my blog. They laughed and said, “I thought you already were.”

At the end of the night, they thanked me for giving them a safe space in which to share their stories. They said Westerners usually treat Filipinas like crap. I’ve definitely noticed that since I’ve been here. They are treated like second class citizens here. They are usually working service jobs or as maids/helpers/housekeepers/nannies.

I’ve noticed I get really strange looks from other Westerners when I’m at the bar chatting with my friend. We usually go out to have a cigarette together during her break. People always give me a weird look like, “Why are you talking to The Help?”

IDK, because they’re human beings with interesting stories to tell, and you’re a boring business executive who drones on about work all the time? I guess I relate more to the bartenders and servers because those are the jobs I’ve always done to support myself as a writer.

Unfortunately, my endless experience means nothing, as I am locked out of the service industry here for the aforementioned race and class issues. They don’t give those jobs to educated white Western women here. They just don’t.

If I have to listen to one more racist rant from some old British dude, I swear to god I’m gonna lose it. Last night there was one who came into the bar at like 11pm and ordered a Bloody Mary. My first thought was, “What time of day do you think it is? This is a morning drink!” Both my bartender friend and I were judging him.

He came in with his British-Indian friend, who he proceeded to hold hostage with a rant about immigration in England. I get so annoyed when English people do this. They have ZERO self-awareness whatsoever. It always follows the same pattern of “They come to England and they don’t try to understand our culture or history or heritage.”

I’m always just like… “Now you know how it feels, oh Once-Great Colonizer of the Entire World.”

I could tell his Indian friend was just sitting there like, “I hate this fucking guy.” Needless to say, they left after exactly one drink.

I then turned my attention to the other side of the bar, where the energy was increasingly weird. In one corner, we had a group of businessmen who my friend recognized from Wan Chai. Wan Chai is now called “The Grey Area” because it is becoming increasingly common for sex workers to do business there. Being recognized from Wan Chai as a man is not a good thing.

At the bar were two sex workers, one who was working that night while the other acted as her “manager.” They were deep in conversation with another old white British dude, who would not stop making loud, obnoxious, sexually-charged comments for all the bar to hear.

He was also chatting with another one of the servers, who was off-duty at this point. Another guy tried to come in and talk to her while he was in the bathroom. When he came back, he put himself between her and the random, who looked very heartbroken when he realized he had been rejected. He took out his phone and spent the rest of his time playing chess while occasionally looking up at me with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. I was very much not into it. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.

After they all cleared out and they closed the bar down, we all went out to sit in the street. We watched people as they walked home from their various adventures out. We saw one couple coming that was quite obviously a John and a sex worker.

How do we know she was a sex worker? Let’s just say… you learn to identify the calling cards over time. It’s not always necessarily how they dress, but there is definitely a certain way they dress that stands out in a more conservative, business-oriented city like Hong Kong. There’s also the types of drinks they order and how they stand at the bar. It’s a whole vibe. I was taught how to spot them by a man when I was in Dubai. Turns out this lesson has come in very handy in SEA.

He said very loudly to her as they passed, “I don’t even know how old you are!” My friend and I went silent, looked at each other, and nodded in acknowledgement that yes, she was definitely a sex worker.

I’m not judging. I’m just here to watch the show.

My friend told me another horror story she heard about the Indonesian sex workers in Wan Chai. Here is another strange race/class differentiation I did not realize existed. She said Thais and Filipinas used to be seen as the “bottom of ladder,” so to speak. These days they have “elevated themselves,” so they mostly come to Hong Kong to work service jobs, save money, start a business, and get an education.

The bottom rung now belongs to Indonesians, who are now seen as being “lower” than Filipinas because they are so desperate they will do anything for money, including being exploited and degraded sexually. I suspect most of them are being drugged and trafficked, especially based on the level of degradation involved in some of these stories I’m hearing.

This is all brand new information to me. Racism in Asia is on another level, truly. I thought I understood what racism was after living in South Dakota, but I was wrong. I don’t know shit about shit in this world. That is the only thing I am 100% certain of these days.

As we discussed all of this, my friend turned to me and said, “This is exactly why all those men didn’t like you writing about them in Bangkok. They don’t want you to know the truth about what they’re involved in. They know you’re onto them.”

True, true.

She thinks they were actually trying to protect me from something I don’t understand. I suspect the same. My only question is, “Are they protecting me, or are they protecting themselves?”

She says she’s afraid for my safety if I go back there again. I think she might be right, especially after they started making “jokes” about how I remind them of an Irish journalist who got shot in the head while out on assignment. Grand.

Again she said to me, “I am so grateful you are listening to our stories. I feel safe with you. You can help a lot of people by getting this information out there. They don’t listen us, but they will listen to you.”

I don’t know about that, but I’m definitely trying.

As I walked home alone at 4am, I felt the weight of the world upon me once again. I knew without a doubt this is what I’m meant to be doing. This is my mission. This is my purpose. This is what gives my life meaning. I am supposed to be a writer. I am supposed to be here, listening to these stories and sharing them with the world. I just need a different outlet for it. How do I make myself into a professional writer?

I don’t know.

