Day 52

This entry is bullshit. Scroll through it, if you know what’s good for you.

That “Day 52″ makes absolutely no sense, I don’t know why I keep doing it. Out of habit, when I started writing 750 words every day, about 2.5 years ago now. I start back at Day 1 when I skip a day, so that means the last time that that happened was 52 days ago. But it’s a stupid, arbitrary number. Well it’s not arbitrary, it’s counting the number of consecutive days, you idiot.

Exhausted these days. I’m under-caloried, trying to cut weight, dissolve the fat. This is the only way to do it, to be under-caloried. Here’s the rest:

Morning fasted workouts, low intensity steady-state exercise (LISS). So, brisk walking. Nothing that will get my heart rate up too high, or I’ll burn muscle instead of fat. Sometimes I feel like sweating so I’ll jump rope, but I’ll make sure to consume BCAAs to conserve muscle and lean tissue.

The problem with LISS is that although it’s effective in targeting only body fat, it’s inefficient in that walking burns way less calories than anything else. So it takes a lot of walking. Fortunately, I have the time.

Today I did laundry next to the small gym in my apartment complex. One hour of wash, one hour of dry. For those two hours, I was walking and reading, getting shit done. Some stretching (I’m trying to regain my flexibility) and some ab work (but I’m not under the assumption that crunches do shit). I’m sure the receptionists downstairs are aghast at how long I spend in that gym. If they only knew about my evening workout…

Every day I’ll fast for 16 hours. I’ll eat between noon and 8pm. More likely, between 1pm and 7pm. So that’s a 6 hour eating window, where I need to ingest ~1600 calories split between two meals. I don’t weight my food anymore, I just judge. Some days I’ll be way over (last night I ate two medium pizzas) and some days I’ll be waaaaaay under — which is terrible, but what can ya do.

Most days I’ll eat fast food. I’ll eat something junky. But there’s no such thing as junk food, there are only macronutrients. There are only proteins, fats and carb counts. And alcohol, but that’s a nightly occurrence so it’s always factored in.

IIFYM. That’s what I tell people I do. When they eat a grilled chicken caesar salad and I eat a Big Mac combo, I win: I know exactly the caloric, nutrient specs of the big mac combo, so I can adjust the rest of my meals of the day to squeeze it in (sometimes eating only once a day, like last night and the 2 pizzas). They, however, will probably undercount the calories and macronutrient ratio of the salad, and fuck up. Fuck the fuck up. And wonder why they’re not losing weight, and blame it on some strange, magical phenomena, and then take supplements.

Nope, it’s calories. That’s it. That’s always it.

Well, no, not always it. Not for men, who need muscle to look good. I love fit women, strong, muscular, vascular women with veins splaying across their abdomen — but for the most part, a thin woman looks good relative to a thin man. Thin men don’t look good, they look like Korean pop stars. With no testosterone, no facial hair, no “manliness.”

So we need to build muscle, or at least not lose most of it. So we need to eat. We need protein. We need to workout, weightlift, while on a caloric deficit. That’s what hurts, doing all of that and then trying to work, trying to write about gadgets for retirees. What tech baby boomers would need.

So I have protein shakes. I fridge full of 50 1.5L water bottles and a crate of 30 eggs. Chicken breast in the freezer. And a shitload of condiments to make it all taste good.

And it tastes good.

What do I do today? It’s 1:10pm, time for my first meal. But do I eat? Or do I pop some caffeine, yohimbine? I jumped rope this morning, so perhaps I should eat. Just an egg. Some dumplings? But I’m on a roll with the fat burning, might as well keep it up for a few more hours. I’m also going out tonight, drinks at a jazz bar, and if I know myself, that means 12 beers and a few glasses of wine. Right?

This is the hard part, socializing. I’m an introvert, usually, especially on Mondays. But tonight, gotta make it, she’s leaving in a few days and I gotta say bye.

Day 51


My first girlfriend in Grade 9. I went from couldn’t-get-a-girlfriend (albeit understandably, in my 24-white-kid elementary classroom) to almost-immediately-upon-starting-highschool. She had a boyfriend, this handsome middle-eastern boy with these really light blue eyes. I was shocked that she would break up with him for me. He was in one of my classes and would give me the stink eye, and I’d think, “Really, this is the guy I’m up against? I have no fucking shot.”

We met during cross-country. I sucked at cross-country. I actually hated cross-country. But it’s the sport you do when you’re not good at sports. I mean, it’s fucking jogging. It’s not even a race, is it? Or you’re racing against the clock, against yourself, or some bullshit. There was no pressure to win. You would just run until snot came from your nose and your mouth dried out and your chest hurt and your leg cramped up. And then you know what you would do? You would fucking walk. You would walk and catch your breath and rest, before you start jogging again. I mean, this fucking sport gives you all the chances in the world to finish. Or participate. Do they have medals? Like Gold, Silver, Bronze? How could they have medals in a race with 2000 kids? I swear, there’s 2000 kids running at the same fucking time. I remember talking to my running-mates and saying, “If we crack 100, then that’d be awesome!” Some bullshit like that. God, talk about low fucking goals.


