Everybody tells me to lighten up. Enough, they say, about childhood trauma as a trigger for sadomasochistic fantasy among middle-aged homosexuals with dwindling trustfunds and elevated blood sugar. Nobody cares. But darn if it isn´t hard getting out of this depressive rut. My boyfriend´s a paranoid schizophrenic, my mom has breast cancer, and I can´t seem to find the charger for my laptop.
Like many underemployed gringo ex-pats living in Mexico (the best country, by the way, for cheap tacos and even cheaper sex), I spend a lot of time thinking about myself. I´ve even started a blog in case anybody else wants to think about me. So far nobodies following but I´ve been spammed by a woman in Bulgaria and have even received two comments written in what appears to be Japanese. I don´t understand Japanese but can only assume they´re congratulating me on my brilliant prose and trenchant insight. Probably offering to buy me an exquisitely over-the-top sushi lunch the next time I´m in Tokyo. If you´re reading this Hiroki, I´d be glad to.
Speaking of raw fish, wouldn´t you love to be one of those guys who travels all over the world eating insects and goat brains on TV? I´d do it in a heartbeat if only my diet allowed simple carbohydrates or night shades. Alas, nobody wants to serve maggot larvae without grandma´s world-famous dumplings. Authenticity…so overrrated.
Actually, I´d accept any job where they´d pay me to put things in my mouth. A judge for one of those reality-tv cooking competitions. A sommelier specializing in big Argentinan reds, ones that pair well with humongous slabs of grass-fed beef char-grilled exactly medium-rare. A whore. Unfortunately, most guys successful in these fields possess lithe muscular torsos and exceptionally good facial bone structure. Bodies to get and keep the fickle attention of today´s increasingly shallow and mentally scattered public. Over-fifty fatties need not apply.