I’ve come to sit face to face with an unfortunate truth here in Tokyo, and even though I can try to hide it by making out with twenty-three year olds (okay, just one) it still lingers on my shoulders like a very unhappy, very loud crow. My escape in 2010 which lasted a wonderful seven months was fraught with bad behavior and the reminiscence of a youth that I thought did not exist in New York. Then it hit me, all my friends in New York are considerably older, well established, adult-like people. In Tokyo most everyone I know is around my age, still struggling, still figuring it all out. And so it has become a sort of haven for the less respectable aspects of my immaturity. But this trip has been profoundly different, it might be due to last years tragedy, or more simply the ever quickly passing time, but Tokyo is just not the same. My friends are growing up, they even work during the day, go to bed at reasonable hours, and survive on other things aside from brown liquor and cheap beer. My old friend Markus wears sweatpants to work. Pierre has a girlfriend and he’s not even cheating on her. James can go out drinking and still find his way home at the end of the night. Who are these people?

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Bebe isn’t home yet, it’s 12:30am. I take a Jack Daniels Highball can out of the fridge and pop it open. I call my mom, we haven’t talked in a week or so. In New York we talk almost every day. She makes me feel like a worthwhile human being again as opposed to the giant procrastinating pile of shit I see in the mirror. When I wake up, there it is again, the pile of shit. I think, What didn’t you do yesterday that you were supposed to do? What opportunity are you missing out on due to laziness, fear of failure, some other excuse, some more bullshit. Beating myself up doesn’t help much, it just makes me feel worse. I try not to do that. I drink a lot of coffee, the caffeine seems to help.

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