My little red bean paste moshi,

It’s been a rocky ride lately. I know that. There was that time I threw a fit at Suvarnabhumi. There was the time I had that huge meltdown at Ratchaprasong and set fire to a department store. There was that time I left the water running and flooded your place, ruining your lovely cars (all 1,000 of them). Then there’s now, with my decision to camp out in Lumpini and newfound love for old-school dictatorial paternalism. Well, yeah, I have daddy issues. You knew that when we hooked up, didn’t you?

But don’t leave me. I’m begging you. I’m nothing without you. You know all I eat is sushi and ramen. I don’t even know what green curry tastes like anymore. I start feeling angsty if I don’t get to try two new kaiseku restaurants a week. I know I’ve been listening to a lot of K-Pop lately but I can quit if that will make you change your mind. Just stay, please. You complete me.

Indonesia? Oh please. Indonesia has no idea what she’s getting into. When you stumble home drunk, into my tiny room in Soi Thaniya, have I not always been good to you? I clean up your puke and, in the morning, when you ask, “We have sex?” I always answer, “Yes, and it was great.” Is Indonesia going to do that for you?

Oh I see, you just plan on having it all—a flat in Vietnam because she’s so hard working, a pied a terre in Cambodia because she’s cheap. But you’ll keep the house, here. I cook. I clean. You’re used to me. Even with all my issues, I make a good housewife. Well this isn’t what I signed up for Japan. It’s me or them.

I’m not damaged goods. I could go back to my ex, you know. I bet I still cook up a mean khao pad America.

Kisu Kisu, 

Thailand

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