January 2, 2016

Happy New Year, Matthew.

Today I ate silk worms.

That is all.

Jub jub,



January 12, 2016


David Bowie has died.

In my mind, he is one of the most complex men in recent history: bawdy, thoughtful, talented, wild. To say “he was a good man” would be to completely strip him of any artistic credibility. He didn’t need to be a good man. He was the space oddity, the man who fell to earth.

He was a legend.




January 15, 2016


Last night I had a dream that I was training to be a wrestler. It seems like I wasn’t very good at it, but I got to meet The Undertaker. He tried to help me with the fundamentals.

If I were a real wrestler, I would call myself The Postman. I would come to the ring in the traditional uniform of a postal worker, and I would carry a mail bag full of different foreign objects. My finishing move would be a pun about mail, something like the “Overnight Delivery” or something like that. I’m not too crazy about that name, so we will work on that. Anyways, it would involve the top turnbuckle. Maybe a jackknife suplex.

Maybe this dream was a sign that it is time for a career change. I need to start training harder, if that’s the case. I also need to figure out where to get steroids. I’ve always wondered what they were like.

Irascere ob rem gravem,



February 3, 2016


Right now I am simultaneously reading Game of Thrones and The Lord of the Rings. There is quite a contrast in style, and there is also quite a contrast in tone. There is also a difference of opinion in what is considered to be moral conduct, morality, and good and evil.

In Middle Earth, good and evil are well-defined. Evil knows it is evil, and is quite unrepentant. Evil is determined to ride that torpedo all the way to the end, knowing full well it is responsible for corruption and destruction. Even the characters who outwardly pretend to be good know that they are evil. For example, the Master of Laketown. He has such a thinly-veiled persona that you can tell that even he doesn’t believe his own crap.

And good is good is freaking GOOD. Again, it is clear. Characters are humble. Characters are brave. Characters overcome fears. They say they are sorry. They drop age-old prejudices. Good is good is freaking GOOD.

Then, there’s Westeros. In Book One, all you want is to see Tyrion take a dive through the moon door and have somebody chop off Jamie’s smug head. You sympathize with the oafish, drunken king, because he is surrounded by conspirators and were it not for such rampant ambition, he might be left alone to be an ineffectual king in a post-war era of peace, the likes of which history will ultimately speak kindly. However, by Book Three your eyes turn misty as Jamie tells the troop to turn around and go fetch Brienne, you are hoping dearly that Tyrion knows of a way to knock his demon-spawn nephew off of his pedestal, and you curse the idiots who elevated Robert Baratheon to his ill-fated position.

Because life isn’t that simple, Matthew. I love The Lord of the Rings, because all loose ends are ultimately tied. I’m not quite finished with the series, but the author cleans up neatly after himself as he goes along. There are no loose threads, simply a good-old-fashioned linear story line with a clear-cut conflict and almost painfully apparent sides.

Meanwhile, in Westeros, you find yourself oddly sympathetic of Theon Greyjoy. After all, no man deserves such humiliation. The systematic emasculation, however, of certain characters seems more the style of Martin. He doesn’t just let a bad guy die. He makes them suffer. He gives them such a bruising that you are left to pity them. You want to pick them up and brush them off. They’ve been taken down more pegs than a normal human can even be taken down. They’ve suffered in ways that you wouldn’t even wish upon your enemies.

And let’s call it what it is: regardless of what happened to them, Jamie and Theon are bad guys. My thoughts on the line between sympathy and pity are unflinchingly rigid: sympathy is reserved for victims, while pity is designated for those who have dug their own grave. Perhaps Jamie and Theon were merely pawns in this colossal game, but I don’t like going too far down that road of thought, simply because I know that the author is daring me to do so, and Tolkien is insisting that I ignore that impulse.

I’ve alluded to wanting my own story to end like Lord of the Rings (informed by the film and not yet by the completion of the novels, just so we are clear). However, the farther I go down this road, the more I realize the duality of man. As much as I want to fight it, even my own duality is shining through so brightly that it leaves me more than just a little shocked. Some days my trail song is “Road Goes Ever On,” and some days only “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” will suffice.

I must admit, though, that coming to terms with my own duality certainly has done well to curtail the anger I’ve felt for some time towards the people at this job. I think most of them are barely hanging on, and I also think that they see their own duality as well, but are either too powerless or too far down that road to change. There are days where I feel like Petyr Baelish and just want to step on their heads to get to the top, while other days I feel like the High Sparrow and I just want to save them from themselves. However, there are also days where the quiet life of a ranger seems most suitable.

