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It started as a joke. I ended in a fix.
There's nothing funny about a Vietnamese whore.
That would be my epitaph, had I the foresight (and money) to choose it. But this globalization fantasy of mine was now verging on imperialism. The political undertones grew palpable.
I loathe to discuss the intricate details of my master plan, the inception of which I cannot quite pinpoint out of fear the memories will bring me too close, once again, to the shallow backyard pool of my good friend, whose girlfriend at the time unknowingly launched this escapade.
Do you want to know more? I do too. But only in pieces. In fragments.
My memories were but stool samples: extracted, studied, and discarded. But one, and one alone, would not flush.
I'd tried to seduce her in vain. She mustered up the strength to repel me. But out of the struggle grew an affliction. An untoward longing for East Asian companionship.
I grow tired of these brothels. I do not like my new job. My new eyes are not accepted by the remainder of my face. I do not like what I have become.
Date Written: December 14, 2004
Average Vote: 3