Tag: Uncle Jason

BLOG: Lady, Interrupted

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Thursday.

At the coffee shop. One of my barista friends was so happy to see me when I came in. She was like, “OMG you are literally the first normal person to come in here today. All morning it’s been tourists! They just keep getting weirder and weirder. And then they treat us like we are the problem! What is that about?”

I am going to go out on a limb and guess the tourists in question are either Mainlanders or Russians. Everyone knows Mainlanders have some very specific, very strange behaviors that distinguish them from HongKongers. It’s fun to observe from afar. It’s not so fun when you’re right in the middle of a large group of them.

As for the Ruskies, well… I had my own unfortunate encounter with some tourists last night. It was… yeah.

I was not originally planning to go out last night because of my hangover. I was comfortably settled into bed watching movies when my friend messaged me out of nowhere and asked if I wanted to go out. It was about 10:30pm at this point. She is the one who I was supposed to go out with on St. Patrick’s Day, but she wasn’t feeling up to it.

We met up in Central around 11pm and walked around looking for a quiet place to chat. We found a super cute cocktail bar with an interior straight outta the palace of Versailles. Loved it! We were sitting there chatting and having a good time. That was when the Russians invaded.

A large group of them came in and flooded this tiny little place at once. All of them were wearing those stupid Leprechaun hats. They had clearly already been drinking for some time. They were loud and obnoxious and totally ruined the vibe. One of them even started doing Ye Olde Cossack Dance in the middle of the room. Don’t get me wrong; she was good as hell, but this was neither the time nor the place for such rowdiness.

We finished our drinks and relocated to a different place around the corner. It was still too loud. Neither of us were in the mood for that level of overstimulation. Either way, I was happy just to be there with her. It’s so refreshing to finally have a female friend I can just chill out and vibe with. I get so tired of being surrounded by men.

I really enjoyed hanging out with her last night. She reminds me to be grateful for this opportunity. I know I complain about my family all the time, but I do acknowledge the fact that they have helped me out financially A LOT. I just wish they wouldn’t be so fucking mean about it all the time. It’s essentially like getting paid to put up with constant verbal and emotional abuse. I just don’t want to listen to it anymore.

Literally, all I’m asking them to do is read my frickin’ blog. Read one of my stories. Just one time. Read a story! See where your money is actually going! Just one time! Bare minimum: acknowledge this website exists. Read a story. Stop saying crazy, unhinged shit like, “You’re not a REAL writer!” Yes, I am.

Do you even know how many men in Bangkok are angry with me right now because of the things I’ve written? How is that not real? And what about Bloody Mary’s? What about all the shit I stirred up when I was writing that? Furthermore, I am recognized and remembered as “Betsey Horton the Writer” everywhere I go. Everywhere. I can talk to someone for 20 minutes at a random bar in a place like Hong Kong, disappear for 3 months, come back, and be recognized STRAIGHT AWAY!

How is that not real? That is literally how celebrities are made! I didn’t choose this life. It chose me! People remember me. They remember my stories. I can’t wrap my head around their reasoning for pretending my entire body of work doesn’t exist.

Literally all my grandmother and aunt do is READ. You would think they would actually sit down and read what I have to write instead of shitting all over me and tearing me down all the time and pretending like I’m somehow different than Virginia Woolf or Jane Austen.

Virginia Woolf literally said, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” She wrote a whole book about it! You think I haven’t read that shit?! Come on! Who do you think inspired me to do this in the first place?! The worst part is… I know they’ve read Virginia Woolf too!

They literally act like I sit around doing nothing all day and that’s not true! Yes, I need an editor. Yes, I need an agent. Yes, I need connections and job opportunities and a variety of other things I don’t have. I’m not there yet.

I need better stories than whatever garbage I was writing when I lived in South Dakota. I have the stories. I am overwhelmed with stories. I need an editor who is going to sit down with me and seriously help me sort of the stories. I am trying to find this person. It hasn’t happened yet. In the meantime, just lay off of me already, would you?!

This is all coming up for me because my selections for my double feature movie night yesterday were Lady Bird (which I had never seen) and Girl, Interrupted (which I have not watched in about 20 years). Lady Bird is basically the most accurate depiction I’ve ever seen in media of my relationships with my mother, aunt, and grandmother.