And please don’t get me started on how much I envy those happy-go-lucky hobbits. If only life were that simple, Matthew…

Because life is Game of Thrones. We can strive for a Lord of the Rings ending, so long as we realize that our best laid plans are absolutely flawless until our threads become intertwined. I think that is the whole point of Game of Thrones. Threads don’t always come together to form a nice, pretty rope. They get tangled, they get frayed, they snap, and they even get discarded when it seems they are no longer serviceable.

Who am I in the grand scheme of things? Why, I’m just a bastard. I’m just a baseborn son with no name to elevate me. I’m more a Game of Thrones character than one from Lord of the Rings, and I make no bones about who and what I am. However, if Game of Thrones has taught me one thing, nobody is nobody unless they choose to be.

Growing Strong,



February 19, 2016


I’m an asshole to the people in my office.  There is a Thai man who notoriously dislikes Americans, and I fuck with him all of the time.  When he falls asleep at his desk, I take pictures of him and show the boss.  When he isn’t there, I throw my trash on his side of the room.  When I take the last of the hot water, I don’t refill the pitcher.  I also unplug his phone and his printer.  I like watching his confusion.

Because he’s an asshole.  He doesn’t like foreigners.  He doesn’t think the school needs us.  And he’s fucking obnoxious to boot.  He never covers his mouth when he sneezes, he has very loud phone conversations, he lets my class out fifteen minutes or more late at least once a week.  The good news, however, is that a Thai person will never confront you.  They’ll just bitch about you and write angry letters to the director.  I think we are both perfectly satisfied with this arrangement.

So how are you?

Love, Pete


May 12, 2016


I haven’t talked much about Thailand these past two years or so, and I certainly haven’t talked very much about my job. The truth is that I really can’t make heads or tails of anything out here. I am halfway to my third year, and what little traction I have achieved is laced with so much paranoia. It is all I can do to simply hold still, let my back account slowly heal, and let my body slowly heal as well through diet and exercise.

But what is it like living here? Let me try to illustrate in a soul-crushingly hilarious way.


Imagine you go to Little Caesar’s for one of their famous five-dollar pizzas. You point to the delicious pizza, which is hot and ready. The woman smiles and nods and retrieves your pizza.

“That’ll be six dollars,” she says.

“But wait,” you say, “the sign says five dollars.”

“Yes, but this one is six,” she replies, still smiling, albeit nervously.

“Well, I wanted a five dollar pizza,” you argue, trying to keep your cool.

“But I have already retrieved this one. It is on the counter, and you have agreed to buy it.” Her smile is starting to make you angry.

Then you notice that all activity has ceased. You notice that customer and employee alike are staring at you in terror. The woman is still smiling, but it is clear by this point that she wants you to simply give her six dollars and get out. You don’t know it yet, but you have completely messed up. If you ever see any of those people again, they will tell everyone in the room what an unreasonable piece of crap you are. It will have such a profound ripple effect that you may have to start buying your supplies on a completely different side of town.


Imagine that you are at the gym. You see a young man on a standard bench getting ready to do bench presses. To your surprise, he lays back, lifts one foot in the air, and proceeds to do quarter to third repetitions quickly and furiously, all the while his neck is raised and his upper back isn’t even touching the bench. You look around to see what all of the other employees are doing. You see that several of them notice him, including a few that you presume to be personal trainers judging by what they are wearing. By this point, you’re a little worried, because the young man on the bench is performing what is arguably the most unsafe exercise in the history of public gyms.

So you go over to him. You say, “Hey, man, hop up for a second and let me show you the right way. What you’re doing is unsafe, and you can really hurt yourself. Here is the standard way.”

You perform a correct bench press. The young man smiles and nods in what you suspect but truly hope is not a patronizing manner. He gestures to the bench, so you get up. He lies down, and follows your method.

But you notice something. Everybody in the gym is now staring at you, some quite angrily. The young man stupidly mimics your movements with an idiotic grin, but you realize too late that you have screwed up. You’re not supposed to correct anybody. You’ve made this guy lose face, and now you are a savage and a piece of crap. You may as well pack it up and find a new gym, because by tomorrow the word will have spread to a hundred people what a piece of crap you are, and they will always treat you with disdain while maintaining an infuriatingly mocking level of decor and politeness.

