Jealousy: Envy’s Psychotic Younger Sister

Mountain life seems to bring out the crazy in people. Whether it’s the altitude, the isolation, or just the general lack of oxygen; it seems like every single one of us are doing our damndest to hide at least one massive character flaw. I had the misfortune of running into a gentleman* recently who was so jealously possessive of his ex-girlfriend that he stalked her like a rabid, yet loyal rottweiler that no one had the heart to put down. Obviously, this kid suffers from some sort of inferiority complex** that left a gaping hole in the place where normal people keep their self-confidence. Although I did feel sorry for him, his behavior was so repulsively unacceptable that my sympathy was often overshadowed by an intense urge to punch him. Plus, he just has one of those faces.

Part of me still pities him, but a larger part of me can’t help but want to smack people like that; or people who say things like, “But he’s different,” or “She wouldn’t do that to me.”  I hate to break it to you, hon, but “No, he isn’t,” and “Yes, she would;” especially, if you’ve been acting like an asshole lately. Because the moment you start trying to control someone else’s actions is the exact same moment you start to lose their respect.  And guess what, numbnuts? You deserve every ounce of the pain that’s coming your way, as you have failed to grasp a very basic aspect of the human condition:  that there is only one person in the world that you can truly control, and that’s you.

I’m not saying there aren’t people who love you implicitly and would burn themselves with a cigar lighter before letting you down, but those are your parents, and even their love isn’t guaranteed. I am saying that if you don’t want to die cold and alone, you need to excercise some self-control.  Yet, certain emotions can drastically impair that self-control, with jealousy being the most frequent offender. She can be a slippery bitch if you don’t snuff her out as soon as possible; kind of like Medusa, if instead of turning you to stone, she turned you into a short-tempered asshat with a talent for losing friends. Jealousy is a parasite, and if left untreated it will bring your sanity and your sex life to a screeching halt. Just like syphillis.

It always starts small (jealousy, not syphillis):  a compliment here, a late night text there, or perhaps just an inconsistency in their affection. Now, pay attention because this is the important part: once that seed is planted it can only be killed by logic and reason; otherwise, that little fucker will grow like a magic beanstalk until it has wrecked your entire world. The problem here is that human emotions are irrational by nature; so, instead of arriving at the most likely conclusion, our imagination begins to entertain every possible conclusion. To prevent this, you need to think clearly. For example: “Of course my girlfriend isn’t sleeping with the UPS guy, because that is both logistically impossible, and completely psychotic.”

Unfortunately, the line between logic and lunacy is not always so easy to spot. Who among us hasn’t been driven crazy by the thought that our signifcant other is interested in somebody else?  If you approach that question rationally, the answer is “yes”, of course they’re interested in other people. Aren’t you? Are you really such a hypocrite to expect your girlfriend to only want you when you have eyes for several others? There are 7 billion people on the planet, and I promise you, that you are not that special. It’s natural to have romantic feelings for multiple people. Just don’t try dating them all at once…they won’t like it.

When you inevitably find the one you like most, the important part is to hold on loosely.  Don’t try to tell them who they can hang out with, or undermine their self-esteem in order to improve your own, because that’s not love. That’s manipulation, and it’s fucked up. Most people think of love as finding someone they can’t live without, but that dynamic has more in common with an opiate addiction than a healthy relationship. Real love is finding someone you can live without, but would never want to; and then recognizing that out of all those millions of people, you are the one they chose, and you are the one they continue to choose every single day, so you should probably shut the fuck up and enjoy it while it lasts.

 

 

Footnotes

*Did I say gentleman? I’m sorry. I meant childish piece of shit.

**My money’s on micro-penis.

 

The Angry Idiot

People tend to hold an innate sense of insecurity when it comes to social situations: a neurosis over public perception. We all want to be liked by others; some of us to the point that we regularly daydream about hypothetical human interaction, playing through each scenario like a choose your own adventure book. They’re theoretical test runs–bite size training simulations, which I most often perform in front of a mirror, though not always. Sometimes I do it when and where the mood strikes, forgetting that talking to yourself in public is a great way to not make friends. However, never wanting to waste a good witticism, I hit the mental replay button on the spot; substituting in whatever well-timed response would have made me seem cooler, or smarter, or—at the very least—less like a fumbling douche.