Girl, Interrupted is… a little more complicated than that. When I watched the movie and read the book for the first time, I was literally in and out of a hospital like that because I was struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts. It was meaningful to see the struggles of myself and those around me glamourized onscreen by the likes of Winona Ryder, Angelina Jolie, and Brittany Murphy.

While I could relate to some of it when I was 17, I did not have the understanding of mental illness that I have now. I had not found my way “out” yet. I would argue that I did not get “out” until last year when I got the job in Hong Kong and ran for my fucking life. Sometimes I feel like I’m still “in” that place, metaphorically speaking.

That’s why they call it the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

Here is another reason I am upset with Hermes. I recognized him from the Hotel California the first time I met him. We all know each other here, even when we are total strangers. He kept commenting on the fact that he noticed I had what he referred to as “prison behaviors.” I always sit with my back to the wall, facing the room, watching the door, monitoring who comes in and who comes out. He does the same thing. He learned how to do it when he was in prison to stay safe. Same, same. The only difference is that I was in a hospital.

I am quite open about this particular aspect of my history because I think it’s important to erase the shame and stigma around mental illness and encourage others to get the help they need. However, I was not quite so willing to share this information with a total stranger in Bangkok who walks around telling everyone he’s with the IRA (he’s not). He basically wormed his way in and gained enough trust for me to explain this to him, and then he turned around and used it against me.

Not cool, bro! Totally not cool!

So yeah, I think it’s only fair to put that image up and make him look at his own lie directly in the face. I hope he really takes the time to sit with that and think about the consequences of his behaviors towards others. As previously stated, he is such a little shit! He needs a wake up call. That’s why I say… next time I’m coming back with the Big Spoon. I could do so much worse than this. You got off easy this time, friend. Don’t do it again.

Ultimately, I think of him as my weird Black Sheep cousin from the North who nobody wants to talk to or about. I see him in a very childlike way, in spite of the fact that he is slightly older than me. He is very, very young in my mind. Like a Peter Pan type. Just living it up in Never, Never Land, totally unwilling to ever grow up.

I could never relate to Wendy until now. I had fun on my little adventure in Thailand, but ultimately I chose to leave because I knew it was time for me to grow up. Strange metaphor to make.

In my heart, I know I will always think of the Irishmen I met in Bangkok as my spiritual family. I’ve got my crazy uncle from Dublin who drinks too much and randomly imparts wisdom and knowledge when I need it. He taught me so much about my history and culture already.

Then we have the Moose, who is my weird cousin from way out in the country. Then the Hot Beef Stew, who I was attracted to the vague familiarity of him, only to discover much, much later that he is a distant cousin. Distant enough that it’s not totally gross, but still close enough to be inappropriate. Also, he is married, so No. Definitely not, No. And then Hermes, who, as previously stated, is the Black Sheep cousin from the North.

And there you have it: my first Irish fam. They taught me so much about myself. They inspired me to learn who I am and where I came from. Forget going back to Thailand! Put me on a plane straight to Ireland! I want to learn the Irish language and dig through the archives looking for my family and learn how to drive a stick shift so I can roam around County Cavan.

Yeah, forget the stag hunting. I’m going digging for my family history. I feel very strongly that my Irish Grandmother has tasked me with this. I have been doing my Ancestry work and it’s the Irish side that is completely missing from the tree. The only way I can get the information I need is to go there and dig through the library.

I feel like Indiana Jones running all over the map of the world right now. I remember this time last year, before I was offered the job that brought me to Asia, when I was deep in meditation and asking for a sign. I saw my dad appear holding his old globe that I saved from his office. I heard the theme song playing and watched the red lines appear, tracing a trail all over the world.

My barista friend just came out for a cigarette break and a chat. She asked me if I’m going back to Thailand. I said, “No, I need a break. I need to take some space from whatever shit I stepped in over there.”

She nodded and said, “Are you sure they’re not tracking you here in Hong Kong?”

“Oh, probably.”

“Aren’t you afraid they’re going to come here and find you?”

“Not really, no.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just… not.”

I have my own reasons for this. First of all, I haven’t actually written anything that bad. These men just can’t handle being told they’re acting like misogynist jerks by an American woman. That’s why they all fled the West and came to Thailand.

