A Call For Writers: Additional Details

Yesterday I shot up a flare to see if any writers out there would be interested in embarking on a collaborative blogging adventure with me. After a bit of correspondence with some interested parties who wanted some more information, I decided to write up a more thorough blueprint on what I’m envisioning. Here it is:

I’ll launch a collaborative blog (maybe as soon as next week, if I can wrangle enough people together) that we can all post to. There’s a group blog I write for here in Korea that is set up in the same way. Check it out for reference:


I want ours to be a little prettier, though, so I’ll spring a few bucks for a premium theme. *makes jackoff gesture*

I figure if we get a few good people on board we can establish a rotation and keep this thing (not settled on a blog name yet) updated with a few 300-800 word posts a week. That’s a good ballpark word count, but they can be shorter or longer.

We’ll make sure we run a full court press on each post and get it publicized on a Twitter account and a Facebook page, and share each other’s links. I think this could be a great way for us to put our names (real or fake) out there.

Updated with what, you ask? A variety of voice is good. I want this thing to be a collective portfolio of sorts, with everyone bringing their own unique spin to the table. Much like The Avengers all having different superpowers. If you write something you feel is a standout piece that deserves extra visibility, you can post it to this blog and hopefully get it in front of a broader, more diverse audience.

For my part, I tend to write a lot of atmospheric, observational bullshit about being single, living abroad, trying to find my way in the world, etc.

But as long as you can write real, relatable stuff, I’m flexible on the topic. Travel, relationships, memories, life events, observations—wherever inspires you. If you’ve got a killer piece kicking around that you want to run as your debut, go for it. I just plan on starting this thing and pushing it along until the training wheels come off—I’m not going to be editorial or nag you about “deadlines” or make you do revisions, etc.

At the end of the day I want people to come visit this thing because they trust us and they know that we can really deliver with each new post.

Those are my thoughts on this thing at the moment. More questions are welcome and feedback is invaluable. I’m at fredcolton11@gmail.com.

I live in Korea so if I take an extra minute to respond to you, that’s why. Or it’s because Kim jong-un just bombed Seoul.




A Call For Writers

This picture is a bit on the nose.


Fred here. How are you today? Feeling ambitious?

I ask because I’ll be launching a new collaborative blog very soon and I’m on the lookout for a few more writers to partner with.

If you can write real, raw stuff that hooks and holds a reader—and if you can, you’re probably a better writer than I am—give me a shout at fredcolton11@gmail.com and let’s see we can’t join forces. Let’s go after this thing like we mean it. Swing for the fences, make a serious run at notoriety. If we pool our audiences we can heighten our visibility and expand our platforms further. And then we go from there.

It couldn’t hurt at all to try. The ground is shifting and everyone’s hypnotized by glowing rectangles. But there is still hope. There are still willing eyeballs out there; let’s go find them.

Think it over. You know where to find me.

Colton, out.

The One

It’s been thirteen months.

Stretched out on the couch, left hand full of soft moist tit. Her on top, but sidesaddle, getting skewered, expertly controlling the bounce as if it’s too big to take. Like this shaft is something unearthly.

Change positions five times. Pick her up with one arm wrapped around her back, pivot, and lay her down while still inside. Slide out and blast so hard that thighs cramp up. Veins swell. She quivers.

The one. The one who tortures every man in the small hours of the morning. What happened with you is incorruptible. I’ve been with more women than there are US Presidents but it always comes back to you. You’re the one memory in every man’s mind that can’t be deleted. A song of hope burned into his heart that will keep him alive even when his spirit breaks. The last thing he sees at the moment of death. Forged during such a stratospheric neurochemical spike that it will transcend his existence. His great-grandson will be able to recall it in detail.

I miss you. The distance smothered us. Because I’ve spent thirteen months in Korea. And they block porn in Korea.

