A SELF-ANALYSIS OF DISCOMFORT

I’m sorry Beijing, but, perhaps in my own ignorance, I never thought I’d find a city dirtier than West Hollywood … until I met you. You don’t stink like waste because the homeless urinate all over your face, but because you have overused public restrooms every thirty yards. I’m not flattered. Dust attacks my lungs with every step. I cough every day on sporadic repeat. People shovel piles of trash into carts every day on sporadic repeat.

You can’t drink out of the facet. Boil. Boil. Boil. Your body itches faintly after a shower. Last week, my tongue was swollen and it hurt to swallow. I cut Beijing water out of my diet, and now I’m cured. Even the bottled jugs of water bought down the street are dangerous. My system is spoiled by manufactured, super-processed water. I restrict my diet. I drink bottled juice, bottled milk, bottled tea, and bottled beer. When my system needs sterilized, I drink ‘rice wine‘. I miss water.


I eat anything. I eat everything. I never know what it is unless it’s fruit. A banana is a banana. Everything drowns in some glistening atypical sauce. On the best occasion, the flavors are dynamic and rich, but are they nutritional? There are no readable nutritional facts. If I daringly pick up some random colorful package at the grocery, because I’m exhausted with buying every meal at a restaurant and want to cook, I don’t know how to cook it or if I should eat it cold. I eat it cold. All I do in the States is cook my own meals. I’ve been to more restaurants in the last two weeks than the last year in the States.

Chopsticks.


I miss my dog. I miss you all.