got up and went to the shitty breakfast place that has wifi but does NOT have amazing minipancakes. i want to watch strikeforce but at what a cost... i can't stop thinking to myself. this buffet is more expensive and has way shittier food. seriously can someone explain the fucking gall it takes to pull a bitch move like that, this late in the game ? i mean it's 2011 here. and you're STILL being racist and you can't get the breakfast buffet price/quality right. says a lot about us as a species.

on the other hand, that means the better buffet is cheaper. so fuck it.

watched a choppy stream of jacare and diaz being awesome, ate some mediocre breakfast, and finished another conan story. went back to my place and napped, got up and swam for an hour, and floating in the pool i thought about how wonderful it must be to be independently filthy rich and able to spend your entire life doing whatever the fuck you want like i've been doing for the past ten days. the thought sends a chills-cocktail of desire, excitement, greed and envy crawling up my spine. beter not to think about these things i figure; end up buying lottery tickets or something worse.

back to the trough.

i wake up to a broken fever in a huge pool of sweat after 16 hours of an on and off sleep. my head is clear. my joints ache less and while my stomach is still violent, i can actually move around without feeling like the end is come. i spend the day uploading videos and photos. i still feel a residual of last night's overwhelming guiltstorm due to missing training. there's no way i can work like this without shitting myself so it's not in any way logical, although maybe there is something to the shame i feel over how i've treated some women.

"but maybe not too," i confidently reassure myself, as i finally have an appetite that is yelling much louder than my past. what a fucking relief it is to want to eat food.

i slip into an ugly shallow sleep haunted by steel talons gripping my flesh. i wake up and excrete violently. the smell makes me heave involuntarily; like i ate rotting meat, threw it up into a jar, then left it in a cupboard for a week before opening it just to see.

i get back into bed and am assailed by a curious overwhelming insistence of guilt and shame. a film runs through my brain of women from the past and i see in vivid detail how i wronged each of them. it feels like a bogus journey of going into different doors in hell only each one contains a brutal scene with a different ex-girlfriend.

"but that never happened !" i startle myself awake with the realization that i'm dreaming and most of these things are imagined. i eat a fistful of tylenol and wash it down with ginger ale and remember being at the seven eleven at some point in the last few hours. getting there and back i do not remember. i also find a package of fruit mentos and eat them ravenously. my fridge is absolutely stocked with ginger ale and gatorade. i imagine that i'm a helpful fairy to myself and giggle my way the short trip to stupid even though it makes my stomach feel like it's getting needled by stomach goblins.

i do a 1pm private with oron. it's already paid for so i tell myself it's mandatory. i get there right at one and wrap my hands slowly. i napped briefly but it didn't change that everything hurts like few things have ever hurt. "skip, skip," oron mimes. i skip and my brain throbs every time i hit the apex of my one inch high jump.

oron comes to get me and we start. every time i throw a kick my left hip feels like it's grinding in a socket of broken glass. we clinch and my biceps hurt where he grabs them to the point where i flinch. i don't even realize places hurt until they come in contact with this tiny smirking monster and then they feel like they're clamped in a vice.

i don't remember how the hour passes; i remember blocking some kicks and eating some kicks and then clinching and oron being satisfied with me throwing him around more than i usually do (which is to say he only threw me down on the mat a few dozen times). a few minutes before 2pm another guy dislocates his elbow clinching in the ring with pot. it's a grim reminder that no matter how much fun this game is in the gym, we're not playing video games here. oron has me work some more on the straight push kick into flying knee combo but i'm not even heartened by oron's occasional exclamations of approval. when 2pm finally hits i'm thankful and collapse. oron makes a noise of disapproval but it's far away.

i get back to my place and go through waves of shivering and sweat. i turn the air conditioner off and the place stifles; i turn it back on and try to set it to 25 celsius but even the sound of it gives me chills. i feel tired and sick and the aches throb with my heartbeat. i'm finally convinced this isn't from overtraining when i consider eating and my stomach rolls instead of rumbles-- the ultimate litmus test. i briefly remember telling oron i would see him tomorrow which has become a standard parting but now i have my doubts and a dark green cloud of guilt washes in over the right hand side of my head behind the ear. i note it without feeling the emotion or experiencing it; it simply hangs there. i touch my palm to my temple and the skin feels like it's molten but a living, squirming thing that shrinks from my touch like an insect trying to escape notice. i rub my joints; knees ankles elbows all tell the same tale of inhuman heat radiating from inhuman flesh but it's totally surface; i've turned the air conditioner off and still i'm shivering under blankets in a hoodie and sweatpants. i hear oron singing somewhere over my shoulder and try to steal a reassuring glance at his smirk but the strange cloud of guilt blocks him out.

i get up to run at 6.20 but the aches and pains are amplified well beyond anything so far. i run about three minutes before my ankle ceases to flex normally and i stumble.

