This British Chick

All right I really like this one and I’m trying to be cool about it. I read her texts, let her see I’ve read them, and then I won’t reply for like 5 hours but the whole time my hand is twitching for the phone. The 5 hour thing is overkill probably. And anyway it’s 2017. Girls know what you’re doing. When girls don’t reply to me, I know what they’re doing.

I have burned through 90% of my youth and now I’m at the age where you start falling for girls with dark histories because they become the only people you meet. They have dark histories full of bad boys like me. A bunch of my clones. She had an abortion this year. The British accent can make even the phrase “I just had an abortion” seem almost whimsical. If she were an American and had said that, in that flat grating LA tone, I’d have shrieked and run for the hills. But the tea-and-crumpets accent will make you forgive all manner of sins. And besides that she’s cute enough that she can get away with a history like hers.

I drink like James Bond but she drinks more. She was hammered when she told me about said abortion so she forgot. Now I know but she doesn’t know I know and it’s like I read her mind and stole the information. She used to have a drug problem, weekends where she’d blast three grams, that sort of thing. She’s damaged but hey I’m no choir boy. I have fucked all of her friends, except the one who I haven’t, the one who is holding back out of principle. I’m kind of The Man right now but it’s only because we live in a small expat community. There’s only like 80 foreigners in the city. I think the only smaller community of foreigners might be that scientific outpost down in Antarctica.

Tuesday night we talked and played each other shit on YouTube for like 5 hours and man she is funny and warm and I could see us walking away from the party together and meeting her parents. She made me want another stupid book deal writing stuff that I hate, just so I can have that cred for when I meet her parents. Projecting myself into the future like that made me realize that right now I am not a real person, I’m not The Man, I’m a man child.

I want something real again, just for a few minutes. Long enough to at least get some couple shots with a hot girl up on Facebook, gotta get something lasting out of the deal, you know? Then will come the inevitable entropy and the whole thing will go bad and when it goes bad I’ll get back out there again and write a post like this again. I want to tell her nice things but I have to be cool. These are savage times. You can’t be nice. The second you’re nice they’ll kill you.

My love life has been, on the whole, too sweet and too fun. There have been too many electric moments and cute beginnings. Most couples have like one gooey story where they ran around a city all night the first time they met and sang karaoke or whatever but I have about 2,000 of those. Moments can be drugs too.


Making It

I emailed an expat magazine here in Hanoi saying I wrote a book about Vietnam, so you should hire me. I attached the first chapter. The wording of my email was very humble. Maybe too humble; they could tell it was an act. They must have sensed my vibes of insincerity and entitlement. Did I say entitlement? I meant arrogance. I hit the Send button by slapping the trackpad with my dick. They ignored me. Maybe they ignored me because I’m a bad writer, but I don’t think so. I think they ignored me because they sensed that I’d phone it in. They knew I just wanted the journalist job so I could say I had it at parties. They could sense that I write with a fuck you smile when the article assignment is some branded drivel like “Top 10 MUST-SEE Vietnamese Villages That Were Rebuilt After Your Grandfather Took a Flamethrower To Them in ’68.”

But yes I am slightly annoyed. I wanted them to want me.

So that was that! I was legit and I made about a dollar. Now it’s over. Back to my birthright of being a drone. Back to ESL teaching. But actually I will make good money this summer. In Vietnam I am in the 1%. If writing paid this well you bet your ass I’d still be trying to do it, still be bitter that they won’t let me be a journalist. But it doesn’t. What happens is you write an article and they put an ad in the sidebar. The advertiser sends a check to the boardroom and the guy in the boardroom sends you a tuna sandwich.

I should be writing more but I keep going to parties. And you know what, that’s OK. I’ll write only sometimes, when I’ve got something. I rarely have something, so I’ll write four posts a year probably. That’s all I can come up with I think. And that’s fine. They’ll be good posts, they will be clean, because they will have been created in an economic vacuum. No one will read them, but hey you know what I wouldn’t either. I get it. Too much good shit on YouTube. Plus there’s the heroin needle of Facebook to compete with. No one has read a blog since 2007; I get it.

But the parties. How can you expect someone to stop doing this? I’m addicted to magic. Wednesday at 2 am I had just popped a sleeping pill when Meg texted. It was like a game to stay awake until she got here and took her pants off. Friday was margaritas with Shannon and when we got back home we wrestled on the couch. Saturday I sat with Rosie by the frog pond in the middle of the party. We talked about how we’d seen each other at previous parties and had always wanted to kiss each other, which is the #1 best conversation you will ever have with another human. We ate fried noodles at the market, got to my room at sunup, woke up spooning at noon. Whoever told you partying is empty has never been to a party. Magic might not be very real but it’s better than writing.

Please Love Me

There is a new post on my other blog. My public blog, the one that I started explicitly for validation.

My second post in five months. I am on a roll! It’s about Vietnam; I wrote it to impress people who live in Vietnam here with me. Specifically the girls. I wrote it to counterbalance the weird and awkward stuff I do in social interactions. I wrote it so that these girls will say to each other “Hey, Ben is boring in person but he’s an amazing writer. We should all go have sex with him now.”

Well here it is:
There is no “like” button because I’m afraid I won’t get many likes. You can leave a comment though. I will have to moderate it before it goes up, in order to ensure that only the most glowing of comments will appear, with the desired effect being that I can do no wrong.

Bye for now.