I met her during cross-country. I forget all of the details but after all the drama of her breaking up — and me and my friends getting into fights (more later) — it was me and her walking back to the school after a cross-country … what the fuck do you call it, rehearsal? (ha ha)… and we held hands. Somehow we kissed. My first kiss. I didn’t tell her it was my first. I think she might’ve even asked and I said, HA HA OF COURSE NOT, WHAT THE FUCK because I was just so adamant to show off and be cool.

But that was my first kiss. I have a “feeling” of it, but lost the details, sadly.

By the way, all of this happened in September. In the VERY FIRST MONTH of high school, all of this shit happened. My life went from 0 to 100kmh in … well, I guess a fucking month. Jesus Christ. Within a week, she told me she loved me. I told her the same. She said, “You don’t have to say it if you don’t mean it right now, it’s okay.”

“Okay, nevermind, then, sorry.” Ha ha ha.

We used to go to that same park and make out. We made out hard. We were under the bridge once, on the concrete incline, and she sat on top of me, grinding herself into my crotch. She straddled me in her tight purple jeans and just undulated her body. It was sexy, but I was 14-years old for chrissakes, even I knew that it was too much, too far, too fast, too soon. And it was painful, all that denim and zippers and shit. I even told her this. “Can we stop this? Let’s be gentle,” or something to that effect. I think she looked at me with these doe eyes, twinkling with happy tears at how sweet her boyfriend was.

A few times we would make out at her house. She lived a few blocks noWe would make out in her bed. Grinding crotches. God, she would wear these short dresses, straddle me, and then lay back revealing her panties. This was, like, the second month of highschool. I had no idea if this was normal, if we were progressing too quickly. In hindsight, of course we were, Jesus, we’re 14-years old at this point. She’s 13-years old, having skipped a grade like the good Chinese girl she was. rth of me and I had to take a bus to get there. On Saturdays I would make the trek and we would take care of her brother while her parents were at work. I forgot what her parents did, but I think they were “rich” but I might’ve thought so because she had the first auto-reverse walkman I’d ever seen. Y’know, you play at cassette tape and when it ended it would make a few clicks and a whiiiiiiirrr and play the other side automatically. She would babysit her toddler brother, whose name I rightfully forgot — because why the fuck would I?

She asked me if I masturbated. “No,” I lied.

“It’s okay if you do, I just want to know because I love you.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“Do you want a blow job?” Holy shit, I had no idea what was going on, but I know that I was 14 and I didn’t want to take my pants down. I knew that much.


I remember I mentioned something about a condom in my wallet, and she later went and searched my wallet to find it. I think I did have one in there, but as a joke. My friends and I found some in one of our parents’ rooms or something and split them up. I put mine in my Scooby Doo wallet and you could clearly make out the circular imprint on the outside of the baby blue fake leather, right where the velcro strap was.

Eventually, I broke up with her. I don’t know why, I just didn’t feel anything. Or I felt too much and she short-circuited my nerves. This was a floral-print-dress wearing, innocent, religious Chinese girl with white skin and short mommy hair, and she was a sexual deviant.

Oh wait, shit, she made me finger her on the outside of her underwear. She made me. She took my hand and pleasured herself with my fore and middle fingers, while I lay there, mouth agape, with her moaning like we weren’t 6 years too young for this.

Anyway, no complexes. I wasn’t fearful nor fearless of women after. I was just a little regretful about the way I avoided her altogether afterwards, I just didn’t know how to act around exes. I didn’t know how to be an ex-boyfriend. So I scrammed.


Day 50

Goddamn, Ko Samet. Rip off, just like it was the first two times I came here. Which is why I’d stay one night and get the hell out, regardless of the 3 hour bus ride it takes to get here from Bangkok.

This time, I decided to motorbike, so the journey becomes the point of the trip. 220km motorbike, to be specific — but not completely accurate — where I almost had a rear tire blowout. I pulled over and found a nail deeply embedded —

This is boring as fuck.

I used to have sex with a friend of mine in my early 20s. It was well before I was having regular sex with a regular girlfriend, which probably didn’t happen until my mid-20s. So up until then, it was just sporadic experiences of sexual intercourse, mostly unpredictable.

We were platonic friends, we dated each other’s friends, we worked together at a point. She was very fit — did she work out or was it natural? — mostly thin body but then had muscular legs, a round, plump ass. Her choice outfit was always a black tank top and those fitted black pants all the girls wore back then, that flared at the bottom. Precursor to Lululemons.

