This weekend, I’ll be dragged back to Australia—that overpriced, overtaxed nanny state where freedom goes to die. Another year, another failed escape. Retirement? Not happening. Not after Lopburi, where I was assaulted and left with nothing but indifference. Justice doesn’t exist here, just like it doesn’t back *home*.
Woke up early in this shoebox Airbnb in Jomtien—21 square meters of suffocation. Sure, it has a gym and a long pool, but what’s the point? The Grand Dusit (what a pretentious name) looms nearby, a sad reminder of better-funded delusions. Ten minutes to the Rompho markets, where the same faces sell the same crap to the same lost souls.
Lying here, staring at the ceiling, it hits me: *This is it.* This is the grand expat dream? Wake up. Gym. Pool. Then… what? Rot in a concrete cell until the heat or boredom kills you?
The rose-tinted crowd makes it sound so magical—*Oh, I had a massage, a swim, a lovely breakfast!* How thrilling. How hollow. Day after identical day, until the monotony grinds you into dust.
And the single old men—god, they’re pitiful. Waking up alone in some rented coffin, scrambling for purpose. No routine, no real connections. Just barstool philosophers and bookshop ghosts, none of whom would lift a finger unless you paid them.
Even the vices lose their charm. The bar girls? Now a luxury—2000 baht a pop, plus drinks, plus fines. The tourist budget dries up fast when you live here, leaving you trapped in your cell most nights, counting baht instead of living.
Five months in (not six, because who cares about precision anymore?), the illusion shatters. Pattaya isn’t paradise. It’s a gilded cage for the desperate. The rose-colored glasses crack, and all that’s left is the truth:
You traded your old life for this. And now there’s no way back.