Second, I don’t think Hermes can actually leave the country. Even if he could, he’s a bit tied up at the moment taking care of his sick water buffalo. He’s all about posturing anyway. There are plenty of people higher up than him on the food chain who don’t consider me to be a threat to them. I doubt that’s going to be a significant problem.

As for Uncle Jason… seriously, like, whatever, bro. I literally do not care who he is or what he does. I am not interested. Sure, I have some vague notion of what he does, but I’ve decided to conveniently look the other way. I must busy myself with more important tasks instead.

Ultimately, I just wanted to teach Hermes a lesson. Most of them will agree he needs a good whack on the arse. Next time I’m coming back with the Big Spoon! Ya heard?!

Phew! That was A LOT! Time to quit writing for the day and tend to my other tasks. You know, like checking out this total beefcake who just walked by carrying something that looks like a lacrosse stick. I think that’s one of the GAA sports, isn’t it? Don’t they have something that looks like lacrosse? Yeah, that’s why the Irish and the Native Americans get along like peanut butter and jelly. They’re playing the same game, but the sticks look a bit different. It’s a whole thing.

See, this is what I’m talking about. Nobody cares about you, Uncle Jason. I’m not interested in your English bullshit, okay? I’m tired of being English. I’ve been English my whole life. I’m over it. I want to be Irish now. So I need to go learn about the Gaelic sports and watch some hot men run around a field with large sticks. Okay? Okay.

And she lived happily ever after.

The End

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: 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: Liz vs Hermes

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EXT: A Muay Thai Gym somewhere in Bangkok, Thailand. The sign above the door reads “Jace’s Place.” A Grab bike pulls up out front and an Irishman hops off. He adjusts his little messenger bag and smooths his back. He takes a deep breath as he walks through the door. His name is HERMES.

Inside he sees a woman with short, straight bleach blonde hair dressed in a red two-piece yoga set standing in the middle of the ring. She glares at him as she plants her hands on her hips and taps her foot impatiently. She is LIZ.

LIZ: You’re late.

HERMES: I just came from Chiang Mai. I didn’t realize you were waiting here for me, Betsey.

LIZ: Betsey isn’t here today. My name is Liz.

HERMES looks her over and laughs.

HERMES: What, do you have multiple personalities or something?

LIZ: That’s right.

HERMES: Are you the good one or the bad one?

LIZ: I’m the one you don’t want to fuck with.

HERMES laughs at her again.

HERMES: Or what?

LIZ: Or you end up in a story like this. I have a whole collection of them. I write them when I want to take my revenge.

HERMES: And what, exactly, are you taking revenge for today?

LIZ: You. All of you. You dragged me into a mess that I don’t want any part of. You think I am just some stupid, naive little girl, but what you don’t know is that I have a very serious anger problem and I am going to take it out on you today.

HERMES: Why me?

LIZ: Because you have the most punchable face.

HERMES: So what? You think I’m gonna get in that ring and fight you?

LIZ: You have no choice.

HERMES: And what does Uncle Jason think about you using his place for this?

LIZ: He’s indisposed at the moment.

Cut to shot of UNCLE JASON tied up in a broom closet with a sock stuffed into his mouth. The scene quickly cuts back to the ring, where a THAI GIRL brings over a set of boxing gloves and presents them to HERMES.

HERMES: I’m not going to fight you, Betsey. I told you, I don’t hit women.

LIZ: That’s not what I’ve heard. And stop calling me Betsey. MY name is Liz. We are not the same. Now put on the goddamn gloves and get in the goddamn ring.

HERMES: I’m not getting in the fucking ring!

LIZ: GET IN THE FUCKING RING!

HERMES: Or what?

Suddenly, the door bursts open and a much older Irishman with long, wild hair marches in with a taser. He points it right at HERMES. HERMES gasps at the sight of the only person he is legitimately afraid of.

TASEER: Get in the fucking ring, Hermes.

HERMES: What are you doing here?

TASER GUY: [shrugs] Bit of a slow day. Now get in the ring.

HERMES takes the gloves nervously and climbs up into the ring.

HERMES: How did you even meet this woman?

TASER GUY: At the same place she met all of you. The American Bar.