(Every decade, there would be some new fad that always involved TIGHT ASS PANTS. I’m not complaining, I’m just in awe that the same thing cycles over and over. Now it’s those shiny faux-leather tights, aren’t they?)


So although I found her sexually … interesting … we were platonic friends and even back then I coveted those more than I did random, meaningless sex. (Because having female friends ensures you future random, meaningless sex with their friends.)

But we began to have sex. Oddly, it was when she began to date a guy I knew. Not a friend, not really and acquaintance. Some douchebag white guy with what I’m sure now are mental issues. Frat boy-type, but not a frat-boy, not even post-secondary educated. Handsome, though. Just juvenile, childish, cocky. (Jesus, was that me?)

We started to have sex in my basement room of my parent’s house. She had to sneak through the side door. We didn’t have cell phones (did we use pagers?) so I’m not sure how we arranged when I would come out and open the side gate. I remember once I heard barking, Jinnie the Jindo, and so went to the gate to fetch her — the girl, not the dog — and she followed me, absolutely terrified of Jinnie, with every right because that dog was insane.

The first time we had sex, she was shy. She said, “I”m shy,” and I had to undress her. I was surprisingly cool about it all. Not Dylan McKay cool, just not startled by any of it. It felt normal, to have a girl in my room about to have sex with me, when it was the rarest thing in the world at that point in my life.

I told her, “I don’t know how to have sex, I need you to teach me. I really want to learn what a girl likes.” I said this because it was the truth, but also to take the emotional quotient down a notch. Almost like saying, “Don’t be nervous, this is almost a clinical thing. I’m inexperienced and you have the knowledge that I seek. So take those Jacob black tight flare bottom pants off and let me ….”

I’ve forgotten how many times we had sex, all of the memories have melded into one long night. There was one time I ate her out for a very long time, while she showed me which buttons to push and knobs to turn. I didn’t know it was a long time and I didn’t know how I was doing, until she said she would return the favour and went down on me for about 30 minutes straight.

She got on top of me after, very horny, very wet, and we had sex for a very long time. Neither of us could come easily. I’m still like that, although now I have a process, a method. Back then I would bang away until I came. Quantity over quality moves, like any other early-20’s man would choose. Once we were having sex doggy style and I pulled out, came on her back and ass. I cleaned it up with a sock that was nearby.

But the point of this entire story is this one night that I regret:

She came over. We had hours of foreplay, then hours of sex. We were in missionary and I was manically — and maniacally — humping away. Ferocious, like a fucking wildebeast on a lamb. She was screaming in pleasure and I was covering her mouth, telling her to quiet down (we were in my parent’s basement, and she would always show after 2am).

“Stop stop stop stop,” she said. I stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“I’ve never felt this before, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“You’re going to have an orgasm?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know!”

“You’re scared to have an orgasm? Why? Let’s just keep going…” And I would start fucking again, excited.

“Stop stop stop stop!”


“It feels too good, I’m scared.”

Eventually, I stopped, because it’s not sexy when a girl yells “Stop stop stop,” during sex. But that’s my regret, that I didn’t stop, that I should’ve powered my way through to give her her first orgasm. She was so close to the light. She could feel the warmth. Alas, it was too powerful, too radiant for her mortal vagina to absorb. Her vagina was not yet ready to receive the nectar of the gods. Sad face.

Day 49

750 bullshit words, right now, as fast as possible, after waking up, meditating and before the gym and a long bike ride to Ko Samet. Nah, write something compelling.

She’s so beautiful and he takes her for granted. You see this shit a lot, and you see it in every country, but it’s worse in Bangkok. It seems worse in Bangkok because it’s so easy to take women for granted because there are so many available women. Maybe not Bangkok, maybe it’s Asia. It’s probably all of Asia.

What can I do, though? It’s not my place to say, “She’s so fucking incredible, man. What’re you doing?” Because I’ve been in the same place, neglecting girlfriends, desiring something, someone different, just for the point of having something, someone different. I’m not like this with just women, I’m like this with friends, apartments, jobs, cities in which I live… I just need change, constantly, to experience living. To have that experience of living.

Yesterday I was walking with her and she asked, “When will you settle down?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I”m wasting my time by staying in one city. I should be living around the world. Berlin. Buenos Aires.”

“Well if that’s what you want, you should do that now. Because sooner or later you have to start living.”

But that’s the thing, I’m living already. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, like everything’s on hold while I go out and sew some oats, get shit out of my system. But I know better, I know that this is it, this is the rest of my life. I could die at any fucking second. Things could change. So I can’t really go out and follow a template, someone else’s template, that’ll bring them through working until 65 and then retiring in an old age home. That template exists, but it’s not mine.