It’s common knowledge that something wittier always comes to mind shortly after the window has closed for a proper comeback. So I gladly let my imagination take the wheel, stockpiling as many clever remarks as possible in case that precise circumstance ever presents itself again. Now, I could understand how some might consider these simulations to be worthless, bordering on optimistically delusional; but I find them to be extremely helpful. Even though the instances of that particular scene playing out exactly as it was mapped in my head has pretty much never happened, it still primes the brain for confrontation, making me less likely to be caught off guard.

I was once told that anger lowers your I.Q. by 10 points– that allowing my rage to escalate will have the inverse effect on my ability to form a clear thought. Although I’ve certainly made an ass of myself enough times to see the merit in that theory, I don’t think the equation is that simple. It’s not anger that causes stupidity, or stupidity that causes anger. They’re two sides of the same coin that arise from a single flaw:  lack of preparation.  The anger stems from the shock of an unpleasantly unexpected event—an abrupt indignation that sparks a feeling of “how dare they!” And the stupid…well….if you’ve ever procrastinated on a final exam, or witnessed some poor soul stutter his way through a presentation, you should be well aware of the role that preparation plays in stupid.

Now, I perform these hypothetical dress rehearsals because once anger and indignation rear their heads, they’re going to start to form a dam in your mind; and this dam will block any and all intelligent thought from reaching the surface, effectively sealing off the rational part of your brain. Yet, you know as well as I do, that once some jerkoff hits that nerve, not responding isn’t an option: you’re hurt, offended, and feeling unjustly attacked.  Any time your pride is wounded, your first instince is to fight back; and unless you have the emotional discipline to step back and take a deep breath, you will be in the first stages of your transformation into an angry idiot, and a shouting match will be close behind.

Here’s the thing about an angry idiot:  deep down he or she is aware that they’re being irrational and should stop talking immediately, but the logic and reason necessary to make that decision are trapped behind the dam. While that dam is in place, and the Angry Idiot has control, he will never admit to being wrong. He’s come too far in defense of his pride to turn back now.  The Angry Idiot just wants to bask in his justified rage for as long as he has the reins, with the sole purpose of wounding the other person more than he has been wounded.  That’s why we find ourselves not only saying horrible things that we don’t mean, but shouting them at full volume. The Angry Idiot knows he only has a small window of opportunity before the dam breaks and we begin to regret ever letting him off the chain in the first place. So he does maximum damage while damage can still be done.

I’m not asking you to avoid confrontation from fear of losing control. I’m asking you not to confuse self-respect with an inflated sense of pride. I’m asking you to take a few deep breaths, and do your best to keep the idiot at bay.

Essentially, I’m asking you to fucking think.

Must We Play This Game?

Ladies…gentlemen…I implore you to stop this madness. Must we play this never-ending game of hormonal chess with each other? This delicate dance of P’s and V’s: all of us wanting the same thing but having to act like we don’t, because the only sure fire way to blow your chances is to say what’s really on your mind–to have a single moment of emotional honesty. After a year and a half away, I find myself inadvertently tossed back onto the field with a fresh crop of players, and the odds heavily stacked in the female favor. Around here, a pretty girl can march straight through the social scene like the pied piper, playing a chord that only the y-chromosome can hear.

Some are clearly more practiced than others, and given the desperation of some of my more youthful male counterparts, I can see why they so easily clean house. It doesn’t take much:  a coy smile from across the room, or a gaze held just past casual eye contact; an animated giggle, and a light squeeze of the upper arm; or the careful turn of a phrase that says nothing, but implies everything. They give just enough evidence to inspire hope, but not enough to make a case, granting themselves built-in deniability on the off chance you get bold and make a public confrontation. So, not only do you get turned down, but look like a jackass in the process. Folks, I’m no stranger to rejection, and I do appreciate that a woman has to keep her guard up when surrounded by this much unchecked testosterone; but, the nerve of some of these girls…is truly breathtaking.

Allow me to illustrate. I met a girl for a date, and judging by all of the traditional criteria, I assumed it was going well. This assumption was further supported by her agreeing to accompany me to a second venue. Nevertheless, we get five steps in the door when she runs into a guy she knows, and without another look in my direction, proceeds to leave with him an hour later. No goodbye. No raise of the glass. Not even an apologetic head nod, as if to say, “It was nice to meet you, but shit happens.”  I’m sure she meant no ill will toward me, but she burned a bridge simply because she could. She had options to the point that my opinion of her was expendable.