Cut to shot of the inside of the American Bar, where all the lads are gathered to watch the Greatest Show on Earth. LYDIA, the bartender, cues up the TVs to play the live CCTV feed from the gym. She takes out a giant bowl and starts passing it around the bar.

LYDIA: Gentlemen, place your bets!

OLD MAN SMILEY: I’ve got 50 baht on Hermes! That little cunt doesn’t stand a chance against him.

OKLAHOMA: I don’t know about that one, Smiley. She’s got a lotta rage. I’ll put 100 baht on Betsey.

UNCLE SEAMUS: Ooh, this is a tough one. They’re pretty evenly matched. What does my beautiful wife think about this?

AUNTIE EM: [jumps up and down with a big smile on her face] Betsey! Betsey! Betsey!

UNCLE SEAMUS: Whatever you say, sweetheart. 50 baht for each of us on Betsey, but only because I enjoy watching Hermes get punched in the face. Never gets old!

CHICAGO EAST: I’ll bet 100 baht on Hermes. Betsey is just a spoiled little Princess. He’ll take her out in one punch.

FINN: This is not possible. You always underestimate this woman, Chi. This is your greatest mistake. I’m putting 200 baht on her knocking him out with one punch.

NEW YORK YANKEE: 500 baht and a round of shots on Betsey. She’s no delicate little lady, Chi. I agree with Finn. She’s gonna knock him right the fuck out.

MR. POSH: 500 baht on Betsey. She’s been to my house. She’s ridden on camels. She knows the date of the Norman Invasion. She’s definitely gonna win this round!

THE MOOSE: I will also wager 500 baht on Betsey. She might be a lady, but she’s a real Irish country girl at heart. I fully believe she can hold her own in a fight. What do you think, Antony?

Everyone in the bar turns around and looks at MR. ANTONY (aka the Hot Beef Stew). He sits in silence for a moment as he thinks it over. He then pulls a crisp, clean 1000 baht note out of his wallet and throws it in the bowl.

MR. ANTONY: I choose Betsey. That riff-raff Hermes deserves exactly what’s coming to him. I do not appreciate the way he interfered in our affair. He caused a lot of problems for both of us.

CHICAGO EAST: I can’t believe you’re gonna bet 1000 baht on her after she called you a ‘dirty little slut’ on her blog!

MR. ANTONY: [shrugs with indifference] I deserved it.

THE MOOSE: I thought you didn’t read her blog, Chi.

CHICAGO EAST: I don’t! I mean… sometimes I do… I mean… doesn’t everyone?

MR. ANTONY: That reminds me, has anyone seen Jason today? I feel like he should be here.

The scene cuts back to the broom closet, where UNCLE JASON finally spits the sock out of his mouth.

UNCLE JASON: [screaming] I’m gonna KILL that little cunt! You hear me, Betsey Horton?! I’m gonna fucking kill you!

The door to the broom closet suddenly bursts open. The TASER GUY stands in the doorway, holding his taser menacingly.

TASER GUY: You will do no such thing, Jason. She’s under my protection now. You leave her be or I’ll zap your dumb ass.

UNCLE JASON: Ugh! Fine! Will you at least let me go so I can watch the fight? I’m betting 10,000 baht on Hermes right now.

TASER GUY: You’re making a big mistake, but okay. Ladies!

Two THAI GIRLS come into the broom closet and help UNCLE JASON off the floor. They untie him and escort him to a bench by the ring. The TASER GUY takes a seat next to him.

The camera pans over back to the ring and re-focuses on LIZ and HERMES. Another THAI GIRL climbs into the ring to act as the referee. LIZ takes a step back from the center, puts her hands in prayer, and bows to him in respect. HERMES rolls his eyes and holds up his gloves.

HERMES: I just want to warn you in advance. This is going to be over pretty fast.

LIZ: It sure is.

REFEREE: Round 1! Go!

The bell rings to signal the start of the match. LIZ raises her arms above her head and lifts one leg into Crane Pose. She steps back gracefully into Warrior II and motions with her hand for HERMES to come at her. He steps forward to take a swing right at her face. Much to his surprise, she dodges him fast. He loses his balance and stumbles forward. LIZ promptly knocks him down onto the floor with a roundhouse kick to the face. He lands on his back and stares up at her in awe as she looks down at him with disgust.