Actually, is that a template? How many people actually reach that dream, as shitty as it is? How many people aim for that — existing, not living — and fall below? Get sick or divorced or bankrupt. Or the other way — win the lottery, sell a company, travel the world by boat, give it all up to help Haiti. I mean, both ways, life can change and is better or worse than that shitty dream. So why do people aim for it?

Well, I had that philosophy until I was about 33 years old, that there’s no point making the bed because I’ll mess it up again in less than 24 hours. But now, I make the bed, every fucking morning, even when staying in a hotel. Because that’s what you do when you wake up, you meditate, jack off and make the fucking bed. And it’s helped, or it hasn’t hindered. I don’t come home and into my room and scoff that the bed’s made.

What the fuck am I talking about, this is all bullshit. 474 words.

She seems distraught, like she knows what’s up. I asked, “Why would she love him so much? He treats her so badly,” and Mike would reply, “She loves him so much because he treats her so badly.”

She thinks I’m happy; optimistic. “Do you ever have a bad day?” It almost sounds condescending, like, “Are you so stupid and blithe to the world that you’re just happy like a fucking puppy dog every moment of your life?” But she’s not that type. She actually stopped walking and turned to ask me this, in a tight corridor of the bar, a move you make when you really want to hear the answer, when your life depends on it, when you want to know how a person is happy so you can harness just a slice of that shit yourself.

“You’re always happy when I see you,” she said.

“Because when you see me, I’m with you, stupid.” I thought.

I wish it were this romantic in real life. It wasn’t, at all. I don’t know. Well, this is real life, anything can and will happen. Shit happens, to everyone, no one’s above it, and I don’t know what prevails in the end, good or evil or just necessity. Probably necessity. Necessity prevails. Is that a philosophy to live by? Make myself necessary. I’ve always worked off the magic and wonders of love and chance meetings and serendipity. But when it comes down to it, maybe I need to make myself necessary. Relevant.

Last night I had two beers and looked into my Acapulco folder of photos. I don’t know why I do this to myself.

Day 48

Fooled around and fell in love.

This fucking song, on the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack. I’m not a lyrics kinda guy, they enter one ear and out the other, but this song caught me because it’s so fucking me. Fooled around and fell in love. Is there any other way I’m going to do it? That it’ll happen to me? Nope,

I must’ve been through about a million girls

Not a million, but maybe 5 serious ones, 10 intermediate, 50 interactions and hundreds of unrequited crushes. I was/am girl-crazy, but not in a way where I’d have notches on my bed post. Quantity never mattered to me. I was that forlorn kid always looking to fall in love, that’s all I really wanted (I’m unsure what I want now). It was so goddamn important to me that I couldn’t commit to any one girl. Marriage was so crucial to get it right the first time that I could never have that much faith in anyone I dated. How could anyone be that sure?

I’d love ‘em then I’d leave ‘em alone

I’d love them and make them love me, and then I’d be the one to leave. I would suddenly remember that I’m better single. I remember telling myself this and thinking this, “When I was single, I was so much better at this living thing…” I never broke up with one girl for another. Maybe the idea of another, but a concrete substitution never happened. I always got out of the relationship to get out of the relationship, not to jump into a new one.

I didn’t care how much they cried, no sir; Their tears left me cold as a stone

My policy was to not regret anything. Hence, I just never looked back, never thought of them. I moved on quickly. I ignored their phone calls, messages, emails. I told myself I was doing the best thing for all involved. This bit me in the ass. This made my entire fucking world crumble, years later, when I discovered the pain I caused. Jesus. I always thought, love hurts, it happens to everyone, you can’t go through the world not getting hurt. But I think I drove a few women into make certain life choices not based on what they want, but based on what they don’t want — which is shit that I invariably taught them by crushing their hearts. I was better left in my ignorance.

But then I fooled around and fell in love

Then this happened. Not with Jeannie — that was almost premeditated. I almost wanted it so much that it was bound to happen with the next/first girl, and she was it. Happened with Nana, though. Completely. In the beginning, I didn’t care; I was in hunting mode. I was single and had money and a shitload of passport stamps and nothing holding me back. But then I fooled around and fell in love.

It used to be when I’d see a girl that I liked; I’d get out my book and write down her name

Jesus fuck, this is exactly what I do with my Moleskine notebook. The names of women all up in there, a list longer than … shit, was I really about to make a concentration camp joke? A Jews-on-a-list joke? Why did my brain go there?

But when the grass got a little greener over on the other side; I’d just tear out that page

I wouldn’t tear out any pages. I know what he means, that he’d just immediately disregard any old commitments and move onto the next. But because I like to remember, because I like to read shit years later, my list of names is intact.

Free, on my own is the way I used to be; Ah, but since I met you baby, love’s got a hold on me

This is how it will happen. I can’t plan it. I can’t say, “I will now be a taken man in love and that’s it for me.” It has to smack me in the face. Out of my control. I don’t want the responsibility of choosing, deciding.