Regardless of where you come from, that’s a dick move. And it sucked…to a surprising degree. Historically, in such circumstances, I would sulk over a beer (or six) and concoct some smartass remark designed to hurt her feelings and salvage my remaining pride. Instead, I did nothing. Because what’s the point? I’m sick of this game and all those who play it; so, for the first time since hitting puberty, I am voluntarily opting out. I say ‘voluntarily’ because I think we all have a little abstinence forced on us from time to time; especially the boys, and especially in the beginning.

Hell, I even hated the game in college, where there was ample genitalia to go around. Where it didn’t matter what brand of swamp monster you happened to resemble; every twinkie could find a cream filling…and every Jack, a box.  But here?  In this place? Where lady parts reign supreme and my competition is young and reckless? I say nay Nay to the countless hours spent trying to translate text messages like I’m cracking the Zion mainframe. Nay to the anxiety of seeing my phone light up and mentally prepping for another round of “what-the-fuck-is-that-supposed-to-mean?” And a most sincere nay to the manipulative way members of both sexes protect themselves from social backlash. A feat normally accomplished simply by avoiding definition, like the tried and true “but we never really defined what this was.” Which, for the uninitiated roughly translates to “I’m taking advantage of a loophole in social norms to take a steamer on your heart and still save face.”

Look, it would be usless to say I’m not tormented by the exact same urges I’ve been demonizing, as these archives are littered with evidence to the contrary. I do have those urges, but I also have a steady supply of herbal apathy…a legal bag of “who-gives-a-shit,” if you will. Now, obviously, this is only a temporary solution, but it beats the hell out of the alternative:  two weeks of passive aggressive ping-pong and a $60 bar tab just to hook up with an aspiring alcoholic who may or may not wet the bed? Thanks. I’m good.

And yes. Of course I realize I’m generalizing an entire population in an unfairly specific way…but I was pissed…and this is how I deal with my emotions.

 

 

Dear Emily Plank

I sent you a text last Saturday, February 20. It read, “I see you’re on your way.”  I sent it having no idea that it would never reach you, and never suspecting that we had already had our last conversation. It was intended as an innocuous way to get your attention. Knowing what I do now, those six words are almost eerie in their simplicity: “I see you’re on your way.” To where? I don’t know, and probably never will.

I didn’t know you for long, and as much as I would like more time, asking for it now seems as selfish as it is futile. If you had time to give, I wouldn’t dare ask you to spend it on me when there are so many more deserving. From the moment I met you, it was clear that you were someone toward whom people naturally gravitated. A pretty girl with bright eyes and a big smile that came almost as easily as the ones you inspired in others. I remember seeing you sing at “Twist” just before I left Cleveland, and hearing you belt those high notes so hard I thought you were going to blow the damn speaker out. But as I covered my ears, I had to smile, because you couldn’t care less. You weren’t singing for them. You were singing for you.

You were a natural inspiration for the creative at heart, wanting nothing more than to share the gifts you were given, and encourage others to do the same. You loved without prejudice, and you sang at the top of your lungs. You were a bright spot in this world, with a personality immune to corruption. And you still are, perhaps now more than ever. You’ve gone somewhere that your memory can’t be touched. You’ve become an ideal: an inextinguishable light inside every single heart that let you in.

People always have trouble understanding why the good are taken from the world while scum are left standing. I, on the other hand, have always found this dilemma quite simple. Souls like yours are taken from us because this world doesn’t deserve them. We are too weak, and too indifferent to our neighbors to understand someone with so much love to give. We constantly try to stay afloat amongst our own anxieties and selfish ambitions, not realizing how much harder it would be without you.

Now, I am left even more pathetic, forced to keep treading with the added weight of your absence. All I can do now is hope, fear, and lament. Hope, that your passing was easy. Fear, that it wasn’t. And lament, that I never asked you to stay.

Here’s what I don’t like about me

Not to say that there’s only one thing I don’t like about myself (I have a list). However, the one that’s currently bothering me is how easily I form crushes. Anywhere I go, whether it’s a class, a job, or just a social circle; there’s always a girl that I gravitate towards, and create excuses to talk to. The most unfortunate consequence of this emotional defect is that it turns me into a functioning moron. I get all fuzzy inside, and think “If it feels this good, it must be love!” like some kind of socially impaired Disney princess that was locked in a tower her whole life. Which, by the way, would seriously fuck somebody up. I don’t know where Disney gets off marrying these women into royalty. I mean, come on, Rapunzel? There’s no way her head was the only place that that hair was growing. The girl would be a total yeti. Not to mention all the weird ticks she’d form after spending her childhood in isolation. Mob bosses and murderers lose their minds in solitary confinement, but a teenage girl is going to come through unscathed? Bull. Shit.