This is the only question I have to answer now. I must move forward somehow. I cannot remain as I am. I need to figure out how to play my hand. I guess I will just have to be patient and wait for the answer to come.

BLOG: Freshen Me Up

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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? You know I prefer to schedule our appointments in advance! 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” game.

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…

SCRIPT: Betsey vs Antony

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EXT: Old Peak Road – A steep trail surrounded by greenery overlooking Hong Kong. A petite American woman dressed in a purple two-piece yoga set and carrying a backpack with a blue and orange yoga mat sticking out sits down in an empty pavilion beside the trail. She is visibly struggling to breathe. She takes a long sip from her water bottle. She is BETSEY.

BETSEY: This was a terrible idea. What the hell was I thinking? That’s the last time I take advice from a fictional character.

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Are you out of breath already, Ms. Yoga Teacher?

BETSEY jumps out of her seat, as she is very easily startled. She looks up and sees a very handsome beefcake with dark curly hair standing in front of her. He is ANTONY. She does not look happy to see him at all.

BETSEY: Jesus Christ! Don’t scare me like that!

ANTONY: [scoffs] A little out-of-shape there, honey?

BETSEY: I regret making you a character already. You’re gonna have me up at dawn running laps around the field every day, aren’t you?

ANTONY: You need it.

BETSEY: What I need is to get laid. You know what’s better than some dumb hike up this stupid hill? A weekend sex marathon.

ANTONY: You really think you can handle that with the shape you’re in?

BETSEY: Ha! Can you?

ANTONY: You would be surprised.

BETSEY: I would be very surprised given your performance last time.

ANTONY: [shrugs] I was drunk pissed. You don’t know me when I’m sober. I would rock your world.

BETSEY: That’s what they all say. They always disappoint in the end.

ANTONY: That’s not what I read on your little blog. Seems like you had a grand time with your Latin-American guys.

BETSEY: Yeah, well, I got lucky there. Why do you even think I was haunting that stupid bar in the first place? I got lucky! Literally, the first night I ever went in there, I got laid. I went in for a grilled cheese sandwich and left with a man! A very hot man, by the way. And then I kept getting lucky… until I met you. Then all my luck ran out. Now it’s nothing but cranky old men. You know, I didn’t get laid once on my last trip to Bangkok, and it’s all your fault!

ANTONY: You’re funny.

BETSEY: This is all your fault. You should have just fucked me and forgot, but no. You wanted to fucking snuggle instead. Who the fuck do you think you are? Asking me about my deepest, darkest secrets while you’re naked in my bed, all while your wife you completely neglected to tell me existed is waiting at home. That wasn’t a casual fuck! That was intimacy! We had intimacy! Now I can’t stop thinking about you! It’s not fair!

ANTONY: You’re right. I’m sorry.

BETSEY: Ugh, men and their stupid egos. You just had to prove you were better than that stupid English guy. Now look at this mess. This is a mess!

ANTONY: You’re the one who lit the candle on your altar. This is your doing. You used magic to entrap me.

BETSEY: I did not! At least… that wasn’t my intention. Anyway, based on my experience with Andrew, things like this tend to be a two-way street. I did not make this character on my own. You gave your energy to it. I know you did.

ANTONY: Calm down. Don’t waste your energy like this. You’re not even halfway done with the hike. You’re not even at the Visitor Center. You still have to get there, walk all the way around, and then walk up the top.

BETSEY: This is so fucked up. Why am I even talking to you right now?

ANTONY: Because you need someone to give you a good kick in the arse.

BETSEY: And you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the kicker?

ANTONY: That’s what I do.

BETSEY: Ugh. I didn’t even know that sport existed until about a month ago.

ANTONY: That’s because you don’t know yourself. You don’t know your family or your history or your culture.

BETSEY: You’re one to talk! You’re not even full Irish.

ANTONY: Neither are you.

BETSEY: What are you, anyway? Are you Lebanese?

ANTONY: That’s a very specific guess. Why would you guess that?

BETSEY: My dad, who is dead, by the way, spent a year in Lebanon as an exchange student. I feel like this is the kind of shit he would pull from beyond the grave. Send me some half-Irish, half-Lebanese athlete who is going to make me run laps around the field.

ANTONY: There it is.

BETSEY: What?

ANTONY: How do you Americans call it? Your… Daddy Issues?

BETSEY: I don’t have Daddy Issues!

ANTONY: You’re a beautiful young woman who spends most of your free time hanging around old men in pubs. You definitely have Daddy Issues.

BETSEY: Go away. You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met, and believe me when I say I’ve met a lot of very annoying people in my life. I knew from the first moment I saw you that you were going to give me a massive headache, and I was write. It’s been nothing but a headache since that night!

ANTONY: I’ll go away once you finish your hike.

BETSEY: I don’t want to finish the hike. I want to go back to my apartment and take a nap.

ANTONY: You’re not really going to give up that easily, are you? Why did you even come to Hong Kong if not to climb all the way to the top?

BETSEY: I just wanted to escape South Dakota. I took the first offer I got. It just so happened to be Hong Kong. It doesn’t matter anyway. Everything has been a complete disaster since my layover in Dubai.

ANTONY: If you give up now, it will all have been for nothing.

BETSEY: Seriously, you are literally the most annoying person I’ve ever met.