You know, if I just go and edit these entries into something cohesive, I might have something interesting. The rhythm is all over the fucking place. Whatever, this isn’t for polished blog entries, it’s for me to type 750 words as fast as humanly possible. Come back later, cherry pick and edit. Fuck off, no one gives a shit you big piece of shit.


Day 47

So, Jeannie.

If she appeared, what would I say? I’d be … childish. I’d probably be childish. I’d probably try to brag about something. Show her I’m too cool for school. My voice would crack, I wouldn’t get away with it.

Would I try to fuck her? Maybe. Maybe I would, for all of those years where we didn’t. I wasn’t mad, I wasn’t even sad. It was fine, I was in love, I would’ve not fucked her for decades if it were to lead to marriage. (Well, that’s obviously wrong, because I scrammed the fuck away from her.)

I’d try to kiss her. I’d try to reignite the sparks. Because that’s what I do, I try to create movie moments out of everything, because I’m just always bored with regular life. I’d try to kiss her and hug her and tell her everything’s going to be fine, now. We’re back together like we should be and the universe is right, let’s go watch the sunset together.

Or I’d yell at her. I would unload 15 years of pent up shit. “You did this to me! You turned me into this monster who leaves a path of heartbroken women in his fucking wake, women who I promised shit to, everything to, and then became frightened of it all, because of you, because of you, goddamnit.” Does that even make sense? Alright, stop being dramatic you fucking idiot, what would you tell her?

Jeannie, Jesus Christ, you fucking killed me. I was a naive boy back then, in love with you, and wanted nothing but your love in return. This part isn’t your fault, like I said, I know I was naive. I had growing up to do, I had to find out what real love was, or at least that love isn’t enough. But the part where you killed me was the … controlling bullshit? Yeah, you were controlling. Jesus. You made me unfriend exes. You were just so mad. You were always just so mad. And you hid behind that megawatt, brilliant smile and baby voice. You had everyone fooled that you were this happy-go-lucky girl.

You were this beautiful, tanned-skinned Hawaiian girl. You had the sweetest face, you had that toothy smile with the buck teeth and your eyes would turn into crescents. Did you have dimples? I don’t think so, but your face appeared to have dimples. You gave off the same vibe as someone with dimples. You know what I mean.

You just seemed so happy. But then I saw the truth. You were sad, you were angry. You took it out on me. You needed to control everything. And when you couldn’t control things, you would insult them. Maybe along with naive I was sensitive? I don’t know. I could’ve been wrong, I could’ve been overly sensitive and reactive. I mean, after all, I stopped contacting you. Right? Is that what happened? We broke up for the 20th time over the phone or email or something virtual and impersonal, and I think one night I just had it and said, “That’s it, it’s done.” And then I pretended you were dead, because that’s the only way I could get over you.

It was easy; you were in Hawaii, I was in Toronto. You were dead. If I didn’t contact you, you wouldn’t contact me. You were dead.

So I got over you. But I guess I didn’t, because here I am now, more than a decade later, writing this acerbic letter.

Well, no, I’m being melodramatic again, I hardly mean any of this. In fact, I should be thanking you.

Could we have lasted? i don’t know. By the sheer force of will and (what I thought was) love, maybe we could’ve. But people do this, they only imagine the good parts, or the super hard parts. Like I’d stick with her through the good times — easy — and also through a zombie apocalypse. If the dead rose from the grave, if a meteor hit the earth, if the polar ice caps melted, we would make it through.

But what about, say, 4 years of just grinding routine? 3 months of one of us having dysentery? Nothing on TV? Ordinary shit, that’s the hard part about relationships, isn’t it? What if we couldn’t have sex for whatever reason? What if I had a toothache? A hangnail? Would our sheer will and (what we thought was) love survive that?

I used to think 750 words was a lot. But the way I fucking babble, I get nothing the fuck out.

Day 46

Sometimes I wonder what Jeannie is doing. The first girlfriend, the first love. Holy shit, that hurt. I had to pretend she was dead — literally dead — to get over that one. I didn’t know what else to do, my 21-year old brain couldn’t handle it in any other way.

Forget how I met her. Who cares. I met her and then we dated and then we were separated and then we got back together. She lived in Honolulu, Hawaii and I lived in Toronto, Canada. I went to visit her, she came to visit me.

Shit, that’s pretty dramatic for 19-years old. 20. I was 20. I remember it was after I turned 19 in Toronto so I could buy liquor and cigarettes, legally. Then I went to Hawaii and that right was taken away from me. So yeah, I was 20, smack in the middle of legal ages between our two states/provinces. That was also the last time I went 30 days without drinking alcohol. I’m 36 now. Fucking 17 years later, and I still haven’t gone 30 days. Whatever.

