my first

acid tamper.

Need for belief

The mood of this place was in high contrast against the vibrant setting. What I thought would be a dark, smoky sardine can full of sleazebags and bad mixes of cheap perfume actually looked reasonably comforting. Still, I felt depressed.

Would-be-hookers and males sway to their animalistic best to a singer belting out half-heartedly on instrumentals that sounded shit still ten years ago. What drove them well, were the same reasons why I was here in this labyrinth of sex and drunkenness in the first place – not quite sex, but being drunk and acceptably desperate with three other testosterone-crazy motherfuckers at 3 a.m., there was not a reason to reject a trip to Wanchai.

A beautiful, most outstanding girl enters and almost looked reluctant to be in the bar. Her face was so pretty I struggled with my feelings and had my inner romantic secretly convince consciousness she could’ve been the daughter of a convenience store boss; one of those ‘smitten with the girl at the counter’ type situations when I was younger. She was not an eager girl at the bar that night. Not quite soliciting at all in fact, switching from spot to spot, table to table, not enjoying the music, not casting an eye even on any one of the birdwatchers who were trying to remain calm at the bar, taking their pick. She’s becoming special.

I tailed her, trying to catch a glimpse of her fair face, – she had these eyes full of emotion and vulnerability - while simultaneously, my thoughts ran wild. I had to break the ice somehow; I wanted to talk to her.  I walked into her eyes, ‘You look like you’re looking for nothing.’

‘I’m looking for a drink.’ she gave a half smile.

‘One tequila and coke and one ice water.’ I told the waiter as I unknowingly told her I could get her a drink and nothing else.

She tilted her head in typical adorable fashion and told me her name was Fali.

‘I’m Matthew.’

When she asked, I told her I was from Taiwan and later told her I knew where she’s from from her accent, after she told me she’s here on business from Thailand.

She took my hand, walked me to a corner table and we sat. Eight minutes of random first impression questions lead to an ‘I’m working’, as if trying to make a point.

‘Oh, cool. You have very pretty face.’

She smiles and strokes my back. ‘I want to go home with you,’ she looks into my eyes, ‘I tired of here tonight.’

‘I could do with another drink, that’s all.’ Half of me want to sell bits of my soul, and the other reminds me constantly of the subconscious bias I have for hooking up at all with a girl like that.

‘You have good heart.’ I wandered and wondered for a little, if she was taking a piss, on how many pseudo-innocent bastards would coax and hoax for a fuck, and if she meant a quarter of what she was saying at all. There weren’t any reason to be ruminating about these things – but I did.

‘Do you want to take my number?’ I blurted.

‘I don’t talk to man I can’t keep’, she placed her hand on my lap as if knowing and expecting my grasp.

I held her cold hand. She squeezed it slightly and gently kisses my right ear, ‘I no really treat you as customer from begin’; she looks into my eyes again and told me she had to work. For some reason, I was nodding profusely, dejectedly. Her index finger had a sensual magic that either made me cringe or shiver for half a second, as she traced my cheek down to my chin. Fail left.

Alone, I sat at the same table for an hour, kept drinking, kept observing unwillingly and started thinking about my ex-girlfriend. I was sinking. In. Despair. This dodgy disco corner. Fuck you.

Fali looked more ravishing this time, shit trance tunes got the neon greens activated and it hit her like a spotlight. Again, she looked at me for a split second, and looked away, coldly.

lost and found thoughts

its unbelievable how one would feel depressed for a bit while being away in another country, starting up slowly, getting a few rejections and still, unfamiliar in a foreign yet ironically culturally-similar land.

he'd be doing productive things and building up gradually on his passion/forte; while at the same time not 'socio-correctly' doing something looked upon as a product. school for example, a day-job? even often recognized or should i say stereotyped as a dreamer. dreaming about making it big on the quick. trying to meld in and fade out into the local crowd, speaking their language, observing their lingo-traits. putting in conscientious effort as well, to adapt to the melanin packed, the unavoidable be-seen-ers and the warholites. one and all. split persona 'forward' thinking' relationships.

emotions are often forgotten. especially with so much 'what the fuck' judgement that was mentioned above. in a worse case scenario, one would probably have some sinus-type minor issues with family, friends, love, and himself even.

parents want the best for their children, i think. but to what kind of extent would they go to get their child to learn crafts of 'correct' practicality'? they want the best, don't they?

indulgence to accessible joy, or rather pleasure, is a paradox. what exactly does one have to achieve, to be bestowed simple pleasures? what if there already are constant and almost desperate attempts of trying to achieve? no one person would know everything about everyone.

next to obvious soul survival needs like family and for religiousos, God, friends are... the one of two 'only' things. there's no need to go into the deeper drama of how true friends would give their best to secretly watch their loved ones cradled. reminders of simple conversation and sharing of emotion would prove any enemy dead. friends are a platform for one to express love, anger, joy and sadness. more than enough reason to have a friend, no?


one, is as well longing for more familiarity with a person back home.

just the thought of seeing someone you don't want to see can be scary.