'glad that wasn't for a gym audience on a treadmill,' i think to myself, forever the optimist.

i limp back to my room and stretch my ankles and shins as best i can before class, then go and do my best skipping impression-- it's not a very good one and i know it. i stop to stretch a lot, drawing disapproving looks from pot and X. "heeey, skipping, skipping," pot yells, mimes skipping and points at everybody skipping. i go back to skipping but hit my ankles with the rope more times than i clear it. sweat eventually comes in a thick, belligerent ooze. "heeey, lead stretch lead stretch," pot says to me. i go through the group stretch as best as i remember, sweat now running in rivers off me. i can't catch my breath until finally i get something resembling a second wind even though i never have a first. i ride it as long as i can, through the bag and pad work, going something like quarter speed. my joints rattle even at this pace and my pulse feels like it's pushing sluggishly through veins three sizes too small. i finish the workout. i go back to my room and throw up, thankful this wasn't for an audience either.

oron gives me a ride with my bags around the corner to my new place. i have two giant bags and he has a basket on the front of his scooter that looks like he peeled it off of a two year old girl's tricycle, smirking and singing the whole time.

for the last week at 5.30am i've been waking up to someone singing loudly, walking around the courtyard of sinbi muay thai.

"wha fugg" i'd mumble with righteous indignation and turn back over for the precious last hour of sleep.

so a couple days ago i'm working the bag with VICIOUS COMBOS, probably well on my way to breaking my previous high score of at least a billion, when i hear the same "hunnnn dada nunda ho nun nunna nun..."

my brows wrinkle with the unquenchably vengeful fury of vaguely remembered interrupted sleep, and i wheel to glare at the ring. oron, of course, sees me eyeing him like a hungry dog in a cage while someone shakes bacon just beyond the bars. he shoots up his eyebrows as his face breaks into that tormentor's smirk and sings a little louder.

"oron ! that's YOU singing at 5 in the ay-em ?!" i yell. i shoot for cimmerian menace but probably land somewhere around whiny teenager.

"yes," he smiles, then blushes a little bit.

unprecedented ! i think to myself, then look at wang who is grinning at us.

"he good singer !" says wang. "he champion !"

i naturally assume i'm being put on with the ol' leg-tug but oron's deepening blush tells me this supposed gag might actually be for real. not of course that i know thing one about thai singing but oron does hold his notes very well and he doesn't smear across the scale, he jumps cleanly the way he throws flying knees. confidently.

of course if i tell him this he will be positively insufferable.

"noooo," i say crossly and hold my gloves to my ears, "no champion. torture champion maybe..."

they both laugh and wang points at oron. oron answers by grabbing wang's ass.

so i daydream of oron singing and smiling while stripping some infant's bike for parts as he takes one of my bags and puts it at his feet. "ah ?" he gestures at the back of the bike.

"sure ok what the hell. today's as good a day to die as any," the cimmerian answers for me, but he doesn't control my strong reservations. oron sings as he delivers me uneventfully to my destination. "tomorrow !" oron says as i get off his bike.

"tomorrow," i say back, "as long as there's no singing." he hands me my bag with one hand and with the other he pinches my ass.

walking back from breakfast with a stormcloud circling my head despite the blue skies. i'm both shocked to be fighting a black mood while on vacation and surprised it took this long to catch up to me.

it was cloudy again during run/training this morning. pot yells at me and looks at me like i'm a barely functioning retard when i don't understand his piece-mail english. oron shows me a variation of the question mark kick and i have him screaming "NOT BOOTIFOE !" in no time. i practice it a bunch and there's a couple of times where oron's eyebrows shoot up in mock-revalation and exclaims "aahaaaaa !" with an open-mouthed smile but it's more me leaning on the likelihoods of statistical chance that i'll get it right a couple times out of a hundred than it is me understanding what the fuck i'm doing.

it's so odd how technique works. when you do something right you absolutely know it; it feels smooth and controlled and bootifoe and like you're following a natural arc of bodily movement. every limb works together seamlessly to create the whole.

when you fuck it up you usually know it too. whether from the sound of the bag, or the discomfort in your body, (or the endless groaning of your trainer) it feels wrong.

that's why these last two days have been so frustrating-- things feel smooth and correct when i do them but trainers groan, or my body aches unnaturally but my trainer announces "BANG, UP-AYE !" which is a good thing although i have no clue what it means.