Even worse, you notice in one of the gym’s mirrors that as soon as you turned your back on the young man, he has returned to his idiotic manner of bench-pressing.


Imagine being in a country that has to approve your departure. You literally can’t leave until they let you, and you will be subject to a monetary shakedown if you simply quit your job and try to leave.

Imagine having to pay extra for everything you do because you are a wealthy, fat American who is here to ruin everyone’s life.

Imagine being stuck in a van on a visa run with half a dozen drunk and violent Turks and Russians, all the while tearing down a road with a thousand potholes, no safety rails, and a deep trench in place of a median, all at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour.

Imagine being antagonized by people just because they know if you react they can call fifteen of their buddies to kick the crap out of you and then everyone within four square miles of the incident will tell the cops that the affray was your fault.

Imagine having to defecate in a hole without any toilet paper.


And what is is like to work where I work?

Imagine you are standing at the front of the classroom, when all of a sudden one of your students takes his pants off. He doesn’t remove anything else, he doesn’t gyrate or gesture, he simply removes his pants and returns to the assignment you have given him. You wait for a few minutes, and knowing what you know about the culture, you know that nobody is going to say anything. However, your instincts are too strong, and you finally speak up.

“Hey, put your pants back on,” you say, with only a hint of an edge in your tone.

But the student simply shakes his head.

“Put your pants back on NOW,” you insist. By this point, the same thing is happening once again. Everyone is staring at you in horror, and all working has ceased. Class ends on a sour note, and thirty minutes later, your boss calls you into his office.

“You can’t do what you just did,” your boss explains with a hint of impatience.

“The kid took his pants off! You know that is inappropriate!”

“Yes, I do,” you boss agrees calmly, “but you made that kid lose face. This is simply a part of the culture, so you’re going to have to learn to ignore certain things.”


“I’m going to have to write you up for this incident,” your boss explains with a look of sad regret. “In the future, please take care not to make another student lose face like that.”


Imagine being pelted with rocks by a group of [nationality redacted] teachers. One day, you’ve finally had enough and you tell one of them angrily to chill out. Once again, you find yourself summoned to the boss’s office.

“I’m going to have to write you up for shouting. You don’t do that with this culture.”

“But they were throwing ROCKS AT ME!” you shout.

“Yes, I know,” your boss calmly explains, “and I’ll look into it. In the meantime, I’m going to have to write you up. In the future, just let them hit you with the rocks until they get bored.”


Imagine an administrator who willfully withholds deadlines, comes to you after the deadline to tell you that you have missed it, then merrily skips down to their office to write a letter to the director about what an irresponsible turd you are.

Imagine a building full of kids who literally come and go as they please and you are not allowed to discipline them or give them a failing grade in spite of the fact that they have failed all of your tests and have not submitted a single assignment.

Imagine a kid calling you a bad word and then reporting it to the principal, only for the principal to smile and nod stupidly.

Imagine that you have tolerated all of the aforementioned nonsense with as much grace and aplomb as your demeanor and instincts allow, and then finally one day you say to yourself that you honestly don’t care if anybody in that building lives or dies.


There is a lot less hyperbole in what I have said than you might imagine. However, every job and every situation has its highs and lows. Whether or not I would be having a similar time at a job in America is hard to say, because the last real job I had was with the Army ten years ago.

And on that note, I want you to know that I am well aware of all the things I had to change. Between my spending habits, my drug habits, my eating habits, and my overall day-to-day decisions, my life needed to be taken completely apart and reassembled. I have voiced this on numerous occasions, and my position remains the same.

Much has improved. I have a little bit of money now. I have a much better diet. My exercise routine has much more focus and purpose. Furthermore, in spite of all the crap that I endure on almost a daily basis, I am managing to grow a little every day. This experience has been taxing, trying, and maddening, but I see the big picture here. I don’t believe that I would be in a better position if I opted to stay where I was.

In fact, I can’t really entertain a positive outcome whatsoever, because staying where I was would mean staying who I was.

When you know that trust is tenuous and you know that people are gunning for your kneecaps at your job, it can make you bitter. It can make you edgy. It can make you mean. It can make getting out of bed a decidedly arduous ordeal. But there has to come a point where you are honest with yourself. Where else would you be? Would things be any different if you continued down that road? This is the edge that I have over the people who insist on remaining the same. I may not have the slightest clue where this road will lead, but I have a crucial advantage:

I want to change.

