In a Smoky Bar at Midnight

So I started this post by writing this giant rant about the ridiculous complications involved in moving house in Japan. I wrote it, proofread it, and got ready to post it.

And then hated it.

I’ve been writing casually for years now, and I use the term casually very loosely. I like writing for a whole basket of reasons, a lot of which are shared with why I like reading. But it took a whole lot of writing and reading before I got half decent at evaluating myself. And even then I wasn’t particularly good. Being a teacher has shown me that everyone is their own worst editor: you need to be twice as critical of yourself than others.

So then I tried to write about music.

THAT got the axe right quick. I’m not really what people would call a sharer. In fact I’m more the opposite since I like to hide my insecurities with jokes, lies, funny faces, and non sequiturs about the weather, local sports teams, and fauna.  But here I am in a smoke filled izakaya writing on my phone off stolen WiFi with a pint in my hand getting steadily snarkier by the moment. One of my friends or family is probably gonna message me later about how I’m losing touch with reality in Japan and I can’t keep it real anymore.

Well goddamnit. Maybe I gave up on writing about music too soon.

Whoever is controlling the demented robot DJ behind the counter set it to  a terrifying mix of American rap and Taylor Swift.  If I find the stereo and beat it to death with a bottle of shochu, maybe they’ll change it to something less likely to make me go postal and swap my underpants with my ties at work.

Speaking of creative neck wear popular among the mad and functionally insane, the situation in Nagoya hasn’t improved even slightly. They get their new teacher next week and they show no signs of understanding that they will probably turn the poor sod into a slobbering mess with delusions of humanity and a queer preference for hats that clowns would recoil at the sight of. They have problems that are only going to continue compounding because no one has the stones to make tough decisions.

Then again I’m not averse to watching someone get turned upside out and inside down. I’m actually interested in observing how a person falls apart and I’m sure I know a few people would delight in watching the same happen to yours truly. It ties into my interest in statistics and weird correlations. I’ll probably warn him if he starts showing signs of declining sanity, but after that he’s on his own. I honestly have no horse in this race, so his fate is in his hands unless he comes looking for help.

My co-workers have figured out by now that I have a great empty field of shits to give. The few seeds that sprout are reserved for a very select listing of  people, a list which includes my family, my friends, and the use of the Oxford comma and double spaces after periods. It pisses off all the right people that I care about that sort of thing. It’s the little things that keep me moderately unhinged.

Fantastic. Just fanfrickingtastic. The robot has switched to unconvincing R&B sung by overpaid artists who use stage names they picked out of a hat and spelt blindfolded. Where’s that shochu bottle?


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