It happened again. Where I was vulnerable for 5 seconds and I got it. That feeling where I was going to shit myself of jealousy but I knew it was physically impossible because I hadn’t eaten in over eight hours. I had to grab my bag and barge through half the crowd in Ulsan’s new premiere nightclub with no cover charge. I’m still sober, thank fuck.

I’m in the safety net of my apartment now. There is no alcohol here. No people either. What do sober people do on Saturday night? I always regret my conscious decision of taking the last bus home. Am I going to miss out and a wonderful conversation? Meet the love of my life? Last weekend some guy showed me a picture of all the stitches on his foot. That was cool. In da club, I caught a guy who almost fell down. He was too embarrassed to say thank you even though I saved his life. His shirt was synthetic and sweat-wicking. In a sense, I did get intimate with someone last night.

I am pretty sure he doesn’t read these fucking things. But if he does, he wouldn’t message me about it. I’m tapping my leg just thinking about it.

I feel unstable. I should really start going to meetings. Jealousy is cyanide. I saw basically nothing, but it was something.  My skin felt like it was on fire from the inside. I want to drink I want to drink I want to drink. I forgot what this fragility felt like. Did I learn nothing after my experience coming home from Tokyo? I asked for my phone back. It was in his pocket. Then I left.

I feel ridiculous for feeling. And stupid because I don’t really care. It’s just this immense dissatisfaction from an unsolved mystery. Why doesn’t he fucking like me. I think I check off a couple of goddamn bullet points. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, which is a phenotypic needle in the haystack of this country. I have a job and a sense of humour. Dick is on my vision board. But emotional unavailability triumphs my natural highlights. I have the thousand mile stare and am bitter.

My brain is an asshole. I spent so much time and energy these past sober months to perfect this stupid routine. Cleaning, mealing prepping and ironing my gi. It was all a distraction. Now I feel and don’t know what to do about it. I have nightmares. Kanye West’s recent album is relatable. Now, that’s scary. I wrote a joke today at least. That’s something I haven’t done in a hot minute. I don’t know if it’s funny, but I produced something. Self-loathing fuels creativity, how original.

I feel like shit now but I would feel twenty times worse if I choose to drank last night. I’m proud of myself and I am writing this even though I hate it. My stats are always better for these emo posts though. Misery is both entertaining and relatable. This is going to worry my mother. Don’t worry Ma, I won’t be going back Oreo anytime soon. My friends living on the other side of the world will tell me they love me. I’ll enjoy the attention for half a day.

But it won’t stop me from being swallowed by loneliness.


161 days

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