Sometimes it requires a rather brutal proving ground to initiate this desire. I will no longer ignore the truth of this. I’m still at the stage where repeating these things is absolutely necessary, however. I’m new to being a new person. I’m new to the mindset of taking the path of least resistance. Although I am over two years into this intensive set of practices, it is all quite unfamiliar territory.

And there is genuine beauty here in Thailand. Truly. My girlfriend is amazing, and this is still an exciting experience. I won’t deny that there are things I very much enjoy. I am torn on the idea of ever leaving just because of the food and the wonderfully exciting atmosphere of the open markets. My life is not without its perks, trust me. My domicile is clean and spacious. I have food and coffee. My girlfriend is not a depressed white woman who has lost count of how many partners she has had. Certain people are quite amiable and polite to me as well. Life is still good. In fact, in some ways my life is better than it has ever been.

But there is nothing at this time that I can do to change any of the negative things in my life (and there are plenty), except how I respond. I’m entering my third year at this school knowing for a fact that nobody has changed, and getting myself in the right mindset is not so simple. These people (and I mean everyone, Thai and foreigner alike) are like lab mice. Some of the bad ones have been fired, and some of them reassigned, yet I can see that they are still mechanically and absent mindedly pushing the button with their little noses and waiting for the cheese. It is more than a little depressing to see people my age and older who are simply unwilling to change.

Because that is the worst part about living in Thailand. People don’t come here to change like I did. People don’t come here to think about their lives. They come here to stay the same. They come here to underachieve. They come here for easy access. They come here to find a place to do as little as possible and never be chastened for being selfish and stupid. So for a person who is focused, serious, and trying hard to be public-minded, you can find yourself hopelessly frustrated doing something simple, like going to a print shop to make copies, or even ordering a cup of coffee. Stuff can go so wrong so quickly, and often times you will never know what happened. Just be happy that there are fifty coffee shops and places to make copies. The only thing that is truly predictable here is that somebody somewhere is going to mess up what you are doing, no matter how passive you are or how reasonable your request is. I hate to be so blunt like that, but it has been long enough for me to move this phenomenon into the category of absolute truism.

So there is the challenge. No matter how passive I am this year, it’s only a matter of time before a student does something stupid and disrespectful. No matter how hard I work, somebody somewhere is going to complain. And when it comes time once again for administrative help, such as taxes, immigration, or entering my grades, somebody somewhere is going to either put my request at the bottom of the stack, pass the buck, ignore me, or grudgingly help me and behave the entire time like I have just asked them to remove one of their kidneys and give it to me. I’m not being cynical. This is reality.

So I just have to do my best to not say anything. This is my biggest challenge to date. Biting my tongue is going to be hard. However, there is one thing I know for certain: people are rotten here because they know they can get away with it. People are rotten here because this is a culture where confrontation is a greater misdeed than whatever misdeed sparked the confrontation. Even when I am perfectly polite and one hundred percent correct, I lose for saying something. This is why I keep coming up short.

This will be my greatest challenge. This will be my biggest test to date. There is a voice inside of me saying that I know I will screw up, but this time I really want to come out on top. It’s no longer about establishing some kind of image as a good teacher. It’s no longer about trying to repair or make up for past mistakes. No, this is about proving that I can survive under crappy conditions and still manage to set things right in my own life. This is about proving that I can run in to a hot spot under heavy fire and still manage to save a few of the kids from turning out to be complete worthless pieces of crap. I will not let them strip me of my desire to change, and I will not let them alter my outlook.

So, having finally grown bored with talking about myself, I figure this is a good place to close and get on with my day.

Khop Khun Krap,



19 June 2016


At least four times a week when I am at the gym, I see an Indian man riding his bicycle. He often passes the gym two or three times. The bicycle has two baskets, one on the front, and one on the back. In those baskets, he always has bags of rice. A determined look is chiseled into his face as he pedals onward.

This man fascinates me, Matthew. What is he doing? Where is he going? Why does he carry bags of rice?

Maybe he is exercising. Maybe he’s trying to sell the rice. Maybe he is being punished. Maybe he is blindly following orders. Maybe the rice is magical. Maybe the rice is poison. Maybe he is planting the rice in secret places. Maybe he’s a weirdo. Maybe he buys and sells rice, and it is always a different bag. Maybe he is a wizard. Maybe he is an idiot.

The fact that I will probably never know what this man is doing bothers me.

