Did you miss me? I sure as hell didn’t miss you. OK, maybe a little.

I always thought blogging was something that chronic masturbaters, Germans and Ariana Huffington did to pass the time. I had no idea that I would find it enjoyable. But then I found myself desperately unhappy in Tokyo, longing to go back to New York, and staying in bed until eleven.

A month ago, my partner asked, “Why haven’t you written in your blog lately?”

I said, “How would you know? I thought I told you never to read it.”

He suggested that perhaps I needed conflict, chaos and that bitchy neighbor in order to blog. That what motivated me to write was loneliness, sadness and despair.

“You hated Japan and love Hong Kong, and now have nothing to write about. Should we make coffee?” he said.

I hate this “we” bullshit because “we” is always me. “Should we make breakfast?” “We should choose a place for brunch.” “We need to ask the doorman about grocery deliveries.”

So I didn’t respond to his hating Japan, loving Hong Kong bit and instead said, “If you want coffee, make it yourself. I’m in the mood for tea.”

I really wanted coffee too, but I’d be damned if I was going to make it.

So I checked my blog about a week ago and realized that people were still reading, still commenting, still saying “I agree” or “fuck you.” I can see why Ariana Huffington gets into it.

My partner even showed me how to update my setting so that it says I’m in Hong Kong now. I’m incredibly dumb when it comes to computers, technology or anything with wires. Wall sockets scare me. So I told my partner, “The reason I haven’t written anything is because my blog still said I was in Tokyo. Anything I wrote would have been false advertising.”

He didn’t buy it either but was wise enough to let it go.