She destroyed me. I remember that. I remember in Hawaii she fucking destroyed me. Maybe it was normal, I don’t know, like I said, she was my first real actual girlfriend and I was convinced that I was in love with her…

(I was about to write how I probably wasn’t really in love with her and it was infatuation and she gave me a taste of adult life, of shit I never felt before, and I just mistakened all of that for true love. But that’s all bullshit, that was real love. Doesn’t matter that we didn’t last, doesn’t matter that I didn’t know you had to “work on the relationship” — it was still real fucking love, no matter which angle you look at it).

But by destroying me, she fucking empowered me. She made me a man. I remember sitting on my cot at the YMCA on Ala Moana Blvd, right outside Ala Moana Centre, feeling fucking sorry for myself. I had a week left in Hawaii and she was neglecting me, mean as a fucking snake (it dawned on me after that she was well beyond what a first girlfriend should be. It was trying to harness plasma with my bare hands. I was in over my head).

I met up with her at Starbucks and told her, Fuck this, I’m out of here. I don’t like this, I don’t like how I feel, I don’t like how you make me feel. But no hard feelings, I’ll just go this way, you go that way, and in a week I’ll be on a plane to Toronto. I was authentically over her. I decided on my YMCA cot.

I told her to stand up, give me a hug.



We hugged, I probably smelled her hair. “Well, that’s the end of that chapter,” I said, looking down at my shoes, smoking.

“But it doesn’t have to be the end of the book.”

That was her corny ass response. But it was beautiful then. I wasn’t expecting this, that she would like me, that she would want to continue. But deep down, of course I wanted that. Not even deep down, on the motherfucking surface. I was authentically over her, so I closed my eyes, brought the feelings back. “You still love her you still love her you still love her,” I told myself.

The next week, my last week, things were changed. I was aloof, and she was intimate, dear. That’s what it took: me not giving a shit anymore. Or me caring less than her. Then things started to feel good. I started to feel some control. (Not that I care for control, but I hate having no control, or rather, I hate when a girl has control over me and abuses that control — so in that case I’d just rather have the control to walk away.)

That’s the gift she gave me, that knowledge. I was 20 at the time. I was too young for that knowledge. I should’ve had a few more break ups in my life where I was on the receiving end, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be: Jeannie fed me the forbidden fruit of the tree of knowledge.

Caring less feels better.

I suppose it’s a power thing. I suppose that’s shuffling for power, the way women feign not caring at the beginning of a relationship. I’m always annoyed because they’re jockeying for position. They’re trying to start the relationship on top. So I simply cease calling, messaging. I sit back and wait for everything to fall into place, because in my experience it inevitably does. Now I realize I’m doing the same thing, I’m being just as dishonest by showing less. That’s jockeying for power.

But caring less feels better. Thanks, Jeannie. Saved me from future pain, but inflicted slow death on all the other women in my life.

Day 45

It’s actually around day … 18 months since I started writing daily. Around 550 days. But the timer resets whenever I miss a day. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but I gotta stick to resetting that fucker because that’s what I told myself I’d do.

What’s the point of all this? I don’t know; I stopped writing and though I have little to say these days, I want to stay in the habit of typing. Who cares, what ever, what are you doing?

The pretty French girl is leaving next week. That accent, oh god, that accent. French women — what is up with them? They’re so sexual. They sit there and just ooze snobbiness. Like I can’t have them. They sit there and their eyes laugh at me. “You can’t have me, you piece of shit,” and my North American cockiness turns on and the dial hits 11 and I begin to strategize….

I might be stuck on looks. I don’t know, am I? I think I am. I date women based on what they look like, and I may break up with them based on the same thing. I get bored of their beauty — bored by their beauty, if that makes any difference — and then I want something equally beautiful but different. Is this true? I don’t know, it’s on the tip of my mind. I date a woman and constantly look at her photos from all of these angles. Not physical angles, but if I were this person or that person or in this or that position, how would I view this girl?

Their faces, their bodies. I don’t know where this came from, this quest for beauty. It doesn’t match with anything else in my life. Everything else I desire is more substance. Everything is substance, content. I devour content based on the content, not by the cover. So why this huge, enormous change when it comes to dating? Why so superficial?

I’ve dated women for their looks, and I’ve dated women longer than I should have for their looks. The break-ups are also true, as horrible as that sounds.

Was it growing up on Baywatch, was that fucking it? In how many ways has Baywatch ruined me as an adult, now? Fucking Pamela and her implants, so now I love implants. That’s the norm to my stupid brain, these round, separated orbs of breasts bouncing around with a defined collarbone and shit. Also: why do I think I deserve these beautiful women? (Well, I suppose because I got them. Because I attained them. If you get something, you deserve it, don’t you? If you don’t, then you don’t. In the most pragmatic view of the world, that’s the absolute truth, like how the price of something is what someone will pay for it.)

