This urge ain't healthy. I haven't touched a drop of alcohol or man for two weeks, and while that's fine and all, while it's liberating to write a dozen letters to buddies, ten dozen words to the blog and Field Notes, read three books and sketch buddhist temples, I fear a backlash coming soon. It gets especially bad at night, when the playlist swings from some hipster croon and drops to a club beat. I get a little itchy and antsy. Beijing has made me into a beast, ready to burst and rage. Most of the times I just want to be a man, so I can sit with my legs uncrossed, wear a wife beater, glide on my longboard, smoke a bunch, pick up women. Maybe my perception of men has gotten a little skewed (you think?), but that's all I thought about while shuffling down Patong, leaving without much more than a furtive glance at the go go bars.
Bangkok's famed red light district has now degenerated into a zoo, filled with tourist friendly vendors selling fake Rolexs by sun down. It's just as well, but whatever images I had fueled by fiction, it all comes down to the fact that walking down the streets of Bangkok, I just wanted to be a dude. None of this weird checking you out girl you so cute shit. Thai men are like the Italians of the east, and I like them, I like the nolas and I think they cute, but a girl just wants to feel real sometimes.
When I was 21 and he was 27 (and I'd thought he was so old), Ollie said once that you gotta cherish it, because one day this beauty will fade, and that's when you'll really feel sad, because no one's checking you out on the street, that's when you know it's all gone. I get that too, I do. But for once it'd be nice to switch the roles so I can check out some fine ass without hiding it, pick em up, pick em up, play some games, use what God gave you.
Don't let the beast eat you alive.
I can't wait to turn 30.