Anyway. In the past, this fairy tale mentality has typically caused me to get impatient and make it weird.  As a result, the rational side of my mind has developed its own voice. His name is Lewis, and he’s an asshole. Lewis’s job is to keep a detailed record of all the memories I’m ashamed of, and then bring them up whenever my self-esteem gets too high. He’s like my Cinderella safety valve. Any time I get overzealous, Lewis just pulls the appropriate file, like “Hey hey, pump the brakes Peter Pan. Remember the time you tried to kiss Erin McArthur* after 5th period and she screamed “stalker” in your face?  Yeah. Sewed yourself into a real asshat on that one. You should probably abort this mission unless you want to hate yourself for a month.”

Now, here I am again. In a new place, with a girl in my head, and Lewis chirping in my ear 10 times a day to tell me what a piece of shit I am. All the while, Purple Unicorn Princess is on my other shoulder riding a flock of butterflies into the horizon, and playing a magic lute that makes my wiener feel like sunshine. It’s always hard to say which one will win out, because my rational side is relentless, but the princess doesn’t need much of a window to strike. She’s fast, she’s reckless, and she’s extremely persuasive.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

Footnotes:

*I don’t want to talk about it.

Irrational Anger Toward Inanimate Objects

No matter who you are, where you come from, or which spiritual school of thought you subscribe to; at some point in your adult life, you have told an inanimate object to f*ck itself. Maybe you break bottles in your garage, or punch holes in the dry wall. I, personally, have invited every single one of my earthly possessions to eat a dick at least once. Even though these objects hold no bias nor bear any grudge, they must suffer our abuse. For if we direct that aggression at the true objects of our rage (each other) half of us would be felons, and the other half would have been beaten to death before we hit grade school.

I try to not lose my temper, and for the most part I’m successful. I once calmly waited 20 minutes at a drive-thru window just for a milk shake. What was my reward for such monk-like stoicism? A greasy paper bag full of processed meats and cheeses. Whereas most would have only left with high blood pressure, I was gifted with a treasure trove of delicious treats. All for me, and all for free, just for not being an ass hat about it. Granted, I was loopy on painkillers and had nothing better to do, but that’s not the point.

The point is that patience pays off (and drugs help). Therefore, I practice it at every conscious opportunity (patience, not drugs). We all have days when the smallest thing pushes us right up to the edge of incoherent rage. Like a co-worker coming to a dead stop in a high traffic area; a group of teenage girls laughing just one octave too high; or a judgmental old man glaring at you like it’s your fault he left his family in a communist country. Some days, I want to get right in his wrinkly face and ask him what the fuck he’s looking at. But I don’t. Because screaming at strangers is frowned upon. (Also a great way to get tased)

Instead, I suppress it, and wait for the appropriate context: “a safe environment” where I can “inflict minimal harm to myself and others.”* Allow me to illustrate.  Imagine, if you will, dropping a pencil under a table. You go to grab it and miss. You reach for it again, and miss. The frustration builds. Then, you reach a third time, and alas! You got it! But as you lift your head to get up, it smacks the underside of the table, and the pencil falls. Now, what I should do, is take a deep breath and realize that I am the source of my own frustration. What I do do, is snap the pencil in half, flip the table, and tell it I’m glad its family’s dead.

Harsh for people. Fine for tables. They don’t have feelings.

Now, I know my psychiatrist would say something like “It’s healthier to channel your emotions into more creative outlets, like yoga, or cross-stitching,”  but he no longer has vocal chords. So he can’t. So, I say why settle for self-improvement, when self-destruction is so much more gratifying?

 

Footnotes

*Goddamn shrinks think they know everything.

 

I just found out what Nihilism means…so that’s exciting

I typically try to avoid words that end in “-ism.”  They confuse me.  I’ve been pretending to know what fascism is for well over a decade. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the Nazis, but beyond that—no clue. If I ever do apply an ‘-ism’ in conversation, it’s only because I’m trying to impress people with my big boy words.

