Lately, I’ve been noticing a general trend of warmth and emotional support in my reader feedback: an overwhelming spring of compassion for my recent string of unfortunate circumstances. And I want you to know that it comes from the bottom of my heart when I say, thank you…and I love you…now cut it out.

I don’t write these stories as a well articulated outlet of self-pity. I don’t post them so I can be assured that “it’s all going to be okay” by individuals who really have no factual basis for such an assumption. You don’t know that. I could be lying paralyzed in a ditch at this very moment, as a stray dog fires a hot stream of syphilitic urine into my empty eye socket. Go ahead and try to disprove it. You can’t.

I write these stories because they’re true. And I post them because fuck me, right? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being the center of attention just as much as the next self-indulgent dick stain. But fishing for sympathy by bitching about your problems on a public forum is a cheap way to get it. If I was ever truly having a hard time in life, I can promise, that you would not be learning about it here (or at all). I may be an attention whore, but I’m a high end attention whore. I need the good shit. That pure, uncut adoration, that can only come from working hard at being awesome.

I publicize my craft, not my problems. For example, in the event that my parents die before me—which I hope they do, for the sake of their own sanity—99% of you will not hear it from me. I could lock myself in a room and write 20 tear-smudged, whiskey-stained pages, but not a word of it will see the light of day.* No, my emotions are typically vented one of two ways. The first, is a fifth of Jack and two dozen text messages to an ex-girlfriend, which will become progressively less coherent, leaving me with an overwhelming urge to kick myself in the dick. The second, is Oreos, peanut butter, and furious, animalistic crank sessions of such length and depravity that I lose all sense of human decency.**

The point is, I keep it to myself. Because I’m a man, and I have the common courtesy to be ashamed of my feelings. Pain is unavoidable. As a human being, if you’re not in some form of pain, then you’re probably on some top notch narcotics…or moments away from freezing to death. So, when I write that the lowest point of my trip (so far) was when I was sitting on my suitcase on a random Korean street corner, as the drops self-loathing streamed down my cheeks, because I had just left my wallet in a taxi…don’t feel bad. And if I tell you that the reason these blog posts fall off the map for long periods of time is because I’m prone to slip into minor existential depressions that sap all sense of motivation and self-purpose, please do not attempt to reassure me. Seriously…I’m good…and nothing will make me more uncomfortable.

Footnotes:

*Unless it’s brilliant. Then I’ll wait six months.

**Side note to all of my aunts, uncles, and friends of the family who I gave this web address to before leaving. I tried to warn you. You insisted.

Despite my aforementioned series of discouraging setbacks, on that first day of training, I was hopeful. I had filled all of my holes and was back where I needed to be. My trainer wasn’t too hard on the eyes either.  A petite little American born Korean spark plug who would occasionally forget what she was saying mid sentence, and then start giggling as a flush crept into her cheeks. She was cute, energetic, compact, and some would even say quirky. Very charming.

I had been warned training week would be intense, but I was ready for that. Hell, I had procrastinated my way through many a college finals week, so five straight days of homework didn’t seem like anything to sweat over. On the first night, I worked until my eyes began to drop; and although I was still staring down the barrel of 5 more hours of prep, I passed out. I assumed that starting us off with such a high volume of content was a test: a psychological ploy designed to weed out the high functioning pot heads who were just there looking for a vacation. No human could properly complete such a demanding workload–at least not without a heavy dose of amphetamines, of which I had none–so my trainer would understand if I was a bit under-prepared, right?

Wrong.  Dead fucking wrong.  I got reamed. But I blame myself, really. I had naively assumed that my trainer would be operating with a reasonable level of human decency–you know, being a person and all. So, that one’s on me. The next day, I ate faster, slept less, and worked harder. Same result. On Wednedsay afternoon, after once again taking a hot shit all over my 14 hours of hard work, my trainer told me that I was probably going to fail, and thus lose my contract.  It was about that time, as I stared into the coal black eyes, set shallow in that sexy little peanut head of hers, that it hit me.

“Oooh! I get it now! The whole ditzy and adorable thing is an act! You’re the devil!”

Even then, as I sat contemplating my newly discovered adversary, I refused to lose. There was no other option than to roll the dice and let this hot little Korean Hitler decide my fate. What else could I do? Turn back? Fuck that. This was my redemption story, brah. My Rocky IV. I refused to believe that my best wasn’t good enough (it wasn’t), or that this company would fly a stranger halfway around the world just to torture them for a week, then strand them in a foreign country with little more than 20 bucks and a “sorry, bro” to see them on their way (they totally did).