You. That 19 minute clip on xvideos.com. The confluence of inspired choreography and boffo performances. Not to mention perfection in the makeup and lighting departments. Thirteen months since I’ve seen you. God I miss you so much.

The Pursuit of Happiness

To be happy you need to drink. Just sometimes. Just a quick blast at the right time to jump over some of the wreckage. Only drink sometimes, because if you do it more than sometimes everyone will make you stop.

To be happy you need hope. But then the screens when you get on the train in Seoul are horrifying. Look at America, they’re testing a pre-crime detection system. 70% accuracy rate. The cops will arrest you for public urination while you’re still at the bar. Look at America, they’re running out of water. Look at China, their denim factories are poisoning the aquafers for the whole continent. Zero people are concerned. The collective plan is: stay top gear until we hit the wall. So what do you do. Hope this is a nightmare and we all wake up in another reality.

To be happy you need to sweat, watch the sun go down in different places, and you need to create. For free, and for yourself. To be happy you need family, you need them to be OK. But your sister is 19, she’s adopted, she’s a textbook sociopath. She already has a baby and she doesn’t feed him. Too busy Snapchatting. You need her to stop being this way, stop drunk driving through existence with the chemicals in her head mixed wrong. Stop killing our Mom with your stress. So what do you do. Tell her: feed the kid and change him. Coordinate your threesome after that. What do you do, make a request for intervention from whoever’s running the universe. Whoever it is answers sporadically. You’re sending spam to a full inbox.

To be happy you need friends. And you have them and with them you’re a good listener. But maybe too good. They tell you the same stories, three or four times. They forgot you were there the time before. You tried not to be such a grating asshole and you overcompensated and now you’re not memorable, you’re a low-impact presence. So what do you do. Well, who knows. To be happy maybe you need to be noticed. It’s hard to be ignored while you’re fucking. Text her, knock on the door at 3:00 A.M. Let me in. I don’t really even like you that much. And you keep telling me the same stories. But you have a tight pussy and being on your bed is like being suspended inside a cloud of stardust.

Wake up, back in that place where nothing you try seems to work. But to be happy you have to be too stubborn to quit. Which you are. So, onward. What do you do. Try again, try new things. Try ten thousand different things, if that’s what it takes.


She’s gone, now I can go to the café up the street, thank Christ. Like a fish dropped back in water. I just need to go there and write. Because every single day you don’t write is a day you would have conjured up the PowerBall blog post that would have changed your fortunes forever. Even if I genuinely like the girl and she makes me laugh I just want her to go. I need me time. I need to engage in the silent zen discipline of hanging up my clothes and scrubbing the fridge shelves.

The morning after. Both of you affecting nonchalance, like you weren’t grunting demonically filthy shit to each other through clenched teeth at sunrise. The hand towel on the floor holds the dried crust of hypothetical offspring. For every Dylan Klebold you’ve blasted onto her pale belly there’s a da Vinci to match him. But mostly, it’s a lot of oafish lugs named Todd or something. They’re the majority. C-students with brown hair. Future temp workers who order Egg McMuffins on their way to work. When you get laid all the time you get a new set of problems. You worry you don’t diversify your positions enough. And you worry about the placement of the shot at the finish. You have to consider the marksmanship; you want a nice vertical grouping, right up the middle, from navel to clavicle. And you realize that you won’t be able to get a satisfying jack session in later because your balls are empty now.

I say this because some virgin reader needs to know this. For the same reason I rabidly consume newsstand magazine interviews with successful figures. Mining them for hints of agony and suffering, some clue that these people cannot possibly be so happy with their money and validation. Jon Stewart says he lives in a constant state of depression; this pleases me. Getting what you want just sets a new baseline. You become the bus from SPEED.