Having said all of that, I’m like 80% sure I know what this one means. The basic idea of nihilism, at least in terms of philosophy, is how awesome it would be if nothing existed. No stars. No elements. Not even a black void of empty space, because even that would be something. The concept is as scary as it is impossible to imagine. Give it a shot. Just talking about it here is making me want to slam my head into the desk.

Where did I learn this delightful conversation starter? From a book, bitch. The highly pessimistic author of which, is of the opinion that our self-aware asses popping into existence was one big cosmic fuck up. He also thinks that any objective investigation into whether or not being alive is worth the ticket price, would end in suicide…really uplifting stuff.

It really stuck in my mind because there was one theory in there that I found so depressingly ironic that I had no choice but to laugh like a psychopath. It’s basically a pessimist’s creation story: at first there was god, just chillin’ and thinkin’ about stuff. What kind of stuff? I don’t know. The dude had a lot of time to think. Probably a whole bunch of crazy shit that would make Stephen Hawking drop a load in his pants. He’s God. Get off his nuts.*  So he ends up getting so bored with being that he decides to self-destruct: just fire off all of his matter and energy in every direction. Which is actually pretty understandable, if you ask me. I mean, what’s the point of being all powerful if there’s no one around to see all your cool magic tricks?

Anyway, the point is that God getting fed up and offing himself was the big bang that created the universe, hoping that it would all eventually burn out and allow him to rest in peace. Which means that God did not create us out of love, but self-loathing. And the universe is just one giant crime scene, with the stars and galaxies detailing nothing more than divine blood spatter. Not to mention that our stubborn insistence on surviving is only prolonging his agony. Your every breath is a fat loogie in the face of your creator.

Now, just in case you’re one of those people who is so dug into their worldview that I’ve managed to offend you…relax. I don’t really believe anything I just said. It’s just fun to pull a thread and see where it takes me. When it comes to whether or not god exists, most people just pick one of the handful of provided narratives, and stop thinking about it. But WHY? We’re all just taking our best guess anyway. Why not have some fun with it? Take a shot in the dark. Make something up…irritate your friends and loved ones. Use your fucking imagination.

 

Footnotes

*I realize it’s sexist to refer to God as a man, but trying to tow that gender line makes pronouns an absolute nightmare. So for the sake of simplicity (and a few childish dick jokes) I will be referring to God as a he.

 

The Pros

#1. You know that scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when Indy has to make the leap of faith into a bottomless pit? So, he closes his eyes and takes a step only to discover there was an invisible bridge in front of him the whole fuckin’ time.* My experience has been a lot like that. Working up the nerve to get on the plane was the most difficult part; and even then, I had a little help from an orange plastic bottle. These days, my boss pretty much handles anything and everything that requires a sense of maturity: rent, utilities, taxes, you name it. Anything with the potential to make me a bigger pain in the ass is handled before the money changes hands.

#2. Yet, to the untrained eye, it actually looks like I’m doing something with my life. It’s a limbo between college and adulthood; a way to seem like a grown up without actually growing up. I highly recommend it to any recent college grads who decided to spend the last four years destroying their bodies instead of preparing for this moment. Well, don’t fret, my stupid friend. Just grab whichever useless degree kept you eligible, and find a job waiting tables until your criminal record gets cleared. Then, get on a Korean Job forum and shotgun that resumé across the internet like its last night’s taco bell. It’s a numbers game, so don’t be afraid to paint the bowl. Maximum coverage is a good thing. It shouldn’t take more than couple weeks, as long as you don’t interview like an asshole. Then bing-bang-boom, you’ve got your very own set of adult world training wheels. Congratulations. In this country, everyone over twenty drinks like the world’s about to end. So you’ll fit in just fine.

#3. There will be some drawbacks, mainly in regard to the languague barrier; like the frequent paranoia that your co-workers are talking about you, in front of you. But on that same note, you don’t have to listen to all of the bullshit that falls out of people’s heads on a daily basis: gossip, workplace drama, opinions grounded in ignorance, etc. Not to mention, the majority of people are going leave you alone. Even panhandlers. They turn to see my pasty face, and just ‘nope’ right back the other way. And sure, every cutlure is going to have there fair share of racist old men, ready to berate a foreigner for no good reason; but they’re a lot easier to deal with when you don’t have a clue what they’re saying.

