Vietnam is my afterlife. No work, just sleeping late on this cloud of a hotel bed. Easy flow when I’m awake. Riding around all day, nodding at the embassy guards with their Russian AKs probably left over from the Tet offensive. Beer with the woman on the street at night as we avoid conversation with other foreigners. Small talk is work and I’m not into work these days. I’m just into deep tissue massages, the Viet coffee with condensed milk, the hotel lobby guy handing over my bag of pressed laundry. The hotel life is a sweet one. I’d kill to sustain it. Until now I’ve always been a serf jamming into a hostel with eighty other people. Well, never again. From now on it’s the hotel or the gutter. Because while money doesn’t buy happiness it does buy you people in uniforms who have to pretend not to hate you and what your ancestors did. Call down to the guy at the desk, and he makes shit happen. The good life; I now understand why rich people are demons. Why they nickel and dime, why they fuck the peasants with 40 dollar overdraft fees. Sure, 20 dollars would get the point across, make a punishing point, but 40 is definitely better. Fuck, let’s raise it to 80. Funnel the scratch upward, let me stack it.
With money at an all-time high and responsibilities at an all-time low, I’m supposed to be writing. At night when I get around to it my eyes are heavy. Background music is YouTube grinding through Top 40 on autoplay. It’s poisoning my head and I should change it but typing a good song into the search bar would be too much work.
This move should have hit me with more of a jolt. But so far, no inspiration. This place is still too new, can’t really write about it yet because I haven’t found the angle on it yet. And I’m not going to get it in this hotel, either. Oh well. I’ll give a fuck about that, and everything else, later on.