i think about this as the sun beats on my head, the heat almost overwhelming. i struggle with the doubt of this strange, stupid path i've taken. "i coulda been an engineeah !" i mentally sob in my best imagination inverted-brando but although the bad joke makes my lips twist briefly it doesn't alter my mood.

the prostitutes holler at me from massage parlours and bars as i woke by, and in the heat and frustration i disgust myself with a wolfish, humourless grin as i briefly contemplate my animal desires. their voices carry a jeering quality i haven't heard before as i force myself to walk by and return to camp, preparing instead for further frustrations.

it's cloudy for the first time since i got here. i miss home a little bit today, and realize it's actually the first time i've even thought about home since getting here nearly a week ago. i miss the way deep bruisy clouds ominously roll in heavy and low and rain lasts for days. i miss riding the train. i miss a few people. more than anything i miss rolling.

certainly no brutal case of homesickness though. i am still in training paradise and it's impossible to overlook that fact. plus i move into the resort with the pool tomorrow.

yeah, maybe it's not so bad...

i'm struggling with the language here and going from the very detailed, very technical style of training i'm used to. today's drill of the ridiculous: catch front kick, swing to the side, kick opponent. man that sounds simple, no problem ! i do it. pot says "no no. you switch." and does a quick switch step. i do it again. pot says "no you SWITCH."

"i'm supposed to switch." i confirm, and do a quick switch step to demonstrate. "yeah yeah switch okay !"

okay i thought that's what i was doing. i do it again, making sure it runs with the switch.

"NO ! you SWITCH !"

ok WHAT. i look to the guy i'm working with like maybe he's soaking something in that i'm not and he says "maybe he wants it faster." i sort of doubt that; one thing i really like here is that they do prefer you go slower and get technique right. but okay, i try it faster.

"switch ! switch !" pot throws up his hands in disbelief and stalks away.

"alright." i say, frustrated but moreso confused.

i'm trying not to let impatience get the better of me while i'm here. i hate my stupid temper and it does me no favours so i try to keep the reigns on it.

my stomach is impatient with me trying to figure this shit out right now. run, eat, train, eat, read, sleep, eat, train, eat, read, sleep. like a good boxing combination. 1, 2, 3, 2, 4 SLIP 2, 3, 2, 4 SLIP out.

i intended to skip the afternoon class tonight and just go in and do some bag work on my own. "strictly technique." i promised myself.

so i ran, did the morning class, then went for breakfast. over the course of my meal i became utterly engrossed in a gripping tale of conan and his adventures on the high seas with belit, then upon meditating for a moment on how that most glorious cimmerian would spend his day, found myself in a beach chair watching the waves break on the sand. what a sight of natural beauty these white sand beaches are; that wondrous display was however counterbalanced and then some by the sweating horrors of european men in speedos and middle-aged women with their leathery tits out for crom. far be it for me to speak for one of the old gods but somehow i have my crawling doubts that crom is pleased by this sort of display...

nonetheless the hours slipped by as conan hacked his way through ancient and sinister beasts in search of treasures always just out of reach and the sun continued its inexorable path until finally my stomach roared a savage battle cry and my spirits rose to meet it on the field of burritos. i assure you i was definitely wary of having a burrito in thailand but holy gods it was fantastic. i haven't had bad food here yet.

i returned to camp around 3.30, not long after eating. the first afternoon class started at three so i figured to slip in around four, do some light work on the bags and slip back out after five when the second afternoon class starts. i get changed, hide in the lengthening shadows, and creep slowly towards the bags...

"heeeeyyy ! riree !"

"hey oron, just going to do a bit of bag work."

"hey ok no problem."

i hit the bag for half a round and oron comes back with pads.

"hey you work with me ok !"

"oh, i was just going to do a bit of bag--"

"yab !" he yells. i jab. "1-2 !" i do, lightly. the ghost of burritos past squirm about in my stomach in spite of having been bested in one on one combat. they whistle in low ominous notes; portents of a future they somehow know.

"1-2 ! hard !" i do. we run through countless boxing combinations with tons of movement; up and down, slipping, breaking, twisting and turning back and forth through the midsection like a washing machine set to vomit. he has me running 20 punch combinations, yelling "faster riree !" all the time. i'm shouting with the punches "ha ha ha ha !" and oron is shouting back "hey hey hey hey !" we do seven rounds of this and i'm fucking dying. sweat pouring off in buckets, shoulders aching, calves cramped viciously, stomach haunted by burrito ghosts.