HERMES: How did you do that?

LIZ: I’m a fucking yoga teacher, you dumb fuck. That’s how.

LIZ proceeds to beat the ever-living shit out of HERMES, destroying his perfectly punchable face in record time. The crowd at the bar watch in silent awe, their jaws dropping to the floor one by one.

LIZ: DON’T. [punch] YOU. [punch] EVER. [punch] MESS WITH ME AGAIN. [punch] DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!

HERMES goes limp on the floor as she knocks him out with one last punch. The REFEREE pulls LIZ off the poor bastard and holds her arm up in the air.

REFEREE: The winner is Liz!

LIZ rips off her gloves and throws them down on the ground so hard they bounce out of the ring. She lets out a primal scream of pure rage like none of these men have ever heard in their lives. It’s kinda scary, but also kinda hot? She spits on HERMES as she stands over his limp body.

LIZ: Happy St. Patrick’s Day, motherfucker.

LIZ storms out of the ring and disappears somewhere off screen. TASER GUY roars with laughter as he looks over at UNCLE JASON. He is frozen in shock.

TASER GUY: I told you it was a bad bet to make.

UNCLE JASON: But… but… what… I don’t understand how this could have happened. You fixed it, didn’t you?

TASER GUY: I didn’t have to.

UNCLE JASON: Fuck!

Meanwhile, at the bar, everyone is sitting there in stunned silence. The camera takes a moment to focus on each individual expression as it pans across the bar. LYDIA calmly stands over the cash register, counting out the winnings. She puts all of the cash in an envelope and hands it over to MR. ANTONY. As per usual, she is all business.

OLD MAN SMILEY: Wow.

OKLAHOMA: I told you she has a lotta rage.

UNCLE SEAMUS: That’s my niece, everyone! That’s my long-lost Irish niece!

AUNTIE EM: [smiles proudly] My niece! My niece!

UNCLE SEAMUS: That’s right, honey. Family. Not a threat. Family.

AUNTIE EM: [nods] Family.

FINN: I told you not to underestimate her, Chi.

CHICAGO EAST: [stares at the ground with shame]

MR. POSH: That was fun! Let’s face it: That fucker Hermes has had it coming for YEARS! I don’t feel the least bit sorry for him. Sooner or later he was going to mess with the wrong person. I just didn’t think it would be… a girl.

THE MOOSE: [staring up at the TV with stars in his eyes] She’s not a girl. That’s a real woman right there. I think I’m in love with her.

MR. ANTONY: [pats THE MOOSE on the back in solidarity and chuckles] I know I am.

NEW YORK YANKEE: [gets out of his seat and rings the bell loudly] Lydia! A round of shots for the bar, please!

LYDIA already has the plate prepared. She passes out the shots and everyone holds theirs up high. Everyone except CHICAGO EAST, who is still staring at the floor in silence. Just as they are about the take the shot, the door opens and BETSEY walks in. She has long dark, curly hair and is wearing a black maxi dress. Everyone freezes and stares at her in shock.

BETSEY: What are you all staring at?

NEW YORK YANKEE: How did you get here so fast?

BETSEY: What are you talking about? You know I only live one block down the street. I’ve been in my apartment all afternoon. I was taking a nap.

CHICAGO EAST: But… but… but… that was you. It was you up there on the TV. It was you.

BETSEY: Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

OLD MAN SMILEY: Whaddaya talkin’ about? You got multiple personalities or something?

BETSEY smirks at him knowingly and shrugs.

BETSEY: Maybe I do…

The Krewe looks at her with a mix of fear and awe as she walks up to CHICAGO EAST and picks up his shot glass.

BETSEY: I’ll take that. Slainte, fam!

UNCLE SEAMUS: SLAINTE!

Everyone takes the shot. BETSEY walks over to MR. ANTONY. He hands her the envelope of cash.

MR. ANTONY: Your winnings…

BETSEY: Thank you, darling. I’m sorry for all of this.

MR. ANTONY: I’m sorry too. I should have been honest with you.

BETSEY: Thank you. I would have gone with you anyway. I don’t have healthy boundaries around these sorts of things.

MR. ANTONY: Are we okay now?

BETSEY: Yes. I told you. I like you.