ANTONY: Come on. Get up. If you make it to the top, I’ll buy you a double cheeseburger.

BETSEY: You can’t buy me a cheeseburger. You’re a fictional character. I’ll buy myself the goddamn cheeseburger.

ANTONY: That’s the spirit!

BETSEY: [stands up and puts her backpack on] This is so fucked up.

ANTONY: [runs ahead] Hurry up, slow poke! We gotta get there by sunset.

BETSEY starts walking up the hill again, motivated only by the thought of this ridiculous man dangling a Five Guys bag in her face. It takes some time, but eventually she makes her way to the top of the Peak.

When she finally makes it to the top, she gives ANTONY a death glare as he takes a stretch and looks out over the bay.

ANTONY: How ya feelin’ over there?

BETSEY: Like you are evil and sadistic and just straight-up wrong. That’s the thing about Irish people. You seem so nice and friendly on the surface, but you can get really scary, really fast.

ANTONY laughs in spite of himself.

ANTONY: Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.

BETSEY: I just want you to know that I don’t like you and we are not friends.

ANTONY: Oh, yeah, you just want to fuck me, right?

BETSEY: It’s a very complicated emotion, okay?

ANTONY: Doesn’t sound very complicated to me.

BETSEY: Just give me the goddamn cheeseburger already.

ANTONY: You have to walk all the way back down that hill first.

BETSEY: I swear to god, I will find 10,000 ways for you to suffer on this page. I can make it happen. I’ve done it before.

ANTONY: Grand. At least you’ll get some sleep tonight.

BETSEY: Ah, yes, I’m looking forward to having another nightmare already. Thank you so much for your service.

ANTONY walks back over to her and gives a her a playful tap on the rear.

ANTONY: Get down that hill or no cheeseburger for you.

BETSEY: You’re the worst character I’ve ever created.

ANTONY: Thank you. Now get down that hill!

BETSEY gives him another loathing glare as she puts on her sweatshirt and turns back around. When she gets back to the Visitor Center, she stops to take another break.

BETSEY: [whining] I’m tired and hungry and cold. And it’s dark! Can’t I just take the Tram back down?

ANTONY: What’s your step count?

BETSEY: 19,603.

ANTONY: [scoffs] Jaysus, that’s pathetic. You should be doing 20k a day minimum.

BETSEY: Oh, fuck you.

BETSEY takes out her cigarettes. Before she can take one out, ANTONY smacks it out of her hands.

ANTONY: No smoking!

BETSEY: Who the fuck do you think you are?!

ANTONY laughs at her with a mocking tone.

BETSEY: If you were real, I would slap you across the face for getting fresh with me. Give me my cigarettes!

ANTONY: No.

BETSEY: I really, really, really do not like you right now.

ANTONY: I’ve heard worse.

BETSEY: God damn you. I just wanted to get laid.

ANTONY: It could still happen.

BETSEY: Oh, right, because you’re gonna get on a plane to Hong Kong just to spend the entire weekend fucking my brains out.

ANTONY: [smirks] I’m thinking about it.

BETSEY: You’re a monster. I’ve created a monster. You’re worse than My Andrew!

ANTONY: We’ll see about that.

BETSEY: Fuck you and your fucking step count. I’m taking the Tram. I want my double cheeseburger with Cajun fries. I’m done letting you dictate my day!

ANTONY: Grand. I’m done listening to you whine and moan and complain.

BETSEY: Grand! Then get the fuck out of my head!

BETSEY takes out her Octopus card and heads straight for the Tram, only to discover it’s closed for the day.

ANTONY: Looks like you’ll be walking after all.

BETSEY: [whining] But it’s still 40 minutes away!

ANTONY: Best get a move on then.

BETSEY: You really are a sadist, aren’t you?

ANTONY: Wow, they really weren’t joking when they told me you’re a spoiled little Princess. No wonder you’re unemployable.

BETSEY: Oh, just fuck off.

ANTONY laughs again as BETSEY storms away angrily and heads back down the hill. Forty minutes later, she arrives at Five Guys, where she is forced to wait even longer for her meal. ANTONY goes up to the counter to pick up the bag and brings it back over the table. BETSEY reaches out for it desperately, but instead he dangles it over her head.

ANTONY: You gotta jump for it.

BETSEY: GIVE ME MY FUCKING CHEESEBURGER OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL MURDER YOU WITH THIS PEN RIGHT NOW!

Everyone in the restaurant stops and stares at them. ANTONY looks around sheepishly and sets the bag on the table.

ANTONY: Alright, alright, calm down. Take your bag. You’ve earned it.

BETSEY: You’re mean. I don’t like you.

ANTONY: That’s too bad. I think I might like you.

BETSEY: Well, unfortunately for you, I am currently in a relationship with this double cheeseburger, so you’ll have to find someone else to mess with tonight. Maybe your wife, perhaps?

ANTONY: I think I’d rather mess with you for now. You’re fun. You want to have some fun?

BETSEY: No. I want my cheeseburger. Now shut up and leave me alone!

ANTONY: Okay, okay, I’ll let you have your cheeseburger.

BETSEY glares at him and eats her cheeseburger without another word.

