Tag: Wan Chai

BLOG: Failure, but with Style & Confidence!

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Wednesday.

Here we are.

How did my job thing go today?

Oh, it didn’t.

Why?

The usual, well-documented reason. I freaked out, had an anxiety attack, started crying, went into full meltdown mode, and then locked myself in my room and shut off my phone.

Sadly, this is normal for me.

I don’t understand what happened. I did everything right. I prepared. I got enough sleep. I woke up early. I had my coffee, smoked a cigarette, did yoga, wrote a blog post, showered, got dressed, gave myself two extra hours to get there… and then… somehow… I just fell totally and completely apart within the span of about 15 minutes.

Grand.

Maybe I’m just not a people person and that’s why I have an anxiety attack every time I try to force myself to put on the mask and pretend I am a people person?

Maybe I just can’t do these jobs. I can’t be a waitress or a bartender or a barista. I can’t be a yoga teacher or an English teacher. I can’t get up in a room full of people like that and act like a completely different person. I just cannot do that. I would be so much happier if I could choose when I interact with people and how. I want it to all be on my terms. I can’t have it be on their terms.

Yeah so I just… really fucked it all up today. But also… maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I’m just not meant to teach a kindergarten class, or a primary school class, or a secondary school class, or any class in general. And you know what? Honestly… like… no fucking duh!

So what can I do? Ummm… sit alone in the corner, watch people from a safe distance away, and write ridiculous made-up stories about them? I don’t even know anymore. All I know is that I sit here every day watching the people go up and down the Escalator like, “Why can’t I just be normal like them?”

I finally forced myself out of the house after playing Mah Jong for an hour and half straight. I came up the escalator to my fav Greek place. Much to my surprise, my favourite Hong Kong “Auntie” was sitting in the window enjoying a glass of wine alone.

I absolutely love this lady. She has lived in Hong Kong forever! She has all the best stories from the pre-handover, post-handover, pre-Covid, and post-Covid eras of Hong Kong history. She was here for all of it. She watched this neighborhood in Central go from dark allies full of print shops and dirty restaurants to the lively, bright, crowded social scene it is today. Every restaurant and bar owner in Central and Wan Chai knows her. She is the best Auntie to have!

Seeing her instantly put a smile on my face. I was so relieved. I came over to her right away and greeted her. She was so happy to see me. She gave me a big hug. It felt really good after such a shitty, disappointing day.

I told her about my day and she nodded understandingly. “It’s good you find out now it’s not right for you,” she said. “Now you can do better! You have so much talent, so much beauty. You have the most beautiful gift for writing. I see it! Why you not do something with that instead?!”

Everyone knows but me. I’m the only one who doesn’t know it. I’m the only who doesn’t have it figured out. I’m the one who doesn’t know how to take what I have and make it work. That’s why I will always fail…

Ugh, see? Even the restaurant manager just came over to ask me how my book is going. Everyone knows but me. So why can’t I figure out how to make a career and/or money out of this?

I had the most intense vision during meditation this morning. This week I am using the visualization technique of imagining myself packing up a suitcase full of memorabilia representing my past, running to catch the train, dropping the suitcase, and leaving it all behind as I wave goodbye.

Today I took the suitcase and threw it as hard as I could off the back of the train. I watched it explode into a thousand pieces in the station behind me. Each piece turned into a beam of light and took a place on the train platform. The lights hovered in the air for just a moment before transforming into the ghosts of everyone I’ve loved who has passed on. They were all standing on the platform, smiling and waving at me as I headed off on my adventure.

I saw my dad, my grandparents, my friends, my family, my pets. Everyone was there. Even Mad Dog rolled up on his shitty old orange bicycle with a little caddy attached to bag reading “Lemonade Stand.” Each one took a moment to give me a hug and say something special to me before sending me off to Hong Kong. The last thing I saw was my dad looking at me proudly saying, “I’m so proud of you. We are all so proud of you.”

Aww… and now I’m crying in the middle of the restaurant. So embarrassing for my life and my soul. Oh well. The manager literally just told me to make it dramatic. What is more dramatic than bringing yourself to tears while penning your own memoir? Exactly.

Side Bar: This is exactly why I didn’t bother wearing make-up today. I knew I was just going to sit here and write and cry it all off anyway. Pointless. Not even the most waterproof liquid eyeliner can last through my writing process. Trust me; I’ve tried them all.

So yeah, it was a rough day. I just had to sit with myself for a time today and say to myself, “It’s okay if you don’t want to work with children, or people in general. It’s not the right job for you. Trust in the process. Trust in the journey. Trust there is something better ahead for you. You made it this far already, didn’t you?”

