Two weeks in Hanoi. A Mercedes rolled over my foot at a red light. 4000 pounds bearing straight down on my twig-thin metatarsals. Of course this would happen the very month I became uninsured. Somehow I was fine. But I still had to kick some ass. The driver was a kid, someone’s hired help. Black mildew teeth, nuclear flower-killing breath, dopey country face. Just trying to cut through traffic like I do. I made him roll down the window so I could yell at him. You almost maimed me, you fuck, you almost made me fat. I wanted to go ISIS on him. Crack his neck and drag around his body behind my scooter.
That’s every day here, riding in the sprawl and tempting the fates. Besides that my routine is just a simple progression of: eat, watch anime, and shower constantly because the heat always, always makes you feel like you’ve been dipped in oil. My laziness is such that even this short to-do list feels like too much. I feel like I’m already 90 years old. So don’t you dare try to put any more bullshit on my plate, even if it’s beautiful bullshit. Such as: My friends who are here and want to go hike near the Chinese border, where there are probably some monks, and some birds who croon the secrets to enlightenment. I know the trip would do good things for my soul or at least my Twitter feed. But I just can’t be fucked with leaving the house.
The roads are warzones. It can be pretty savage out there but I can handle it now. Break through holes in this perpetually collapsing traffic cyclone and it feels like you scored a miracle touchdown. Which it shouldn’t. Scooters are the opposite of sexy, they roll slow. Engines groan along, sounding like fat bees. I need to grow a dick and start riding a motorcycle, while I’m still young. Start too old and it comes off as a crisis hobby.
Had a text fight with my girl while I was driving around the lake. Hit a dip and the phone cracked on the pavement. The phone’s only two years old but over at Samsung they studied it like a Martian artifact. They must be trained to do that. Squint at their own product like that. Of course I hadn’t bought the platinum warranty or whateverthefuck, of course there were no replacement screens at Samsung, of course a new one had to be ordered from Korea for a hundred dollars, of course I’m unemployed and a phone is nonessential but of course I’ll still pay for it.
I’m uninsured and unemployed. At least I’m a “writer” so my floundering can be spun as an ebb in the creative process, maybe a regrouping period. I have this half-finished novella that depresses me, how good it is. It’s depressing because I wrote it last year. I was more arrogant then and a better writer. Took every risk and maybe 70% of them paid off. Now I’m a cagey little bitch. Too precious with a sentence. I’m writing the second half of the story and it’s like I’m a hack hired to finish a dead guy’s work. I never really considered that skills can be lost after you get them, even if you keep practicing. I never considered that a lot of things could happen, but these days, they are.