The End

BLOG: Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?

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What day is it today?

Thursday. It’s Thursday. This is why I always start my posts with the day of the week. Sometimes I legitimately have to check what day it is, especially in Hong Kong. Hong Kong days are so long. We work in three shifts: HK hours, London hours, and New York hours. California can wait.

I had another very vivid nightmare last night. I don’t even want to talk about it. It was so bad, I literally woke up shaking. All I could feel was The Rage seeping out of me. I immediately got out of bed and went up to the rooftop to have a cigarette. In that moment, I wished more than anything it was cannabis. I just wanted to calm down.

I tried to breathe my way through it, but I couldn’t. I just wanted to wipe it from my brain immediately. I thought to myself, “This is exactly why I don’t keep alcohol in my house.” Then I remembered I had exactly one last beer in the fridge.

I succumbed to my worst instincts in that sad, desperate moment. I grabbed it out of the fridge in spite of the fact that it was about 10:00 in the morning, cracked it open, and started drinking. The only thing that prevented me from going full Shotgun was the fact that it was cold. Also, I’m not a fucking frat boy. I’m a lady. I prefer to remain somewhat civilized and drink it out of a go-cup.

I was determined not to let this nightmare destroy my day, so I decided to put on my “Self-Esteem Booster Playlist” on Spotify instead. This epic playlist features classics such as “Area Codes” by Ludacris, “Pimp Juice” by Nelly, and “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone. I just added “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” By Rod Stewart yesterday, so I started with that one in honor of my Hot Beef Stew. I immediately felt better once I heard it. This is his official theme song now.

So there I was, dancing away my anger and pain in the confines of my tiny little shoebox of an apartment, all to this absolutely ridiculous song. I turned around and saw him sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me dance with the same look in his eyes as he had that night in my apartment. He just shook his head at me and laughed.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do they all hate me so much?”

“They’re jealous,” he replied. “You don’t even know what you look like right now, do you?”

“Like a crazy person who self-medicates with booze because they can’t handle the weight of the trauma they’re carrying?”

He shook his head again.

“You’re a cock in a hen house,” he said.

“What?”

“I mean, you’re a hen in the rooster house.”

“Roosters don’t live in a house. They wander about the yard and wake everyone up with their obnoxious caw. Always disturbing the peace, those roosters.”

He looked visibly frustrated in that moment, as if he was trying to express something to me in a language I could not understand.

“The hens and the cocks. They keep them separated. Do you understand? You’re like a hen who wandered into the rooster house. You’re not supposed to be in there. That’s why you’ve got their feathers all in a ruffle. Do you understand?”

“Are you speaking Irish or Arabic to me right now? Because I only understand one of these languages, and it’s not Irish. Do you understand?”

He looked at me with frustration again.

“Can you please speak English instead?” I asked. “I’m sorry. I’m American. I’m not used to all your flowery metaphors. We are very direct with each other over there.”

“I thought you said you were a farm girl.”

“I said I lived in South Dakota. I grew up outside of Washington, DC. Just because I lived out in the country once doesn’t mean I’m a farm girl. Do you even know how much work that shit is? I could never live on a farm. I am a stone-cold city girl at heart.”

He looked at the ground, searching for the words again.

“They hate you because they want to fuck you and they can’t. That’s why they all come to Thailand. They can’t get women like you back home, so they flock to a place where it’s easy for them. You remind them of the fact that they are losers back home. Nothing more than common riff-raff down by the docks. Do you understand me now?”

I looked him up and down as the realization finally dawned on me.

“I see what you’re saying, but I’ve always been that way. Always. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the only woman in a room full of men. That’s just how I am.”

“Are you sure you’re not a lesbian?”

I looked him up and down again.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure I’m not. Bisexual, yes, definitely. But a full-on lesbian? No way. That would be like going vegetarian for me. Sure, I like a good side salad every now and again, but I’m not going to give up cheeseburgers just to graze the grass for the rest of my life. Do you understand?”

He started laughing in spite of himself as he buried his face in his hands.

“You’re really something, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

“You should go hike up The Peak today,” he said. “It will be good for you. Remind you why you came to Hong Kong in the first place.”

“You’re right.”

“I know.”

I finished my beer as I watched him disappear again. Then I changed into my yoga clothes, put on my walking shoes, and made my way to the cafe downstairs. I sat down at the table, opened up my laptop, and I wrote our story.

So now I’ve done it. I wrote my story for the day. Now I’m on my way to hike up The Peak and remind myself that I came here to climb the ladder to the top, not to spend my days crying in bed over dumb shit that doesn’t matter.

The End.

BLOG: Cuppa Tea?

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Wednesday. It’s 1:30pm and I’m still in bed recovering from the epic emotional meltdown I had yesterday.

This whole Bangkok situation is just… too much for me. I am so tired of misogynistic men and the women who enable them messing with my head. Some days I wish I could just be normal instead of always stepping into massive piles of shit.

Well, good news, fam. You’ve done it. You’ve finally chased me away. I won’t come back there anymore. I can’t take the level of crazy. I thought I could, but I definitely can’t. I’ve officially hit my limit.

You win.