I really do love living in Hong Kong. I feel like there is so much here I have yet to see and explore. I’ve been so caught up in trying to be the person everyone else wants me to be or who I think I should be that I’ve forgotten who I really am. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Right now, I feel like I am more lost than ever.

Welcome to life at SEA: Drifting from one shipwreck to another, desperately trying to keep your head above water and avoid all the sharks along the way.

Speaking of sharks, a big old English one dressed in purple just rolled up. I just watched him knock an older Chinese tourist lady out of the way on the Escalator and then mutter an insult to himself on his way across the street. Naturally, he looked right at me in the window, walked in, and sat down one chair away from me. Now he’s talking to himself.

That’s my cue to GTFO! Time to go anywhere that’s not here…

Have a good one!

BLOG: Chinese Laundry Day

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Friday?!

I am losing days left and right over here. What is even happening to me right now? I think it’s called “getting older.”

Yesterday I was not feeling well at all. I couldn’t even watch TV. I mostly slept all day long. I’ve been sleeping a lot more since I came to Asia. I was feeling guilty about it at first, but then I learned that my parasympathetic nervous system is in recovery after a long period of difficulty. I let it go. Sometimes I just need the extra sleep.

I resolved to make up for it today by getting all of my chores done. I started by taking out the trash and dropping off all of my towels and bedding at the Chinese laundry around the corner.

I am quite friendly with my laundry lady now. It’s kind of strange to me how freaked out I was about the idea of someone else doing my laundry. It used to be a very specific self-care ritual for me. Now I just send it off with a smile, knowing I can trust my stuff with this lady.

Now it’s just dishes and wiping down countertops and sweeping the floor and squeegee’ing out the bathroom. Gotta drop off more laundry tomorrow. Boring, boring, boring. How very tradwife of me, lol.

JK, of course. We all know I’m not the type who is going to be making homemade jams and jellies from scratch. I will only get married if household staff is part of the deal. I’ve seen things in Hong Kong I can’t unsee. The only way I’m marrying a man is if he comes with a multi-million dollar property and a housekeeper.

Put that shit in your pre-nup: I’m not doing any cleaning whatsoever.

Some cooking is okay. Pet care is definitely okay. You might just catch me out here wildin’, doing my own laundry on the housekeeper’s day off. Let her go play cards with her friends. I’ll make myself a giant salad and watch KUWTK all day.

Standards and expectations from men are very high these days. We can’t just settle for a 2.5 star rated date with some rando we met at the bar. We need to start taking the marriage market seriously. We need to be making Bridgerton levels of deals over here. Forget love; this is business!

What? Don’t look at me like that. These guys are out here saying shit like, “I believe women belong in the home.” Okay, well, I love staying at home and writing all day. Show me the home! I want a very nice home that I can decorate and renovate and occupy at all times. I definitely belong at home.

Soooo… Where is it? Where is my house?

Yeah, exactly, that’s what I thought. All words, no action, as per usual.

As I’ve said before, all of this “Big Strong Alpha Male” talk is just talk. It’s their usual male bullshit. Men are just full of it all the time. They can’t be trusted. They just say things and hurt people and use women and they don’t care about how it affects anyone else. So, whatever. I have simply chosen to rise to the occasion and just get up in their faces and be aggressive about it.

It is what it is.

The baristas just informed me that the crazy Aussie guy is back. They told him not to come back here again. They’ve told him this several times now. They told me is quite well-known to be a trouble -maker in Wan Chai. Yikes. We all know what that means!

So now I am on the lookout for him. I hope he doesn’t come back.

All the more motivation to finish up my chores. I need to go to the market as well. I’m out of bottled water. JFC, the amount of money I have spent on bottled water since I got to Asia is absurd. It’s a straight-up scam. I don’t understand why we can’t just have clean water?

I hate the Hong Kong water. It’s so harsh. I am not kidding when I say my skin is so messed up from the water here. I used to love taking long, hot showers and now it’s like torture for me. I have the worst eczema. I had to change from my beloved Bath & Body Works products to specialty local brands of soap and lotion. This lotion I am using is straight-up made for medical purposes.

This is why I’m mad about not being able to use the bathtub at the Mandarin Oriental. The hotel literally gives you a variety of special products to use in the bathtub that help ease skin irritation issues. Literally, the first thing I did when I got up to his room was look at the bath and go over all of the products that came with the bath. And then I don’t even get to use them?! Are you kidding me?! What is that?!