Pedal onward,



july 26, 2016


last night, I had a dream that I was at a restaurant with my family, but my stepfather refused to let me have any food. i’ve had a lot of dreams about my stepfather since his death, more than I would like to admit. it bothers me greatly, because they are all either violent or upsetting. for example, i’ve been shot by him in a dream. i’ve been stabbed in the gut by him in a dream. i’ve also been taunted by him in a dream. what’s worse is that I can never do anything to him. in one of my dreams I shouted at him and told him what a piece of shit he was, and this was the only dream where I seemed able to defend myself at all.

you don’t need freud to understand these dreams. I have a deeply-rooted resentment against this man. my stepfather, not freud. try as I might to forgive and let go, he is responsible for my lingering cowardice and self-doubt. I hated him so much that I moved halfway across the world, knowing full well I would never see him again. I wanted it that way. I knew from a very early age that I would never care for him and never care about him.

in his death, he was absolved, but I suppose that scar tissue remains. I do not think about him from day to day. hell, I try not to think about my family at all in spite of my mother’s terminal cancer. it’s all poetic to me. this is almost like a bible story from the old testament.

but last night’s dream brings an important issue to light: inheritance. I keep thinking of all the ways that I could be screwed out of what my mother has left for me in her will. it’s supposed to be a 50-50 deal, with a life insurance policy, a home with the value of roughly a quarter of a million, and whatever savings she may have, split between my brother and i.

let me contextualize this a bit.

my mother was very vocal about hating my stepfather’s parents. in the years leading up to their passing, she quite openly announced that she could not wait for them to die. clearly she felt she was owed something, because before grandmother was in the ground that entire side of the family was rifling through her belongings. even though that grandmother hated me, I seemed to be the only one with any respect or sympathy for the departed. I felt it was in poor taste for everyone to just go ripping through her house, and it was exacerbated by my parents showing up with a moving van full of shit that I didn’t want.

and they got their money. nobody knows how much, but my parents paid off all their bills and moved into a nice home in minnesota, making an enormous down payment in a private neighborhood. but what happened? after only a few years my stepfather croaked, and my mother fell terminally ill. like I said, brother, bible story.

so here we are, present day. though we don’t say it to each other, my brother and i are both keeping tabs on my mother’s illness like vultures. we’ve both got our plans for the money, though mine are a bit more urgent that my brother’s. I won’t get into the particulars, but my money would basically clear up my student loan debt and enable me to take a little bit more control over my life.

and that, dear friend, is the real meaning of the dream.

i’ve never had any control. i’ve always been deprived by my family. I sat back and watched my family give my brother everything, while I could scarcely get a handout half of the time. I was always treated like a bastard, and even though I moved halfway around the world, I am still trapped in the family drama. honestly, I don’t want to lose my mother. I want the poetic reckoning. i’m content to pay my bills down myself.

but I know it isn’t going to happen, and that is why I am so uptight about it all. i’ll just go ahead and say it: I want that fucking money, and I absolutely hate myself for it. there is a part of me that simply wants to work my way out of this debt on my own. there is a part of me that knows I deserve all the silly shit that happens to me, and I want to pay the man for all the bullshit I have done. however, the other side of me says I deserve that fucking money and the chance at a clean slate.

I don’t know how it is going to turn out, but I will admit to the suspicions I hold. my brother is trying to play the pious one, an act that has worked so well in the past. my parents could not lift a finger to help me at so many stages when I was struggling, and when they did throw me a bone I would look over at my brother getting free vehicles and his rent paid in spite of an ignominious failure to launch.

ah, but when has rumination solved anything?

i’m sick of the dreams, though. I have a stepfather dream at least once a month, and have since his death. they’re violent and extremely dark. even though he is dead and buried, that man still manages to affect me.

kinda shitty.



october 31, 2016


my mother died today.

talk later,



nov 4 2016


today i had my first normal bowel movement in weeks. perhaps i have begun the process of letting go.

and there’s a lot to let go. not just poop. there is a metric ton of resentment that i still hold. i hate that i’ve stayed wounded all of this time. it has undoubtedly stunted my growth.

this will be my last day off from work. i’m thankful to have been afforded the time to just stay away and do some thinking. it’s not like my job actually needs me, but until i find more suitable conditions, i still have to go to this building and repeat a set of tasks.

so today… i suppose i will hit the gym early and then take a walk over to my favorite vegetarian restaurant. there’s not much to do while i wait on my girlfriend to come over tomorrow, so i will probably just kill time by catching up with television.

sorry for being so candid about my bodily functions.

actually no i’m not.