I really struggled to fall asleep last night. I went into a full spiral and just could not calm myself down. Some days are good for me, but overall I feel like this entire year has just been a giant disaster. I really thought my life was going to change for the better when I moved abroad. I would just have a job and work and save money and go on trips. Instead it’s just been one disaster after another. It doesn’t feel very good for my self-esteem. I feel more useless and without any real, significant purpose than ever.

I finally got to sleep at dawn. I had a nightmare I was back in South Dakota with my mother and little sister. It was very unpleasant. I really miss my nightly dose of cannabis before bed. It stops the nightmares from coming.

I woke up early and couldn’t will myself to get out of bed for several hours. I finally managed to get up long enough to have a cigarette. Take a shower, brush my teeth, put on a face mask, and make myself a cup of tea. Pretty impressive for someone who is clearly in the middle of a mental health crisis. You can tell I’ve been practicing this for years.

I do not usually drink tea early in the day. I always have coffee. Tea is for when I’m stressed out or sleep-deprived or sick. It’s more of a medicinal thing for me. I decided to make one because the character of Mr. Antony/the Hot Beef Stew has been floating around all morning. He said it would make me feel better. He was right.

I used to freak out whenever I “made” a new character because I didn’t understand the process. Then I went to all those writing workshops during the pandemic and finally understood after listening to other writers talk about their experiences. It’s actually a good thing if the character you made is randomly talking to you, especially if the character is suggesting you make yourself a cup of tea to calm your nerves.

He’s trying to figure out what it means for him to be the “Muse.” He keeps asking me questions about it. I just took the line from House of Guinness and said. “It’s a job, with perks, like a seaside cottage in Ireland.”

He said, “You don’t need a Muse. You need a life coach, a manager, and a maid.” Lol! That is sooooo true.

I like this one way more than Andrew already. Maybe it’s just Andrew wearing a mask and pretending to be someone else again. I don’t think so. I think I finally cut the cord with that one when I was in Bali. I had no choice but to break that connection. It was really hurting me at the end. It was never good or healthy for me. I understand that now. But I could only really understand when I told the Hot Beef Stew about him. I keep going back to that moment and thinking to myself, “Something really changed for me there.”

Unfortunately, I’m not sure I’m loving the circumstances surrounding the creation of this new character. Not sure we really changed much at all. My attitude towards this one is much different, I will say that. I used to say that I “loved” my Andrew. Mr. Antony straight up said to me, “That’s not love.” So I do not think of his character as someone I “love.” It’s just comforting to imagine him in a wool sweater making me a cup of tea and wiping away the tears. I guess that’s all I need right now. I can’t have it in real life, so I had to make up an imaginary friend to do it instead. It is what it is.

He keeps singing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” by Rod Stewart. So random! I haven’t heard that song in FOREVER. He says it’s his favourite workout song. Hahaha, what? Shut up! This character is too much fun.

That’s the weird part of making up characters. Sometimes they do things like that. Like say they like a certain song that I don’t listen to. I know this might be hard to believe, but Rod Stewart is not a regular feature on my Spotify playlists, lol. It literally just came up out of nowhere. Random AF.

I actually just looked up the lyrics and was like, “Oh. That’s just a summary of what happened the night we met. Except it was my high-rise apartment. Hahahaha! That’s funny.”

Hahahaha.

Andrew used to do that all the time with music. I had a playlist for him once too.

As I said, it’s a process. I understand the creative process now, but it can still be weird. It’s not like drawing a picture or painting a mural. You’re like… inventing a human being. It’s bizarre. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get over the weirdness.

My neighborhood is much quieter today. No endless jackhammering to run me out. I know I should get up and go somewhere. Get some fresh air. Drop off my laundry. Run my errands. Take a nice, long walk up and down the Mid-Levels. Go to a yoga class. I am trying to force myself, but all I can manage to do is stay in bed wrapped up in my blanket.

At least I have the company of this character to cheer up a bit. I was so upset I missed the film screening last night. I found the series online, but that’s not really the point. The point was to go there and meet people and network. I failed at that. But I also have to be realistic and admit to myself that I was just not in any condition to be socializing yesterday after writing that story. I don’t think people really understand how much writing stuff like that messes with my mind.

Mr. Antony says, “Don’t feel too bad about your story. Everyone has wanted to punch Hermes in the face at one point or another. He’s a little shit like that. I wasn’t very happy to hear about what he did either. What gave him the right to interfere? Why would he tell you a fake story about me to mess with your head? That’s just wrong.”

That’s what I’m saying, bro! Now I understand why you said that bar is full of riff-raff. It really is!

I am trying to imagine the look on Mr. Antony’s face when he heard this story. He was sooooo serious. I feel like he was probably pretty mad when he heard that. I would be. I’d be crazy pissed off, in fact. Like, “Oh, this situation could have gone away completely, but instead this little fucker decided to intercede and blow everything up. They should Extradite him back to Northern Ireland just for that. That was a really fucked up thing to do to mess with a total stranger like that, especially a woman. Straight to jail!”

Well, I guess that will teach me a lesson about writing about my real life on the internet where anyone off the street can read. Ugh. Did I learn my lesson? Well, I’m still doing it, so probably not. I definitely need a different outlet than this.