MR. ANTONY: Still?

BETSEY: Always. You’re one of my Muses now.

MR. ANTONY: Just like your Andrew.

BETSEY: Yes. Just like My Andrew. Except you are way, way, way hotter than he was! That’s why I call you my Hot Beef Stew.

MR. ANTONY: Grand.

BETSEY: Grand!

They exchange one last look before she turns to the crowd and waves goodbye.

BETSEY: See you later, everyone!

BETSEY walks out of the bar, clicks her heels together three times, and lands back in Hong Kong.

The End.

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!

BLOG: Hail Zulu!

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Trash Wednesday. The party is over. Another year has come and gone. I could not have guessed this time last year that I would be spending Mardi Gras sitting at a farang dive bar in Bangkok, but here we are.

It was not so bad. I started with a grilled cheese and then drank very, very slowly. For awhile I got stuck talking to this weird American guy. Another crazy Californian. They truly are next level. He was starting to annoy me when my friend The Moose texted me and invited me to come to another pub. I was going to get up and leave when he and his other friend came in. I know the other friend but I don’t have a name for him. I was at his house with some friends a few weeks ago.

So they came in and rescued me from the crazy Californian guy, who continued hovering around and inserting himself into our conversation at random times. I, myself, was still trying to pretend that I’m not still secretly stewing over my Stew.

Had a couple of rounds of drinks, then the two of them exited. A different American friend from New York approached me. He asked me what happened on Saturday night with Uncle Jason. I said I had no memory of that. I was really drunk and watching rugby. He said “words were exchanged.” I was like, “Were those words, ‘fuck off, I’m watching rugby?’” Lol.

Shortly thereafter, Uncle Jason appeared, once again looking at me in bewilderment. I love knowing how much this guy hates me and trolling him this way. It’s hilarious to me. Sometimes when people mess with you, you just gotta mess with people right back.

Finally, Old Man Smiley appeared and took me aside. He said, “Betsey, listen to me. I’ve been trying to tell you in my own way. I’ve lived here a long time. There are people here who are very dangerous. You don’t want to be messing with them. Do you understand me?”

Yes, I finally understand you. I did not understand you before. Now I understand you. I understand exactly what you are getting at now. I’m learning the rules now. I didn’t know them before.

I went home after that. Found a New Orleans-style restaurant and ordered a spread. It was actually pretty good. The Jambalaya is more like a Thai fried rice style but the flavoring is on-point. Creole spice game strong. These people know NOLA.

Later, as I stood by the window overlooking the city, eating my rice with chop sticks, I wondered about my life again. I have no idea what I’m doing. Dead-end job. Dead-end career. Dead-end city. Dead-end book. Dead-end relationship. Dead-end everything.

What am I doing with my life?

I have no idea!!!

BLOG: The Taser Guy

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Thursday here in Bangkok. I never could have imagined my life would someday look like this.

Last night was really quite something. I decided to wander on down to the American Bar, where a new adventure undoubtedly awaited. I was correct, as per usual.

I wasn’t sitting in there very long before an “Old Pattaya Boy” (as they say here) came into the bar waving around a taser. He was pointing it at the ceiling and zapping it on and off. Everyone laughed as if this was completely normal behavior. One person even said, “The Legend has returned!”

Ohhhh Bangkok…

Sometime later, I was left alone in the bar with only company of this man. As soon as the others were out the door, he fixated on me and said, “They told me not to talk to you. What did you do to piss them off? Why are they all so afraid of you?”

I caved into the inevitable conversation, hoping this man would not taze me into oblivion. His eyes were red and wild, his hair was unwashed and strung out, and he looked like he could possibly fall over at any moment. Naturally, he was from Belfast, and was feeling much better since he stopped doing cocaine.

“I’m a writer,” I said. “They are mad at me because I have been writing stories about this bar.”

“This bar?” He repeated. “You’re writing about this bar? What are you writing about this bar?”

“Just my observations about the people I meet and some of the weirder things that happen to me. Like tonight.”

“You’re telling me you’re going to go home after this and write a story about some crazy old guy from Belfast coming into the bar with a taser?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Are you going to use my real name?”

“No.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that then?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. There must be some reason they are still mad at me.”

“You must have written about someone they know.”