2.5 star review. I should just knock it down to 2. I feel like that .5 is being generous. That whole date really was a massive waste of my time. I feel like he just used me as a free sex worker and then just threw me away. That’s so not cool, bro. Like, what a waste of fucking time. Never again.

I think it annoys me extra because it is someone’s actual job to entertain him in this manner, yet he felt entitled to just take it from a random person for free. Not cool. And then he says I can’t write about him? Like, bro, that is my ACTUAL job. You don’t get to take that away from me. That’s literally the one thing I actually get out of this. You can choose which parts you want me to leave out, but you don’t get to opt out altogether. If you didn’t want to get involved, you shouldn’t have approached me at the bar and interrupted me while I was writing. That’s on you.

Yeah, I’m definitely over the whole one night stand thing. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m on a time crunch here. I gotta start taking this seriously. This is the last season of The Island of Lost Guys. It’s cancelled. No more.

Just Say No, Betsey. Boundaries. Men are like drugs. They’re fun in the moment, but the comedown is terrible and the withdrawal is even worse. Just Say No. Just Say No!

Speaking of Just Say No, my bartender friends want to fix me up with a guy tonight. I am so not into it. I don’t want to go. I want to stay home in my clean studio and watch Netflix and snuggle up in my freshly-laundered bedding without any men there to bother me.

Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. No men, no regrets.

And she lived happily ever after.

The End.

BLOG: I Think We Lost The Plot

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Thursday. Where did the week go? Oh yes, I know. I spent all day yesterday sucked into Netflix while actively avoiding reality. Nothing like a good true crime docu trio to wake you up to all of the different ways life could go wrong.

I’m not really partial to the murders myself. I like the documentaries about cults and cult psychology. I have watched ALL of the cult documentaries. Unemployment Level 100. I am also fascinated by cult psychology because, as an American, I recognize that my country has been taken over by a very dangerous cult.

This particular documentary was about the FLDS in Utah. It is absolutely terrifying to watch as a woman. I have nothing but respect for Dr. Christine Marie. She is definitely one of my new role models. That documentary was harrowing.

Then I watched the one about the pro cyclist who was murdered by the jealous girlfriend of some loser guy. The girlfriend took off to Costa Rica, where she was hiding out at various yoga retreats. That one definitely made me think a lot. I just looked back at some of the people I met in India and Bali and was like, “WTF were they running from?”

Some of them were really strange and off. As I’ve said before, I’m not sure I would go back to Bali again after what I experienced there. Bangkok, yes. Bali, no.

I found people in Bangkok were generally more open about the fact that they are running away from something. Maybe they won’t tell you what it is, but it’s kinda just the general vibe of the expat community in Thailand. It’s like walking into the Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars. You know everyone in there has come from somewhere else to do some kind of shady business. It’s just better not to ask too many questions about it.

In Bali, people are presenting themselves to be something they are not, and what that something is generally involves grifting off of people struggling with mental health, grief, spiritual questions, and a lack of meaning/purpose. I definitely saw some cult-adjacent shit while I was there. I also met people who were just… way, way, way off. Like “maybe they should be in the Hotel California and not running a yoga studio in Bali” kinds of off. Ya know what I’m saying?

It did feel validating in that way. I think sometimes I can be sensitive and take other people’s weird behavior super personally when in reality it has nothing to do with me at all. Like, maybe that lady wasn’t mean to me because I’m a bad person who deserves it. Maybe she killed her husband’s affair partner and went on the run and now she’s hiding out in Bali and she’s worried some writer is going to go snooping around and find out the truth.

Maybe.

Or maybe she was just having a bad day. Either way, this isn’t about me. Don’t take it personally. I’m perfectly grand just the way I am.

Right now I am sitting outside the coffee shop, watching people on the street. I just love Hong Kong. I really do. Every day I wake up and think, “Wow, I can’t believe I get to live here. This is the most incredible opportunity of my entire life. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for it every single day.”

I was meditating last night before bed and the spirit of my Irish grandmother showed up to talk to me. She said, “Do you know what the Irish Dream is? Not the American Dream. The Irish Dream. The Irish Dream is for our children to be free to become writers, poets, artists, musicians, filmmakers. It’s to give them the gift of free time so they can create. You don’t have to slave away at the docks or in the factories or give up your education to take care of a dozen children. We did all of this so you can sit outside on the rooftop and write your book and enjoy life in Hong Kong. Stop feeling guilty about it. Enjoy it. We did it all for you.”

Okay, okay, okay. I get it. My sole purpose on this earth is to Create. I must honor my ancestors by finding a way to become a serious, professional writer. Well, we all know the first two steps: money and a room of one’s own. I have that right now, yes, but how to maintain it over time is a problem.