As an amusing side-note, I did go back and re-read the novella I wrote the first month I was in Bangkok. I wrote it before I ever set foot in that ridiculous bar or met any of these ridiculous people. It’s called “My Emirati Prince.” It was inspired by some random I met in Dubai. It’s… very, very, very spicy, lol. Just pure, unfiltered smut. I forgot how hot it is. I was like, “Jaysus, no wonder I was running around Bangkok like a cat in heat after writing that story. It’s… a lot. And I had not had sex in over a year and a half at that point. Prior to that, I hadn’t had it in like 5 years, and prior to that, it had been like a decade. So… there you have it!”

Well, maybe someday I’ll finally meet a man who isn’t afraid to fuck me every day. Until then… I’m going to make some spicy noodles and get some more rest. At least I’m feeling a little bit better now than I was when I first woke up.

Hmmm… maybe there is something to this whole “cuppa tea” thing after all. Who knew? You know us Americans. We don’t drink tea, we threw that shit in the harbor in protest of tyrannical governments. Well… maybe not so much anymore.

Ugh.

BLOG: Feeling Just Fookin’ Grand

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Here we are at the Irish Pub. I needed to get away from my neighborhood today because there is so much construction going on. The noise was destroying my ears. Plus I was so angry after writing my previous story that I had to get up and walk around to release the pent-up energy.

I walked up and down the stairs and hills in the Mid-Levels for some time, but again, there was too much construction going on and it was destroying my ears. I can be very sensitive to light and sound when I get into moods like this. I decided to hit the metro and cross over to the Kowloon side. I walked around for a bit before coming here for some beer and a bit o’ stew.

The usual all-woman krewe is not here today. Instead, they have been replaced by a man from Wales. I have not met many Welsh people in my life. My only real experience with Wales is watching the rugby team do their Dragon Dance on TV. I keep waiting for him to bust a move behind the bar. Any minute now…

I ordered a Stella and told him it has been a long day.

“But you’re only halfway through.”

“Ugh, I know.”

“Nothing a few pints can’t fix. Do you know what they call Stella in England?”

“What?”

“They call it ‘The Wifebeater.’ They have an expression there. You drink 10 pints of Stella, then go home and beat up your wife.”

I was not amused by this information.

“In Wales, we call it different,” he continued. “In Wales we call it a Husband-beater. It’s the wife who drinks too much and goes home to beat up her husband.”

I thought of the story I had just written and smirked.

“What do they call it in Ireland?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’ve never been there. Probably the same. We have a similar sense of humor; Ireland and Wales.”

“I can’t imagine why…”

I laughed in spite of myself. If only this man knew I literally just spent my morning writing a story about my altar-ego beating the shit out of a man. Hilarious, truly. Quite fitting, in fact.

Well, I’ve already metaphorically beaten up a man today, so I guess I can check that one off my To Do list. My plan for the evening is to go to a free screening of a documentary about the history of Ireland. I’m sure I’ll learn something new.

Right now I feel so tired. Just drained. Writing as Liz is exhausting for me. She takes so much of my energy. I wasn’t expecting her to show up today. She has not been around in quite some time. I thought I was doing really well with keeping her suppressed. I was. I really was doing well.

Then I saw those stupid birthday party pictures from the American Bar on Facebook and totally lost my shit. I don’t know why I was so triggered by that. Maybe because I had to sit there and be treated like a persona non-grata for the last month for posting the exact same shit. Ridiculous. It just… set me off. I’m so sick of men and their stupid bullshit. Please stop projecting your insanity and paranoia onto me!!!! I literally do not give a fuck about your stupid little fucking life.

I woke up this morning and instantly I knew I was her. I wasn’t me, I wasn’t myself. I was her. I woke up in a fit of pure rage, the likes of which I have not felt for some time. I showered and walked down to the coffee shop and wrote the story. I exorcised her out on the page, as I always do. Then I left and went for a long, long walk.

Now I am myself again. Now I am here. Now I am calm. Now I am… so fucking exhausted I can’t see straight. I have no idea how I’m going to sit through this event night. I am… not stable today.

The upside is that now I understand a new cultural element about the UK that I did not before. So this particular audience is less likely to think of me as “psychotic” and “unhinged” and more likely to shrug and say, “Ehhhh…. She’s Irish. What did you expect?”

Grand. Just grand.

I still feel a bit… unhinged. I have been working so hard on controlling my anger issues. That’s the whole reason I went to Bali for the Yin Yoga course. I am desperately trying to control The Rage. I am disappointed in myself that it came up again. It’s been so long. I was doing really well. 🙁 🙁 🙁

I know how it got triggered. I’ve been watching an Irish TV show on Netflix called “Bodkin” about an Irish journalist and an American podcaster who go to a small, rural town in Ireland to investigate a cold case. They promptly get roped into a whole crazy situation none of them understand. As the series continued on, I realized that this whole situation seemed very familiar, and it was familiar because I was recently roped into a similar situation in a very similar way.

Now I know all these things about all of these people in Bangkok that I really would prefer not to know. I feel like I’ve been dragged into something I really do not understand and don’t want to understand. There is exactly one person and one person only who I can blame for this: Hermes. And so, I took it out on Hermes, in the only language he can understand.