“I’ve written about a lot of people they know.”

“Like who?”

“Do you know [name redacted]?”

At this, his eyes widened.

“Yes, I’ve known him for over a decade now. How do you know [name redacted]?”

“I met him here. He walked right up to me and started telling me his life story.”

“Ah, so you know who he is back home. He’s a wanted man. He lives here in exile. He can never go back to Northern Ireland. I just wonder to myself… why was it that he was never arrested? Do you know?”

“I imagine he worked out some kind of deal with the right person. Maybe traded information in exchange for protection. I can’t say for certain because I don’t know. That’s just my theory given what I know about him.”

“So you’ve been writing about him?”

“Yes. Of course. He told me I could write about him as long as I don’t use his real name. He is very braggadocious, as you know. He’ll tell anyone off the street his life story.”

“Well, you know not everything he says is true. Some of his stories are complete lies and fabrications. He’s full of shit.”

“Yes, I recently learned that lesson the hard way.”

“Oh, he was just trying to fuck you, wasn’t he? You’re definitely his type. He likes brunettes. So did you fuck him?”

“He’s not my type. He’s too pretty. He can’t handle the smack down.”

“Too pretty? I’ve seen him get punched in the face. Multiple times.”

“Maybe he can handle a physical beating, but he can’t handle a verbal one. I gave him one and he just crumpled. He can’t take it. I need a man who is not afraid of me.”

“What happened?”

“We had a disagreement. He gave me false information about somebody. He pissed me off, so I called him a child soldier and a little messenger boy. Now when I write about him, I use the name Hermes.”

The man from Belfast stared straight at me with no reaction whatsoever. He did not laugh. He did not smile. He simply nodded his head at me.

“That’s exactly what he is,” he stated plainly. “Hermes. The little messenger boy. That’s who he is. Spot on. You are right. You are correct.”

He continued staring down at me without breaking eye contact. I could see him doing the math in his head.

“I can’t imagine he was very happy when you said that to him.”

“No, he wasn’t, but he was messing with me and I didn’t like it. So I got right up in his face and messed with him back.”

“Good for you,” he said. “That’s the only way to get any respect around here. I’m starting to see why they are afraid of you.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes.”

“Of course there is more. Why don’t you tell me why Jason over there is so mad at you? He would not tell me what happened.”

“Oh, you mean Uncle Jason. Yes, he came in here one night with his very handsome Irish friend and the two of us ran off together into the night. Turns out his friend is married. Oops!”

“I see. So he is mad because you fucked his friend?”

“In so many words, yes. It would seem that way.”

“Interesting.”

“You know, I am part Irish. I don’t know anything about being Irish though. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever been around any Irish people. So, yeah, I would say things have gotten a little bit wild in here. It is what it is. I don’t know why Uncle Jason is still so hung up about it though.”

“I’ll have a nice little chat with Jason tomorrow and see what that’s all about. So nice to meet you, Betsey Horton.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“You know,” he said. “It’s very impressive that you’ve gotten this much attention in such a short period of time. I’ve known these guys twenty years and I’ve never seen them hate anyone as much as they hate you. I have not met anyone like you here before. You are a rare bird.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you making any money off of this? Because you should be making money off of this. You are someone. Just think of how much money we could make if we could get the whole world to hate you!”

“We?”

He suddenly looked up at me with dollar signs sparkling in his eyes. I’ve never seen a lightbulb light up above someone’s head so fast.

“Yes, yes, I will speak with them about you tomorrow. Very nice to meet you, Ms. Betsey Horton.”

Obviously, there was much more to this conversation, but all of the remaining details identify this person very specifically, so I have chosen to exclude them in order to protect his identity.

So that was a fun night. Gotta love dem Old Pattaya Boys. This guy was so funny. He kept saying, “I’ve been doing much better since I stopped doing cocaine” over and over, lololol! Luckily, he did not break out the taser again. I guess I entertained him enough not to be thrown to the rancor pit, lol. Such is the way of Jabba’s Palace.

Maybe he will read this. Or maybe not! He did admit to me that he is basically illiterate, so it’s unlikely he’ll stick around. I’m sure Uncle Jason will be more than happy to give him the Spark Notes version. Or perhaps we can get Hermes to do it, lol.