Here in the café three ajummas lean their wrinkled faces together conspiratorially. Their eyes sometimes flick to me. Like they know something I don’t. Like we’re in an action movie and a vicious melee is about to break out. Myself vs. some belligerent townsfolk. Every room I enter, I imagine how I’d Bourne my way out of it. In this particular case I have a boiling hot Americano that I’d throw in their faces before shattering the mug and using the handle to jag my way to the door. These thick pine tables could be flipped up to deflect bullets if firearms enter the equation. This will never happen. I don’t live in an action movie. I live in a low-budget drama directed by an NYU grad, with muted lighting and unpredictable plot beats. People I know and love grapple with serious conflict. But for what it’s worth I think my part is underwritten. And my dialogue needs a lot of work.

Finish Line

Saturday in Korea. I’m going to saddle up and ride to this tower in the middle of Seoul. The first shot of warm sun is here and has exploded through the prism to give us five million shades of blue. I’ll stand on top of the structure like King Kong and scream IS THAT IT? to the universe. Because I’m alive again. My back is healing up; we’ve almost returned to 100%. When you’re 27 you still bounce off the concrete with a little zip. You think that someday you’ll be 60 and that makes feel like Wolverine by comparison.

This week: fuck this week. I taught at the elementary school. When I joke that I hate children, I’m actually not joking. I hate the dumb ones and the ones who scream and the second-grader with a mullet. Teaching is the best birth control. Monday through Friday, the whole twelve rounds. By Friday morning I was weighed heavy with the chains of fatigue. I moved through my neighborhood and offered up the requisite smiles at the relaxed speed of someone who exists in a campaign commercial. But it’s all over now. I won.

Tonight I’ll go see friends in town. Back slap and palm press. How ya doing man. So good to see you tonight. Oh, me? I can’t complain. Three drinks and then I’ll draw the phone. Ladies, let’s do this. Who wants to fuck me without going on a date first. Then I’ll sleep in and wake up and then write. Write, even though nobody reads anymore. If you’re a writer in 2015 you might as well be a blacksmith. I’ve got all these novels and novellas on a flash drive; they are awful. A young hack wrote them. What to do now. Well, I don’t want to do something else. And I’m 27; it’s too late to start mastering something else. I’m a container ship that takes over a mile to turn. So this is gonna be it then: this wasteful addiction that consumes all your hours. I guess it’s more constructive and rewarding than having a crack problem. But only slightly.

Remember You Are Mortal

I took a taxi to her apartment at midnight. My fellow rakes would chastise me because you’re only supposed to see fuck buddies once a week. That is the rule in 2015. I broke it because she’s easy to talk to and I’m good at talking to girls anyway. Not guys. Most guys have girl problems, but I have guy problems. I think it’s because I grew up without brothers. I get more nervous before playing Xbox and digging into a 30-rack with guys than I do before a date with a woman. With a woman some sort of evolutionary, biologically-imperative smoothness comes over me and steadies all the shakes. My mind fires sharper and faster. Everything is on point. Or maybe girls just pretend to laugh more often.

Anyway. You only see fuck buddies once a week. But if you know the rules you can break them. There’s a hard expiration date hovering with this one anyway because she’s leaving Korea soon. Gents, I know what I’m doing.

She lives on the 18th floor of one of those imperial apartment towers that you worry about planes hitting by accident, or on purpose after being hijacked by North Koreans. There was some red wine and we played guitar for two hours before I fucked her. I threw out my back while in mid-fornication. Like JFK. It’s as if two ribs have switched places. I tweaked it Saturday while lifting, which I only do so I can fuck girls, and then kept lifting and sprinting on it afterward, and then flexed too hard at the wrong time during the actual act of fucking, because I have to flex several muscles at the exact same time in order to finish. See also: reasons to be a eunuch.

So it begins. I will continue to age. I’d better get used to this. I woke up three hours later feeling like a broken stepladder. Some jagged piece of shrapnel wedged under my shoulder blade. Breathing is now a complex procedure of shifting and timing. If you were a general in Ancient Rome they threw you a parade when you got back from raping tentfuls of foreign women and sowing Carthaginian fields with salt. Tens of thousands screamed your name and you were a victor for life. You wore your toga and they sculpted a nude, casually-relaxed statue of you with a huge dick. They also had a guy standing behind you in the chariot whispering memento mori to you. Remember you are mortal.

