Clean Living

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is impossible here. Gun around this colorless second-world city on my scooter and even with my ninja mask I still taste the gasoline in the air. Welcome to Vietnam. Every day we have to bug bomb the apartment because of the mosquitoes. Canned chemicals. Who knows if the Vietnamese even regulate that shit. I’m probably just sucking in Agent Orange vapor that kills brain matter and nukes my genome. Best bet is to never have kids; they would definitely be on the short bus. Have ten extra chromosomes and bulbous brain sacs.

Welcome to Vietnam. Finding and obtaining fresh produce is like planning a heist. Apples are a luxury because they’re imported. I don’t like the coffee here, but I still drink it.

Got my first gray hair. I’ve been waiting for it; I knew it was there, felt it in my soul, but I was afraid to look. Of course it was there. I’m 28, but I feel like I’ve been alive forever. I vividly remember floppy disks and Clinton’s first term. Too many memories and experiences piled up to be young anymore. I can no longer be a hooligan. Everything changes now.

Actually that’s not true. Everything stays the same. Because I’m already married and 50 years old. I’ve stopped clubbing and I order water with dinner. I’m already retired; I live in a compound behind a bulletproof gate that keeps the peasants out. No work, I just keep clean and quiet. Do dishes, read news. Only drank one beer this week. I’m doing new exercises and getting stronger and studying French and reading new authors.

Being mature feels great, learning more things lightens my soul. Being sober and productive is amazing. But being young and drunk was definitely better.

***

Also: my last post was really good and fuck all of you who didn’t read it and instead watched Dancing With the Stars or whateverthefuck. I’m out here busting my ass for you. Don’t make a brother wake up to stats that low again, please.

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5 thoughts on “Clean Living

  1. Love the last bit, especially. Doesn’t it just piss you OFF when your stats take a dive, usually right when you release to the world some really personal and poetic shit? Where are all my damn groupies when I really need to be validated? Bastards. But hey, they are ALL OVER some lame post that I couldn’t care less about because I was drunk the night before and felt compelled to put SOMETHING out there, punching at that Like button like there’s a goddamn prize. I just don’t understand people.

    Somewhat Serious Note: You’re 28. I’m 51. Don’t think you have to change your life because you hit a certain milestone. Do what’s right for you, fuck the calendar.

    Somewhat Smart-Ass Note Where I’m Just Tryin to Help a Guy Out: Since you brought up stats, I can see that you haven’t been to any of MY blogs since the Mayflower ran into that damn rock in Plymouth. Food for thought about stat droppage? Maybe you just don’t care for my writing, and that’s fine, but you can’t just build it and hope they come. If you want your followers to really be invested, you have to show that you care. Share the love, man. Even if you don’t really mean it. That’s the nature of this blogging beast and the current state of the publishing industry. We have to whore ourselves, bottom line.

    Somewhat Final Note: Ignore the previous paragraph if you think I’m just being a dick. Or you can delete the whole comment, no offense taken. I’m just offering a bit of advice that I wish someone had given to me when I first started blogging a decade ago: Make sure your readers feel appreciated…

    1. You do have a point. And while I do have much love to be shared, I must unfortunately blame my recent international move and the North Korean-grade internet in Vietnam for my lack of reading.

  2. Hahaha – I read your last post, I swear!! Nice to see your spunk back, though, I was a little worried there. 🙂 And don’t worry, you’ll enjoy sitting back a little until you get married, have two kids, then realize you want your youth back and start getting drunk and clubbing again – it’ll just be less often and will come with the hefty price tag of a babysitter.

    Of course, I never did any of those things when I was young, so maybe ‘normal’ people just keep maturing. Tell that to the Vegas bartenders and strippers I frequented last weekend…

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