First of all.. Happy Birthday to Keith. And Happy Birthday to Stacey for yesterday. Congratulations on making it through another year of Korean life. God knows how you did it.
I gotta say, it’s not as bad as I make it out. What is really interesting is what is on my FBI file.
My FBI file, you say? Surely I don’t think of myself important enough to warrant a file. Sure, maybe not. I’m just an English teacher slash writer slash dude whose largest achievement to the course of mankind has been this website and an ongoing reluctance to share the inner secrets of humanity with just anyone… who doesn’t buy me a beer or two. Don’t think I’m not serious. About the beer that is. Generousity is the first stage of attack.
But let’s suppose I had an FBI file. Let’s suppose that I was being monitored. One day, an agent stumbles upon this site and sees that I have noted that I have the inner secrets to humanity. I also have threatened the continutity of the caucasian race by fraternizing with altogether too many ladies of a non-caucasian background. If you were an ultra conspiracy theorist this may make sense to you. 99.9999% of mankind, just bear with me. I’m talking to the 0.0001% who are out of their mind crackpots, of which I’m not entirely sure I’m exempt. What would be on my file? Surely they know that I pick my nose when nobody’s looking. Hell, sometimes I’m not even that secretive. If it’s thick, you gotta pick. Or something. But what else?
I have no secret ties, I really wish I did actually. In the movies there are secret societies and dark deals being done in smoky bars over scotch on the rocks. It’s always a double because the stress of such a situation carries it’s burdens. We meet and exchange a package and some information. I don’t know nothing. I barely know the guy’s name. And sure it’s quid pro quo, although we don’t really speak Latin beyond that. To tell the truth, the guy’s a little shady.
And there we go, there’s my confession. Can I now have my FBI file? But wait, there’s more.
See I go under the radar, yet alert the authorities of this fact. I am not a real person. I masquerade under the alias David Adaire, but nobody believes for a second this is my real name. Am I Jeremy Rockwell? Am I someone else? And why would I be trying to hide? Who am I hiding from and who cut’s those guys’ lunches. Do you follow?
WHERE IS MY FBI FILE?
I’m not saying I am a danger. No, not yet. These things are always left to sit on the cooker until they’re bubbling away. Not fully boiled but ready to put a bad scold in all the right places. Some people live it out of desperation, some out of adventure, but some of us just don’t know anything else. It’s as natural as breathing or biting the hand that takes your last scrap. Instinct and fate’s twisted sense of humor.
Do I need to say more? Or do I just gotta shut up now. Let me tell you this. I don’t shut up for nobody, but I don’t squeal, you hear me. I’m no dirty rat, though I met enough of them in my time.
….
Ok my battery is running out on my laptop and McDonalds doesn’t seem to have any power sockets so I gotta go.
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