"back to bag !" oron announces. fuck. finally ! just gonna tap away at the bag with some quarter speed jabs and elbows while oron goes SOMEWHERE FUCKING ELSE.

except he doesn't. he stands there with his watch and whistle and barks "faster riree !" every time i slow down from top speed. "now squats !" he counts them off. "back to bag !" he says, smirking and holding back laughter. he knows what he's putting me through and he can see me suffering and he's loving it.

"why you motherfuck--" i think to myself, yet i can't help but smile.

"ok riree, goooood." he says after another round. i start to relax but-- that fucking smirking. "now." he points to the ring. "crinching !" he announces. grueling fucking clinching. my stomach cowers in terror as the burrito hauntings continue.

but what luck is this ? i'm paired with a chubby redhead who meekly mumbles, "i've only done a couple days of this so..."

"hey man, noooo problem. we'll go up real light and feel it out." my muscles finally start to relax as a third of the round slips by and the timekeeper says "one minute goooone !".

oron finally at his wits end has seen enough of this disgusting display and says, "no. you-" he grabs pasty red and pairs him up with a guy sitting on the ring apron, "and you. crinch. riree, other ring."

finally just accepting this is the way it's going to be, i fall into clinching with oron. he's relatively gentle in his clinchwork with his arms, but he drives hard knees into my body and the burrito hauntings reach a feverish pitch, howling and wailing and such as you would expect from food in a belly getting kneed by a guy who has focused his entire life's energy into learning to knee things REALLY FUCKING HARD.

we clinch for a few rounds, and then i actually think we're done when the rest of the class is done for some bizarre reason. i really have no explanation for what was going through my head there and fully accept my shortcomings in the field of the brainiac.

"riree, you good boxer. you get," oron points to his teeth, opens and closes his jaw, "get mouth, mouth..."

"mouthguard !" i offer helpfully, then wince as if his smirk carried the weight of one of his vicious legs.

"yes ! mouthguard. we spar."

okay are you fucking KIDDING me ?! you just put me through a grueling workout and watched and laughed and now you're going to spar with me. dear PROFESSIONAL THAI FIGHTER, FUCK YOU.

but i still laugh and smile because he IS fucking kidding me, despite being serious. this is his idea of a fun time and in sickly it is also my idea of a fun time (okay the ghosts of burritos lunch'd maybe not so much, but otherwise).

i put in my mouthguard and the first round goes surprisingly well for me, but i'm not so stupid as all that. i know he's reading my movement, my timing, my style and is planning the counters in his head. in response i try not to show too much beyond a stiff jab and lots of movement, which normally, no problem but in this instance wears me out quickly after the preceding workout and the waves of undigested burritoghoul induced nausea.

"round two !" announces some fucking DUDE i've never even seen before and i realize he's watching and smirking that same fucking smirk as oron.

we move to the center of the ring and oron reaches out to touch gloves (a sign of sportsmanship that's traditional when sparring). i reach mine out and he breaks left and launches an uppercut into my guts.

the burrito ghosts howl their approval as their corpses fills my mouth and i drop to a knee. i swallow it like a classy motherfucking gangster of love and look up to see oron parading around the ring like it's the fucking main event at lumphini stadium and the DUDE watching has put a count on me !

"two ! three !"

i flop to my side for comedic effect but holy fuck my guts are trembling and miserable and i probably would have fallen over even if i hadn't intended it. the ghosts are positively shaking with ecstasy at their victory.

"five ! six !"

i get up to one knee. oron taunts me by holding his stomach and shaking his knees. the ghosts are suddenly concerned and voice their disapproval.

"seven ! eight !"

i get up. the ghosts swim about in a blind fury but i'm determined-- i'm sure i won't beat this thai man but victory over my digestive system is something i believe in.

"okay oron. that's war just so you kn--" he blasts me with a straight right to the stomach. it hurts but i at least am expecting the punch and can flex my KILLER ABS to absorb some of the sting.

he attacks my stomach relentlessly. i try to counter but he's very fast and his defense is excellent. i land very few shots on him except to the body, which he responds to with an angelic smile and return fire. he comes forward relentlessly, forcing me to move. i'm totally exhausted, waiting for a round-break that doesn't come. we go for ten straight minutes until finally oron says "okay, good yob." without even a suggestion of fatigue. i would hate him for it if i had the energy but instead i just crumple in a heap and give silent thanks to crom for putting war in a man's soul, and for the burrito ghosts who couldn't chase me out of my home, a curious smirk crept across my lips.

