I’m still alive. Just not writing because, goddamn, I truly haven’t had a fucking second. The problem with living in Vietnam is that everyone wants to visit you. See the bays and the Kung Fu Panda landscapes. The problem with not having a job is you have no excuse not to spend all day with them. No time to work out, write, hide away and scratch the balls. Too many beers and too much time in cafés. Life is imbalanced, too much hanging out by the pool. The problem with being me is that, despite my inner turmoil and insecurities, I somehow maintain a basic aura of awkward, endearing charm, and people want to hang out with me, keep inviting me to shit. Being popular is bad. No time or space. If you truly want to be a writer, you’ll make time! How about you blow that out your ass. You don’t need to write every day. We didn’t ask Michael Jackson for a new album every day. Yes, I’m saying I’m as talented as MJ – actually I’m better, because I fuck far fewer children.
I’ll write more, very soon. I need to. My girlfriend is now my ex. She used to always ask me to write about her. I told her to wait, that whatever I wrote had to be real and perfect. I can’t be fake with this shit. Well, now I have something real. Too fucking real.
I know you’re reading this. And it’s coming soon, baby. Maybe it’ll get you back, though it probably won’t. But still, it will be just for you.