So now I’m 36 and still scrambling for the most beautiful. Things might be changing since I moved out here. Less people to impress? Less friends that I interact with? Well yeah, so it was never for them anyway. Always for me. I’m trying to prove something or something.

French girl. Beautiful. Jesus fuck, that accent. That husky voice. The way she laughs on the inhale of a breath, so it’s this wheezing sound. Totally can’t replicate it in type. But it’s such a cocky, French laugh. Where is she, I should get her out before she leaves.

560. 190 more to go.

I’m censoring, I feel it. Just let it go you fucking cocksucker. Let it go like on Penzu. 750 words off the top of your head, unedited. Just type like a banshee, if a banshee was something that typed fast. Whatever. Stop typing whatever.

Baywatch. My love of California was borne before that, but fuck if Baywatch didn’t cement it. Santa Monica, Venice, Malibu — that feels like home. Not Toronto. Even that piece of shit California Dreamin’ show that came on after Saved By The Bell. Just some stupid Saturday morning dreck — but fuck if that didn’t cement California even more.

And now I”m a few months away from living that dream. Shit, easier than I thought. You really just have to make the move, don’t you? Well, that’s not true, I couldn’t do this 5 years ago. Well, I could, but I’d be poor. It’s important not to be poor. It’s important not to wait until you think you’re secure (because it’ll never happen). So the timing was right, the money in the bank was right.

Driving a converitble down PCH. Eating Jack in the Box. That’s the life. I could die. What a shitty entry. Whatever, 750 words.

Day 44

Today is day 44. I have nothing to report, as I had wrote something not 24 hours ago.

Okay, continuing on, then.

I’m dating a Thai local who has a pet monkey. She looks more Chinese than Thai. But what’s that mean, that she’s attractive? That she’s Western-attractive, is that what I fucking mean? BecauseĀ that’s mean. But then again, I’m Asian and I have Asian sensibilities myself. So I’m judging her based on those.

Or am I? Could it be that growing up in Toronto watching 90210 and Baywatch and Saved By The Bell has me more attracted to a white man’s version of Asian?

Well, what is a white man’s version of Attractive Asian? Lucy Liu? Because, goddamnit, she’s fucking hot to Asians as well. The S&M Lucy Liu from that Mel Gibson flick. That’s hot to everyone.

What’s not hot is that Sailor Moon shit. Well, obviously that’s apparently hot to Japanese men. But they’re fucking weird as fuck. But I’m saying that because they’re the most removed from Western culture. Like, they know it exists, they just don’t give a fuck. Are they what the rest of us would’ve turned out like had American culture not permeated the universe?

Okay, get back to the local chick.

She’s beautiful. She knows how to smile. I pointed my iPhone at her yesterday and she immediately smiled her good-girl smile. Her Pocahontas smile. I asked, You practiced this smile, didn’t you? You practice it at home, that’s why you’re so good at it. Don’t be ashamed, it’s good. I had a nice smile for a few years, but it took 5 years of biting on a pencil 4 hour a day to get there.

And then I lost it, a few years ago, maybe after that girl? I stopped smiling big. I started to cry myself to sleep. Ha ha, no, fuck off, no I didn’t.

But I lost it. I became serious. I became serious during the day and drunk during the night. That was my emotional balance. Plus gym in between.

This local girl, she also poked at my stomach and said, “You’re fat.” I told her that her english is bad. “No, you’re fat. You go to the gym every day but you’re a fat old man.”

What could I do? I laughed. Then punched her in the fucking stomach. No I didn’t. I mentally cried. “Don’t let her see you cry,” said my brain to my … tear ducts?

“Never let them see you cry.”

I think I’m at the age where I’m on the other side of the age battle. Like kids will come up to me and say this and that, and I have to defend the side that I just recently mocked. “No, I can still have energy! I am young! I am virile!”

What happened, I swear it was just a year ago that I was mocking my own father. He was getting angry and I didn’t know why. “Does he not know that he’s old? Did he forget in his old age?”

This is good stuff. This should be going up onto the blog. This stream on consciousness shit. I mean, the catch is, the interesting stuff is the personal stuff. The personal stuff can’t really get out there. It’ll close doors with women, won’t it? I can’t mention names. Everyone will have a moniker.

Whatever. You’re not doing anything else. This is classic Alex where I”m trying to have everything, everyone. I’m trying to appease everything, everyone. In the end I always find out that everyone cares less than I do. Then IĀ get even more mad, or I tell myself, “This is why I don’t trust people, this is why I stay away, this is why I am mean to people: because they have hurt me in some fucking way.” But I don’t tell them that they’ve hurt me. So on and on it goes. How would they know, if I don’t say anything?

I remember an ex-girlfriend, the smart one, she said, “You have to tell me what annoys you about me. Maybe it’s something that I can change, something that means little to me, anyway. You can’t just brood about it and use it against me. Then that’s your fault.”