run this morning was rough; cramps all through my calves and ankles. then skipping to start the class again. i feel like i have some mild heat stroke from walking around looking for places to live yesterday, and so i try to take it as easy as possible today but that option really only goes so far. i experience the same waves of fatigue i did yesterday; second wind, third wind, fourth wind but the entire time a suggestion of nausea. haha. a whisper of nausea.

i sparred with a kid today who was long and lanky and had really good front kicks. i accidentally clipped him pretty good with a hook that made him turn his back and the trainer stopped the spar and declared us both winners. it's so fucking weird here.

i finished the class somewhere in a haze and head over to one of the many breakfast buffet places. they're all five or six dollars and have giant bowls of salad and fruit. the sausages are like mini hot dogs so, you know, laugh but don't consume.

i booked a room at a ridiculous resort for the next month for $800 and i move in on wednesday. it's decadent, definitely but fuck the haters as the old saying goes. i already can't fucking wait to abuse my pool privileges.

took a nap and felt pretty okay waking up so i went to do a private with one of the trainers and he had me working front push kicks into jumping double knees. needless to say it was fucking totally badass. at the end of the session when i was finally starting to get it (oron went from "nooooOOOOO !!" and "NOT beautiful !" to "aaaah ! tony jaaaaaa !") i felt like a million bucks and flattered (if not totally fooled) by oron's positivity. cooling down though, oh fuck. cramps and fatigue like holy oh brother. i've been here for 48 hours and i've done five classes.

SHED. woke up at 5.30, read conan stories for a while, then ran at 6.30. the streets are full of women power-walking and men in fight shorts running. i'm drenched with sweat within seconds, and the heavy heat is weighing on my lungs. i begin to wonder about the wisdom of an hour long run before a two hour class, but just i'm sinking into a "fuck. this is so fucking stupid." mindset, day breaks over a mountain and a smile washes over my face at the same time as the sunlight. the rays flicker through giant palm trees and the smile takes its time fading. the breeze off the lake cools my overheating engine and my stride begins to come more naturally.

class at 7.30. i don't know how many of these classes i'll be able to do on an empty stomach; probably going to want to pick up some fruit and hopefully protein powder somewhere eventually (ie. immediately). it's now 10am and i'm already 2.5L deep in water; i knew it would be hot but i start literally dripping sweat within a few minutes of being outside.

X growled and grunted at me every time i did something right, and when i fucked up he growled and grunted at me. i figured out his growl tones within a few mistakes (ie. during the first minute). by the end of the fifth round i'm growling back at him when i do something right and groaning at his growls when i fuck up. i like this dude a lot.

kicking your trainer in the face on your first day: bad.

kicking your trainer in the face on your first day twice: worse.

i got off the plane at 12.30 local time. i locate my bag and go to meet my ride.

"hey ! hey !" i hear as soon as i'm out the door.

easier than i thought i immediately think smugly, then disappointedly wonder at my stupidity. yeah dude, your ride in thailand knows what you look like somehow.

i turn around to a guy waving a taxi rate sheet in my face.

"taxeeyee !!" he accuses me.

"nah, nah i'm good i have a ride." i explain. he probably doesn't understand and if he does, he doesn't care.

"taxeeyeeee !!" he demands more pointedly and i almost begin to suspect he wants me to take him somewhere.

"no ! no thanks !" i say, and step out of the building. i'm assaulted by the ridiculous heat, which up until now has been totally hidden by the overworked air conditioners. i'm immediately after assaulted by an onslaught of taxi drivers ALL insisting "taxeeyeeee !" at me. i'm reminded of night of the living dead, briefly fantasize about shotguns and then decide that's the wrong attitude to carry around on my first visit in the land of smiles.

"no thank you," i smile back as serenely as is possible through gritted teeth and look for someone with a sign with my name on it. the taxi drivers smirk at each other as time passes and i continue looking for the ride i'm convinced will show up. i give it a good half hour of "...maybe traffic ?" before i finally call.

"oh, did nobody show up ?" the lady asks.

by the time the cab i take arrives at the gym it's 2.30. i pay, get my room squared away, sign some forms, and the lady says, "there's a class at 3.00 if you like." ten minutes from now, after being in planes and airports for 40 hours. the hauntings of some of the food i've eaten in the last two days circles my face like the memory of the most regrettable person you've ever taken to bed, snickering cruelly at your terrible decision making abilities.

"what the fuck did you bother coming to thailand for ?" i wonder all the same. i go to my room, put my mouth and cup in/on and go kick the face the poor guy holding pads for me. his humour over the issue doesn't seem to carry forth past the first time.

rough start.