I don’t know. Somehow I keep making it work. Failing upward, as they say. Perhaps a reminder to focus on manifesting simple things like a fabulous apartment that someone else is paying for so I can just sit there and write all day. Hahaha.

I’m not joking. That’s a real thing. It’s called “patronage.” It’s where rich people give you money and a room of your own so you can create art all day. I’ve actually had several patrons in my life, including my father, my uncle, my aunt, and The Publisher. It really is the best way to go. At least, for now.

That’s what I have to manifest: a patron! Ah, yes, so simple. Why did I not think of it before? Patron, patron, patron.

Brilliant.

Haha, aww, the song “I’ll Be Missing You” just came on the street stereo the delivery guy always plays around this time of day. Definitely a message from my ancestors. My dad always does that. Communicate through music, I mean. Sometimes I’ll just be sitting somewhere random and a playlist comes on that only he would make and I just know he’s there.

Oh yeah, they’re definitely there right now. It just switched to “Empire State of Mind.” Big New York City energy coming in right now. It’s a whole thing.

Now I am sitting here thinking about my book/Netflix show, lol. I’ve been going through my manuscript I made in January and I just hate it. The first half is such a slog. I just want to delete it all, speed up the timeline, and just have the first 10 pages/minutes be a montage of my dad’s funeral, getting fired from Starbucks, car breaking down, losing the house, getting a giant check in the mail, and buying a one-way ticket to India. That’s it. Fuck South Dakota. This is the terrible Prequel series no one asked for. Everything since India is like… my actual real life as I have always wanted to live it finally began. That’s the real story here!

I think we’ve kind of lost the plot a little bit here. Yes, I have meaning. I have purpose. I am a writer. It’s my dream to become a professional writer. That is why I am here. I got on that plane to have a crazy adventure and write it all down. Take whatever comes at me along the way. I did that. I’ve done it. I am actively doing it, even when it comes at a cost, like my little adventure up to the Mid-Levels.

So now we have to figure out how to steer the career into professional mode. I have no idea how to do that. I have no talent for business whatsoever. I need an agent/editor type to guide me in the right direction. Someone who has that eye for business in the way that I don’t and all of the connections I need but don’t have. Again, a patron type.

Okay, I feel like I’m back to normal now after my date with the Russian. Wow, what was that? Hmm. Wild. I don’t actually have anything else I want to say about him here. I just wanted him to know… I could have easily ripped you apart, but I didn’t. But I could. So just… know that.

Honestly, couldn’t even tell ya what he does for a living. You could be water boarding me old school Soviet style and I’d be like, “I swear to you, I don’t know! It sounded so boring. I checked out halfway through his explanation and started examining the crystal chandelier and hanging gardens at the Four Seasons. I can list off every plant and flower in the terrarium. Couldn’t tell ya what he does for work. Something with Finance, maybe? I thought he said he owned his own business. I honestly have no idea.”

The world will never know. Furthermore, the world does not care. The world cares about the part where two Scorpios went on a date to a bar that looks like an old-timey opium den/brothel and it was the most on-brand thing ever for both of them. Show us those terrible red leather couches from the 80’s! That’s what the world really wants to see!

Netflix execs will be like, “How is this even relevant to the plot?”

It’s not, it’s just an excuse to film at the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong. Since when do we need a plot for sex? Spoiler alert: there is no plot. This is just a random, gratuitous sex scene with no purpose or relevance whatsoever. Since when do you have a problem including that in your shows?!

They’ll be like, “You’re right. Let’s make sure we get a top-notch intimacy coordinator on board with this production.”

IDK, I think that might be too “woke” for the Russian. I can just imagine the look of outrage on his face right now…

Ha ha ha!

I think I’m hilarious.

Off now. To do what, we don’t know. We know we’re not going back to the Mid-Levels anytime soon!

The battle of Hong Kong Island neighborhoods continues. So far I’ve eliminated Causeway Bay (too busy), Wan Chai (too wild), Central (too expensive), Happy Valley (too far), and the Mid-Levels (too bougie). I’m actually quite happy in Sheung Wan. It’s very… French. Close to everything, but easy to escape from the chaos of the city with a quick trip up to my rooftop.

I think I’ll go do that right now, actually. Then I have to clean my apartment because it’s a mess. All of my clothes are piled onto “the chair” instead of hanging in my closet, where they should be. Alas, I am not fancy enough to have a “helper” or live in an upscale “serviced apartment.” I am confined to my tiny little coffin box with the rats and the cockroaches, living off snacks and instant noodles from 7-11.

It is what it is.

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: 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.