Footnotes

*And if you don’t know what I’m talking about….what is wrong with you? Stop reading this crap and go watch that movie. I assure you it’s a thousand times more fulfilling than anything I have to say.

The Title’s Not Important

I’ve never been one to subscribe to the theory of “everything happens for a reason,” or “God has a plan” as it’s understood in the less secular translations. A bit too optimistic for my taste; just a white lie designed to keep people from putting a gun in their mouth during those times when non-existence doesn’t seem so bad. Even for the omniscient, there are way too many people to keep track of, let alone give a frothy shit about. If God ever really did have a plan for all of us, I’m pretty sure he gave up about 6 billion people ago. 

Having said that, it does seem as though being hung out to dry by my first boss may have been the most ideal outcome.*  Not only did I find another job long before my savings ran dry, but I also had a couple weeks to kill, giving me plenty of time to explore the city, interact with the locals, and absorb some culture. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Andy, you literally did none of those things.”  That’s not the point. The point is I found an employer whose professional expectations were far more suitable to my skill set. By which, I mean, lower…much, much lower.

Not that my new school is any less reputable of an institution; but they’ve been having some issues with their white people of late. Some honky hassles, if you will. For example, the “man” that I replaced was so out there that to simply call our interactions awkward, would be a compliment. This dude was so socially illiterate that it was impossible not to feel bad for him; that is, until you realize he has all the redeeming qualities of a diaper rash. As a result they’ve been forced to drop their standards. 

Enter Andy Mac, galloping into town astride a glorious mythical steed. Is that a suit of armor I see sparkling on the horizon? Or just the blinding glare from his nearly translucent skin? IT MAKES NO MATTER! For this man will be hired not by the color of his skin, but by his lack of a severe, yet undefined social disorder. Unlike my predecessor, I had not made a habit of invading everyone’s personal space with a crippling ignorance of social norms. I’m honestly not exaggerating when I say that my number one qualification for this job was that I was not him. Which is great, because I had unknowingly gained over twenty years of experience in not being him. I had been not being him for pretty much my entire life. 

Of course, it didn’t take long for that new toy novelty to wear off. Now, I’m expected to “contribute” and shit. Still, not a bad gig though.  These days, my leading qualifications are my fluency in English (which, on my list of reflexive talents, is just above wiping), and never having been arrested for child abuse. Admittedly, the second one is considerably more difficult than the first…but still, pretty fuckin’ easy. Certainly better than closing down a bar 3 nights a week. At least here, I’m not surprised when the clientele piss themselves.

Footnotes

* Actually, the most ideal outcome would have involved one of my fellow trainees, whom I will call Lorie, and myself being invited to vent our frustrations in a consensual, yet highly aggressive threesome with our sadistic Korean trainer. But that’s just me being a stickler for semantics. I digress.

Where Was I?

After being flipped the proverbial* bird by my former future employer, I handled it with composure, not letting anyone see a hint of the embittered rage welling up inside of me. I gathered my things and quietly exited without so much as a smartass remark. There was no time to dwell. I needed a new plan. Fast. So I got back to the hotel and did the first thing I could think of: panic. Yes. Panic. That most natural of human responses when you lose your grip on life. I wanted nothing more than to go straight to the airport, hop on a plane for home, get ridiculously,  irresponsibly stoned, and convince myself that everything happens for a reason. But I was already here, halfway around the world, and if I bailed now, I knew I wouldn’t be coming back.

So I said, “Andy, that’s a pretty sweet plan you got there, with the recreational drugs, and the living in a country where people understand what you’re saying. But you just spent an entire year telling everyone you’ve ever known that you were moving to Korea for an indefinite period of time. If you go back after 8 days, you’re going to look like a moron.”

“That’s a really good point, Andy,” I replied. “And it kinda makes me want to cry.”

“Well then you need a better plan,” I said. “Because you sound like a fucking idiot when you cry.”

I was making a lot of sense. I just didn’t want to admit it yet. So I decided to drink. Heavily. And deal with it in the morning. Which turned out to be a really bad idea, for all of the usual reasons that drinking under emotional stress is a bad idea. Not only was I still super anxious, but now I was dehydrated, hungover, and horny. Well…hornier than normal. And this was before I figured out how to bypass the government internet censors. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. Porn’s illegal in Korea. As well as any drug that could be any sort of fun. So with all of my traditional free time activities out of reach, I went to work.

Footnotes

*I’m not using this word properly.