In all honesty though, that’s not the part that really bothers me. I’m not bitter (not true). Nor do I hold a grudge or have any hard feelings toward my trainer (also not true–bite me Chong*). This wasn’t a public school, after all. These people were running a business. The part that bugs me is that no one ever told me this was a possibility. I mean, I’m sure idiots get rejected all the time, but I didn’t consider myself to be that inept. Throughout the entire recruiting process, nobody ever said, “Hey, you might want to have a back-up plan, because this could go south on you.”  And just like that, as soon as I was getting back on track, that pint-sized psychological sadist shot-gunned my game plan across the back wall like the back of Cobain’s skull.

Footnotes:

*Her actual last name–not me being racist.

As most anyone who is reading this probably knows, I’ve recently up and moved to the other side of the planet. Almost everyone I meet and/or talk to asks “Why?”, and the answer I provide varies depending on who is asking. For potential employers, I spout off some finely tuned bullshit about always wanting to be a teacher and how my particular aptitude with the English language could never be fully appreciated amongst the systemically entitled youths of my home country (yeah, I’m getting pretty good at lying—it’s scary). If I’m being asked by a stranger, I say that I wanted to see the world, or at least the parts that still openly allow Americans; and if I’m trying to sound cool, I’ll say “I was bored, and somebody told me it was a good idea.”

In reality, I came here because, in the course of my existence on this planet, I’ve fallen into the habit of being a gigantic pussy. Whenever I’m faced with a difficult decision, I almost always take the path of least resistance. Even when I do stray away, it’s always in short range of my comfort zone, and the minor vices found therein. I’ve always just sort of gone with the flow. College? Sure, sounds fun. Major? I don’t know, ask me later. I’m going to go get lit. Job? Ugh, whatever’s easiest.

As the tag line of this blog so aptly explains, I’m an underachiever through and through. There hasn’t been a single point in my life in which I can confidently say that I gave it my all; that I reached down and tapped into my true potential. Hell, I’ve only ever even scratched the surface when I had to, when my back was against a wall, and quitting wasn’t an option.

So, for the first time in my life, I committed to something that scared me. I did my homework, resisted the urge to procrastinate, and signed on for the long haul. I was proud of my work, and when the time finally came to depart, I handed my plan to the universe with head held high.  And the universe accepted my hard work, smiled at me, and said “Wow, good job Andy. I’m so proud of you.”

Then, with the smile still on his face, he turned, dropped my plan into a blender, and said “Now go fuck yourself.”

Yes, you, the curly-headed gentleman wearing the tweed jacket that makes you look like a creepy Teacher’s Assistant in an episode of Law & Order. Your intolerance is palpable, and wholly unnecessary. I felt the disquiet the moment I walked in; and even if I hadn’t then, I would have after the reaction I got from a woman whom I politely asked about the availability of her neighboring stool. Judging solely from the scowl she provided me, you would have thought I asked for a full report on her sexual history. And if I hadn’t received the message then, I would have gotten it from the bartender who pretended not to notice me on three straight passes.  Now, I have you, fixing me with a cold glare, not of intimidation, but mistrust. I humbly invite you to take the stool next to me, and discharge whatever lopsided ideology is boiling up beneath those ludicrous sideburns of yours.

What’s the worst you can do? Call me a frat boy? Tell me I’m a mindless slave to the mainstream? Accuse me of displaying some exaggerated projection of a modern alpha male?   You’ll undoubtedly miss the irony in your indictment, little knowing that the last time I received a welcome this stiff, I was in frat house. My shaggy hair and high tops induced the same twisted sneers there that my clean shave and collared shirt are causing here. You’ve condemned me on a glance, in such a rush to separate yourself from my perceived superficiality, that you’ve become guilty of the very hypocrisy you claim to detest.

My instincts would say that you dislike me because my image projects an unfavorably stereotypical persona; but I think it’s more than that. I think you’re nervous. You’re nervous that I may be more, that I may not fit so neatly into your presupposed little package. You want me to pretend to be something I’m not, so you can feel secure in your individuality. You need the rest of us to look alike, so that you can tell yourself apart. You need to be ostracized so you can be justified in your self-pity. But, if I’m well-kept, creative, insightful, self-aware and smart, then your entire image is meaningless. You’ve spent so much time and effort trying not to be me, that you forgot to be you, and have instead become a caricature:  an abstract recreation of what the rest of us aren’t. You’re a clown:  a condescending, melancholy clown with nothing better to do than contradict anything and everything that challenges your individuality.

So, as much as I would enjoy seeing your face sour into a beautiful cocktail of anger and confusion, I must strongly recommend that you resist the urge to walk over here. I don’t think you’ll enjoy the result.