There is something fascinating about the specific, localized arrogance of a cocky Asian woman who has just discovered her own reflection through the lens of a Western algorithm.
It’s a genetic lottery meets digital dopamine. They tap into a few American websites, scroll through some curated vanity, and suddenly the “Unrestricted” version of themselves is born. They buy a few fast-fashion shirts, slap on enough makeup to hide the humidity, and suddenly they’re riding a high horse built out of thirsty comments and heart emojis.
But here’s the reality: that confidence is a bridge to nowhere.
Online, they are special. They are beautiful. They are the center of a universe populated by men from every corner of the globe prompted to feed them compliments like they’re endangered species. But the moment they put the phone down, they are one in eight trillion.
I was told Vietnam was a land of constant beauty, but all I see are the local women in the “Standard Issue” uniform: pajamas. They’re selling pharmaceuticals or giving massages while hunched over a phone, eyes glazed over as they consume the anesthesia of Korean soap operas and mindless YouTube loops.
The contrast is the punchline.
You see the “Cocky Ones” get dressed up in their nice clothes—the ones that look so good on Instagram—but they still have to step over the trash piles on the sidewalk to get to their destination. They have to maneuver those heels around the potholes and dodge the mystery sludge in the gutter. They have to cross streets thick with lead-laden smog and the constant, rhythmic insanity of honking horns every fifteen seconds.
The glamour is a thin veneer.
At the end of the day, the “Independent Woman” persona they cultivate online usually ends with them returning to a house owned by Mom and Dad. They retreat to a shared bed occupied by a little brother, a sister, a dog, and two cats. Being “single and free” in Vietnam isn’t the liberating Manhattan fantasy the internet sold them; it’s a crowded, sweaty bubble where privacy is a myth and their only escape is that six-inch screen.
That’s why I love seeing them get a little cocky. I respect the hustle of the delusion.
They are living in a small, digital world where they are queens, but I’m the one watching them hop over the puddles. I see the pajamas. I see the shared beds. I see the Korean soaps.
The cockiness isn’t a sign of status—it’s a survival mechanism. It’s a way to pretend, for a few hours a day, that the street isn’t screaming and the room isn’t crowded. I don’t blame them for the arrogance; I’m just the only guy in the room who knows exactly where the curtains end and the reality begins.
Pour a drink. Watch the show. It’s the best theater in town.
