I’ve just come back from a brief, uneventful trip out-of-country which mostly involved completing my manuscript and updating the blog. Whenever I arrive back here I get depressed. No whining, Nikki! Okay, okay, but just let me say, I checked how many days I have until I completely finish this contract and I was not cheered to see that the number was two hundred and forty-fucking-five.
What is it, I’ve sometimes wondered, that I hate so much about this country? Is it the fascism? The stupidity? The petulance? The endless complaining? The lack of basic services that even Cambodia has mastered, like water and gas? The unenticing dating market?
Some time ago I realized no, it’s none of those things. It’s not even the totality of them
It’s the lack of joy.
Looking back over the last fifteen months, I cannot bring to mind a single instance of joy in this country. Not one. Every day feels like a dull grind, like crawling through bitter treacle.
A land without joy.
I made it my mission to try to find some joy this year. I went out more, spoke to more people, joined in some more activities.
Now I’ve given up. At home, when those maudlin thoughts attack me, I’ll try to stay slightly sloshed and distract myself however I may. But there will be no joy for the next 245 days, except in those moments out of the country. Perhaps it is my negative attitude that makes it so – but, I tried the positive approach and got no results. I’m not going to go through the final months with a shit-eating grin on my face as I try to make the most of life in this God-forsaken hole. Fuck that.
Grimace and survive is the plan. Just like the locals do.