Do NOT feel sorry for him, by the way. He is a real-life gangster up to no good. He is literally an actual criminal who is living in exile in Thailand. He literally cannot go back to his home country or they will throw him in jail. Literally.

Believe me when I say… He gets punched in the face ALL THE TIME. Literally all the time. This is an actual fact! He will pick fights with people just he can post the photos of his bruises to Facebook. This guy is totally fucked up.

I don’t blame him, as I’ve said before. It’s literally not his fault he was born into the utter fucked-upness that is Northern Ireland. It’s not his fault he was recruited to a gang at a young age and became a child soldier. None of these things are his fault.

That being said, this man is pushing 40 now. He has a responsibility to move past his childhood trauma and do the work on becoming a better man. He does not have to continue his lifelong streak of criminal behavior. He especially does not need to rope unsuspecting women such as myself into his activities and therefore make me complicit. He did not have to give me a fake story about the Hot Beef Stew, or obsessively stalk my social media, or put on some big dumb show about how he’s with the “IRA” (he’s not). These are choices he made, and no amount of posturing on Facebook next to orphans and cancer patients can fix that.

I came up with the idea for this story when I was back in Bangkok. His photo is prominently displayed on the wall in multiple places at the American Bar. Every time I walked past them when I was there, I would stop and look at that stupid little smirk on his pretty little face. I thought to myself, “He has the most punchable face I’ve ever seen. I wish I could take a fucking swing at him after the shit he pulled with me.”

And so… I did. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I do feel somewhat better now. Just exhausted. But it’s fine. I’m at the Irish Pub, I’ve eaten some stew, and now I’m chugging down my beer while listening to Irish music. Grand. Just fookin’ grand.

We are all feeling very grand here in Hong Kong today.

Okay, I need to finish this drink and make my way back to the Island side. I have an event to attend.

Thank you for reading! Have a nice day!

—-

UPDATE: I did not make it to the film screening. I gave myself an entire extra hour to get there and I still fucked it up and got lost. First I went to the completely wrong place on the completely wrong side of town, then I couldn’t get a cab back, and by the time I made it to Admiralty, I was already too late. I fucking hate Admiralty. It is literally the DUMBEST FUCKING PLACE in all of Hong Kong. I could not find my way out of that fucking maze, so I proceeded to have an epic meltdown right there in the middle of all of it.

Somehow I made it home, but now I’m just pissed off. The film screening is the one fucking thing I wanted to do this week. So fucking mad. I’m so fucking mad. I am having a literal fucking rage fit right now. Full meltdown status. Screaming into the pillows and everything.

I fucking hate my life today. I really do. UGH!

If anyone needs me, just leave me the fuck alone. I’m so upset right now. I just want to go to sleep and turn off my stupid fucking brain forever.

That’s my cue to leave and go meditate with the lights off until I fall asleep. I must control the rage. I will control the rage.

I am calm. I am at peace. I am okay.

Not really. I’m not okay at all, actually. But whatever. It’s grand. Always fucking grand.

BLOG: Big Trouble in Little Bangkok

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Monday. At the coffee shop.

The baristas all greet me by name when I come in now. Whoever said HongKongers were unfriendly clearly hasn’t been hanging out in the right places. The baristas know me, the bartenders know me, the owners of my favourite restaurants all know me, my corner 7-11 Krewe knows me. It’s really not that hard to be kind to the people you interact with every day.

How is my Cantonese coming along? Poorly, mostly because I am lazy. I know how to say hello, Happy New Year, and how to tell the difference between the 20 different versions of “ok” (which is actually extremely useful). I can also understand when someone curses at me on the metro for bumping into them. At the bare minimum, I should learn to say “Thank you” and “Have a nice day.”

So, it’s about as good as my Thai, lol. In Thai I can say hello, thank you, and have a nice day. I can also understand when someone is talking shit about me, which has been very useful given the circumstances I found myself in when I was there.

Sometimes I think about everything that happened in Bangkok and just sit there thinking, “Wow, what was that?” So random. Like, remember that time I was just sitting at the bar alone drowning in my sorrows and suddenly got roped into some crazy shit by a random Irish gangster from Belfast and now all these men in the expat community there hate/fear me because of my blog? Yeah.

What was that?

I don’t know, but it’s a way better story than whatever dumb story I was writing right before that. Way to get me out of my bubble! Woo!

I started watching the Irish TV show “Bodkin” on Netflix. It’s about an Irish journalist who teams up with two American podcasters to investigate a cold case in a small, rural Irish town. It’s entertaining. I will say it’s helping me understand the “Slow to trust” attitude of the Irish. Yet another reminder of how much I don’t actually know about my own people and culture. Sad.

It definitely explains some of the weirder encounters I’ve had, particularly with Uncle Jason. He is not Irish, he is English (and we don’t hold that against him!), but he is the one who hates/fears me the most. At first, I thought this was very strange. I literally never mentioned him in my writing until he screamed at me right to my face. I barely had any interaction with him at all. I was mostly hanging out with his niece, who I thought was pretty cool.