Google told me to downshift a little. So I’m the café all evening to work on the novella. I want to put it out this summer, because it’s set during the summer. Things explode, or crash into other things, which also explode. There are characters that make jokes and there are plot twists. One protagonist is a champion, a fountain of charisma who is accustomed to winning. The other suffers anxiety in certain social situations and is fighting a losing battle to assert his existence. I can relate to both.


A ginger that I slept with three times (and once was sober, which should count as two notches) told her friend that I was fit, to which I replied: finally, goddamnit. What do you think I do all day. If I’m not writing bullshit that no one reads then I’m working out like a convict.

I’ve got this friend, a human bulldozer. Well maybe the word human is inaccurate; actually he was carved out of a pile of muscle in the late 80s and then animated. One of God’s science experiments. He boxes, and quite well; he knocked a soldier’s teeth out a few weeks ago. He’s a professional trainer and he gave me a personalized workout plan. It takes 2.5 hours. Written out, it fills up both sides of a sheet of paper. Sweet suffering Christ. With that kind of time I could learn Korean, I could finish my novella, I could enrich my friendships by spending valuable hours with the few people who will put up with me.

But no. My life is 2.5 hours of picking up piles of metal, three times a week. Chewing almonds by the bushel as I lie in bed reading. I will choke to death on one, because I insist upon looking good in a T-shirt. Because I won’t sit up while I eat. Searing up thick cuts of chicken breast every night. The antibiotics will give me basketball-sized tumors in ten years. Also: stair and hill sprints to the point of nausea three times a week, because I refuse to make a single dietary concession. Being in a relationship is a nightmare; being single is a slightly slimmer nightmare. I sprint and feel the valves in my heart choking and stalling on tidal forces of blood gorging through it, like the clutch isn’t catching. Such a sensation should horrify me, and it absolutely does, but I don’t stop because I want those stupid V-shaped ligaments on the lower abdomen to be visible. I don’t stop because on Sunday morning I’ll have to make the catwalk from the bed to the bathroom in the nude. She pretends she’s not watching, but she is. Just like you do when she goes. There’s a precise form. Mine emulates the T-800 just sent back in time to kill Sarah Conner. A comfortable, loose swagger, like I’m not even aware that clothing exists. Took me months to hone. Right now a Bangladeshi family is weeping because the father lost his arm to the errant swing of an acetylene torch at the shipbreaking yard, and this is the type of shit I’m worried about.

A Subdued Friday Night


Hi, reader. It’s Friday night in Korea right now. I’m reporting live from my corner café here in Incheon. Incheon is directly next to Seoul and it’s where McArthur landed. A generation ago this city was scorched earth. Anyway: this cafe, I always write here. 2,000 KRW ($2) gets me unlimited coffee refills and bowl of Reese’s peanut butter cups. If America thinks it’s getting me back to pay $4 for a single pour of Venti Dark Roast, America can go fuck itself. Which it seems to be doing anyway.

The cafe. College students staff the spot and gossip and do their homework at one of the tables like they’re in a 90s sitcom. Which may be a contemporary sitcom trend here in Korea; I don’t know. I am an eccentric background character in their collective narrative. That tall foreigner with the laptop. Wiz Khalifa is on the speakers, choice quote: “I’m the shit, literally.” Headphones.

A 40 year-old Korean man with a wide-brim Yankees hat and the sticker still on sits over by the bathroom. He has never heard of the Yankees. He’s the equivalent of drunk Caucasian males who get improperly-translated Mandarin characters tattooed across a bicep. This one means peace, bro. And this one means be still.