Months later, I thought about that as I broke up with her.

Fuck, that was a good ending to a chapter, or something. I wish I was writing a book, that would’ve hit people right between the fucking eyes. “Motherfucker broke up with her! Jesus fuck! What happens next in this story of this asshole?” Whatever.

Day 43

Right. So I was 19 or 20. I think I was 20. This was a year after Jeannie. Jeannie, I guess, was my first girlfriend. My first real girlfriend.

No, that’s not true, that was Janice.


So I came out of elementary school with high hopes. I was happy and optimistic, but I knew I fell on the other side of the line. I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t in the upper tier of the class. I mean, wasn’t I liked? Or at least, not hated? I wasn’t athletic until grade 7. But still, I participated. Well I remember there were instances of me playing in the sandbox instead of playing baseball.

But the crushing blow was when this girl had a birthday party. It must’ve been grade 7 or 8. And I wasn’t invited. These class parties, everyone was invited except for the few immigrants we had (whom I feel terrible for). But that’s how it went. This party, I wasn’t invited. I didn’t know why. I had no idea what I could’ve done. It was also a bold move, I thought. “She’s this bold to be this mean?” I’m not sure who else knew I wasn’t invited; no one said anything.

Goddamnit, that felt terrible.

Maybe I was invited but didn’t see my invitation? No, because the night of the party, no one had asked me to go with them. They knew I wasn’t invited, everyone knew.

Shit, so this is the first time I was bailed on, made to feel left out. This shit still kills me now, it brings back that pain in elementary school. Is this why I’m a loner now? My brain just couldn’t take the pain anymore of the non-invite. So now I live in Bangkok. Now I do that to others. Do I? Maybe I do. Maybe I know how much it hurts, so I use that as my own weapon against others.

Holy shit, man, that’s it.

Anyway, so I came out of elementary school to West Hill. Fresh start, almost, kind of. I was almost adamant that that would never happen to me again, that I would lose control of how people could make me feel. Odd, because I don’t think any of this was too traumatic back then; I was just a happy, optimistic boy.

No, nevermind Janice, that’s a story for another day. Shit, so does acknowledging this do anything? I mean, I never forgot this memory — of not being invited to the party — but I never wrote about it, never talked about it.

How did it make you feel:

It made me feel completely fucking left out. An outsider. I wanted to know what was wrong with me. Even worse, I asked, “Why did they lump me in with those losers,” the African, the Sri Lanken, the Macedonian. Linda? I’m not sure. But as much as I felt left out, Jesus fuck, that was everyday for these girls, these leftover immigrants. After that weekend I just went back to school and pretended nothing was wrong, that there wasn’t a party that I wasn’t not invited too. For my own good, for my own sanity, I had to do that. No on brought it up from then on. Those girls couldn’t do that. Where are they now? How the fuck our their lives, if mine has been this affected?

I just felt helpless. That’s all any 12 year old wants, to fit in, to be liked. Not even to be liked, I’m sure most of us just want to be able to stand there with everyone else and just exist. I didn’t have to be DJ I didn’t have to be the class clown. Just stand there.

I had a birthday party that year or the year after. I invited everyone (except for those girls — it was just fucking stupid and cruel that we got to this point where it was just … normal … not to invite them. Not even a second thought. It’s like as long as we had them, we were assured of our station in life. We would never be as low as them. This makes me sick.). Everyone came. It was a great time.

Candice Albreight? Akerby? Something unattractive. I think what happened was that she came to our school, dated the cool guy, left, came back a pariah. And that’s when me and her danced cheek to cheek.

I asked her to dance once, and she was brave enough to say yes. Our dances used to be arms held straight out — mine on the girl’s waist, the girls’ hands on my shoulders — and she would look right and I would look left and we would avoid eye contact and any talking whatsoever.

Grade 6? That’s when the dances started. Anyway, at some point I asked Candice, with her short blond mushroom cut and blue eyes — Aldo was her brother — and our cheeks swiped each other . Every dance afterwards, we would dance, and my cheek would swipe closer and closer. The final dance, we danced with her cheeks firmly pressed against each other. I’m sure my eyes were closed. I’m that kind of fucking idiot, to be oblivious to everyone watching.

I think people might’ve laughed. I didn’t care.

Nothing happened between us. I think because she expected me to do something and I didn’t. I was too frozen in fear. Too fearful because I was the guy that just a few months ago wasn’t invited to that party that everyone was invited to.

This too, you could see the effects of now, in my present persona. Now I dive in. I tell women, I probably like you, when I probably do not. Get the girl, that’s the important part. Then take your time finding out if you like her.

Grab it. If something just distracts me, twinkles in the background, fucking grab it, before it goes away like Candice with her short blond hair and blue eyes. Candice who I shared my first intimate moments with.