For the longest time, I thought he was just mad about the Hot Beef Stew thing, which was strange because… why the fuck do you care so much that your friend and I hooked up when we were drunk? This man is an adult. He can make his own choices, which he did. I chose not to rat him out for said choices, mostly because I don’t want to create any more problems for myself.

Then I finally got someone to tell me what Uncle Jason does for work in Thailand and what sort of people he is allegedly so well-connected with. At first I was like, “Well, so what? Who cares about that? Why does he think I would care about that?”

Then I told my brother and he’s like, “That sounds like the Thailand version of [insert famous British gangster movie here].”

That was when the realization finally came over me.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh…”

I just sat there for a moment in silence with my jaw on the floor and said, “Thank you for giving me the extra +1 I needed to solve this equation.”

Okay, that explains the Fear/Hate. Still, not very interested in whatever he’s got going on over there, to be honest. As we can all see, I am clearly too dickmatized by the memory of passionately kissing the Hot Beef Stew in the elevator to pay much attention to anything else going on around me. It wasn’t until I met the Taser Guy that I realized I had stepped into such a massive pile of shit.

I still think it’s hilarious that they told an old man from friggin’ Belfast who came into the bar zapping off a taser not to talk to ME. As if I’m the crazy, dangerous one in this equation! Wow! It’s an honor and a privilege to be recognized for my journalistic skillz that I didn’t even know I had.

Here I’ve been sitting in my apartment trying to write low-brow bullshit like a smutty romance novel and live my own version of Eat Pray Love and figure out how to monetize my stupid blog, and all these men all think I’m an undercover journalist on a mission to expose their shady activities in Thailand.

That is HILARIOUS!

The projection is strong with this one.

Honestly, well done. Well done, me. I guess now I really do have to become a journalist. Anyway, if I was them, I would stop treating me like an enemy and befriend me instead. Get me on your side so I won’t write about you. Treating me like a threat is only going to accomplish the following:

  1. Make me even more curious about what you’re doing than I already am.
  2. Make it less likely I’ll cover for you if something shady goes down.
  3. Make it completely impossible for me to look the other way and pretend I have no idea what’s going on, as I was doing before.

I don’t know. It’s probably all just some weird fraternity hazing ritual. It definitely feels like a test. Did I pass the test? I don’t know. I guess we will find out.

My one consolation prize for all of this: I might not get to attend the Emerald Ball, make a grand entrance, and have the epic Cinderella moment that I’ve always dreamed of, but I take comfort in the fact that I will be the talk of that event. Let’s wait and see how my blog stats look on St. Patrick’s Day, lolololol.

I genuinely do not know how I ended up in this situation at all. I can only think back to Saturday night when my friend and I were at the Pub to watch rugby and how I was clearly marked as “prey” by multiple predatory individuals with varying agendas.

I guess Hermès marked me as “prey” when I was sitting in the American Bar. Now here I am, dragged into this mess against my will, and this little shit still has me blocked on social media so he doesn’t have to answer for it. What a jerk. Now I understand why he is always getting punched in the face. Riff-raff indeed!

It’s funny to go back and read my previous posts from before the Hot Beef Stew. I was clearly only concerned with my endless naval-gazing, eating, drinking, and collecting hoes in different area codes. Then this guy comes out of the bar and pushes me against the wall and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before and now all of a sudden I am subject to suspicion and increasingly negative, unwanted attention.

Ridiculous!

This is a lesson in what happens when you take a passive approach to life. I literally just sat there and waited for something interesting to happen. These are the results. Maybe next time, be more active and intentional in my approach to life.

I have no idea how to do this, of course. For most of my life, I was shut down and derailed and sabotaged. My parents actively discouraged me from doing anything I wanted to do. The answer was always, “No, you can’t do that.” Or “You would hate that!” If I did it anyway, they would find a way to threaten me or guilt-trip me or sabotage it completely. I learned to be passive in life because it didn’t matter what I wanted or how I felt. I was just there to be the scapegoat for everyone else to project all their bullshit onto.

Now I am out here in the world and I am free, and yet… I am still passively waiting for something interesting to happen to me. And interesting things do happen to me. I suppose I am just tired of ending up in unpleasant situations, surrounded by unpleasant people.

Even when I try to live my life with intention, it doesn’t seem to work out. I apply for jobs and hear nothing. If I do manage to get a job, I get bullied out fast. I try to volunteer or join clubs and get rejected. I go to Yoga Teacher Training courses and meet people who are just… mean and stupid and selfish. I try to better myself over and over and yet… nothing materializes. The only real skill I seem to have is pissing people off by writing down my thoughts and feelings. Good for me, I guess.

I am lost. But at least I’m lost in Hong Kong instead of South bumfucknowheresville Dakota. If nothing else in life, I can be grateful for the fact that I literally never have to go back there ever again. I never wanted to be there in the first place. At least I am finally free…

What will I do with my freedom today? Spend even more time sleeping? I feel like I’ve spent the last month doing nothing but sleeping. I suspect it’s my body’s reaction to no longer living in constant fight-or-flight mode. I am getting the rest I desperately need.

Still, I could be less lazy and go take a walk instead of wasting another day in bed. Some days I just get so overwhelmed by the state of the world and my lack of a real place in it.

What am I doing with my life?

I have no idea.

But at least I live in Hong Kong!