So far, you’ve only learned to make yourself unemployable on two continents.

You spend most of your time talking about the hometown you couldn’t wait to leave.

You start using the phrase “cultural cachet” to defend your choices.

You find a tourist bar so you can get WiFi and “places to meet people” and just google yourself back to the tourist bar.

Your phone is full of pictures of you in front of old buildings. You in front of statues. Just you.

Only your debt has become worldly.

You actually find yourself hoping you are boring but in an exotic way.

You make friends with other expats who you would hate back home.

You wake up next to someone you absolutely should not be waking up next to and you don’t know which of you is shittier for having let it happen.

Moreover, you will never know, because when things are done here they never happened. You’re told it’s a cultural thing. Which, who knows? You don’t understand the culture. Fine.

It was you, though. You were shittier.

You think probably no one knows who you wanted to be an ocean away from.

The wolves find you, anyway.