Be still. I am going to try not to go out in Seoul and fuck somebody tonight. I won’t tell you how many weekends in a row I’ve played the same level and won, but it borders on legendary. It’s too many. That’s the new baseline and I can feel my soul rotting. Let’s switch it up. I am going to wear a T-shirt and meet a male friend and engage in sarcastic discourse over brews. It will take a few minutes to shift into gear; these days I’m only fluent in fuck-speak. Hi, yes I know I’m tall, charmed to meet you miss, where are you from. Field-tested joke, banter joke banter joke, I’m going to kiss you now, OK let’s go.

Be still and stay out of Seoul tonight. Leave the blazer on the hanger. If my taxi crashes at 2 A.M I’ll be pissed because then I’ll be wearing a T-shirt in the afterlife.

Quiet night. Bro night. BUT I’m lying to you and to myself because in the back of my mind, I’m still weaseling. I’m texting this girl from two weeks back. She’s local; no Seoul trip needed. Be still—ah, I can’t. I’m messaging and trying to act like I don’t give a fuck. Like she could dematerialize out of existence and I wouldn’t even notice. Not reading the text for 10 minutes after it comes in, not responding for another 10. She’s doing the same thing; you can tell by the timing. So it’s probably going to happen. I’m glad this blog isn’t more popular. It is, but only in certain circles. Hi Mom.

Lest You Confuse Me For This Guy

I’ll correct the record now. Just because I talk about women incessantly doesn’t mean I am good with them or possess some level of raw charisma; I only do well because there just aren’t that many guys here in Korea. It’s like they all died charging a World War I Gatling gun nest. And I’m that one beaming jackass back home in the village slaying widow ass left and right because I jumped out of an apple tree and broke both my ankles to get out of the draft. That’s exactly what it’s like.

Alternate Post Title #1: Sexual Supply & Demand–An Illuminating Case Study of Economics

Alternate Post Title #2: Why I Will Never Return To America

Alternate Post Title #3: I Am Getting Tired Of Being Mistaken for Ryan Gosling On The Street

I am a Millennial: Help


If I could focus on everything the way I did on getting girls home I would rule the solar system by now. For about four hours a week I am capable of smooth improvisation and Napoleonic warfare tactics. Unshakable resolve. Biological desperation or something. All this time and willpower wasted on girls who take selfies will horrify me when I’m older.

But then there’s the rest of my life, which…well fuck it, the cause is lost. It’s like someone stuck a Remington duty shotgun in my ear and gave it to me with both barrels. My mind has atrophied in the post-grad vacuum. Too much dopamine. My head is stuffed with cotton candy. Facebook distracts me from the Daily Show clip which had previously distracted me from Drake’s Wikipedia page, which I was on because I wanted to see if he was older than me; he is. Good, now I don’t feel so bad for being unsuccessful at 27. Today I tried to read an Atlantic article about cheap oil prices without skimming and I asked myself what the thesis was at the end. I didn’t know. I had to read it again. I couldn’t. I blinked and suddenly was reading something about Trevor Noah making fun of fat chicks on Twitter. I skimmed that article too–and it wasn’t even an article, it was just a pile of screengrabs. I also had a podcast running the whole time underneath the chaos. This is very bad. The presence of intellect knocks me to my knees like a Nazi who just looked at the Ark. I’m friends with too many vapid-headed apparitions. Insubstantial fuckheads. You know, people like me.

Need to focus more. Must read more books, need to reacquire critical thinking skills. Before it’s too late. Before I drive any more intelligent conversations off a cliff. I need to hire an Iraq vet to follow me around with a Beretta pressed into the soft spot at the base of my skull. Make me stop splitting my willpower between six things at once. I’d tell him not to actually shoot me, but with PTSD you never know what could happen. Until then I’m on Wikipedia, seeing if Trevor Noah is older than me; he is. Good, now I don’t feel so bad. I will keep doing this as long as I’m unsuccessful. So, for the rest of my life then.