I took a taxi into Pattaya straight from the airport, same as all the fat, bald old drunks with their sagging guts and desperate eyes. The trip was a mess from the start—thrown together fast, no plan, no money to speak of, just a vague notion I couldn’t bleed cash like some Wall Street prick. I’d flop from hotel to hotel, a week here, a week there, always moving. It was my life in a nutshell—stumbling between one goodbye and the next, no roots, no point.

First place was a dump near the beach, close enough to walk to Soi Six, that grimy stretch of bars packed with Thai women—some worn out, middle-aged pros, some young enough to still have a spark, maybe twenty, maybe less. The room was okay—bed, four walls, a sink. Best I’d get, I figured, before the real rot set in.

I wandered to the beach bars, sat with a beer, watching the waves and the people—tourists, losers, drifters. Back home, they’re all dying slow in offices, punching clocks they’d rather smash. I’d been one of them, hating every second. Here, I should’ve felt like a champ, thumbing my nose at the grind. Didn’t. Felt flat instead. Still, I drank, watched, shot a little video of the beach. Never sent it. Who’d care?

Hopped one of those baht buses—pickup trucks rattling around town like they’re hauling cattle. Got off near Walking Street, the neon guts of the place. Then it went sour. Shit myself. Right there in my pants, a hot, miserable surprise. I staggered down Second Road, head down, hoping nobody noticed the stink. Found another hotel, scrubbed off the shame, tossed the underwear in the trash. Great start—pure poetry.

Back to the first joint. Picked up some beers, cheap ones, to brace for a long night. Something was off, though. You feel a place in your gut—Bangkok had hit me right, alive and kicking. Pattaya? A sick twist, a bad taste I couldn’t shake. Bars everywhere, pool tables, women—Christ, more women than I’d ever seen, young, old, all of them working the angles. Should’ve been paradise. Wasn’t. No New York gloom, no Bangkok buzz, just a loud, empty glitter I couldn’t stand.

I wanted it to work, this trip. Wanted to dodge the loneliness, the heavy black slump that follows me around. Wanted to not screw myself with some dumb move I’d regret when the hangover hit. That’s what gnawed at me—I didn’t trust myself. One bad night, and I’d be another sad sack washed up in Pattaya’s muck. The beer helped, but not enough.