Introducing FEISTY – The Book

07/08/2025 BY Feisty Staff

We’re thrilled to introduce Go Feisty Publishing’s very first book: FEISTY The Accidental Beginning—a bold, hilarious, and unfiltered journey through life as a woman, an immigrant, and a firestarter in America. This is your go-to hub for everything FEISTY!
We’ll keep this page fresh and fiery—so check back often! (Last updated: Nov. 18, 2025)
英語本FEISTY-The Accidental Beginning は世界中で印刷本・E-bookとしてご購読いただけます！笑える簡単な英語なのでぜひ以下のサイトからお求めください。

FEISTY is out now worldwide—in paperback and e-books.
Grab your copy in your country today and join the ride!

📖📱Aamazon.com paperback & Kindle
★USA ★Japan ★Canada ★UK ★Germany ★France ★Spain ★Italy ★Netherlands ★Poland ★Sweden ★Ireland ★Australia ★ Mexico ★ India ★ Brazil

📖📱BARNES & NOBLE Paperback and e-Book
📖 IngramSpark paperback
📖Thalia paperback
📱Apple Books e-book
📱Everand e-book
📱fable e-book
📱Rakuten kobo e-book
📱Smashwords e-book
📱vivlio e-book

Take a Look Inside FEISTY –The Accidental Beginning.

Chapter 1 A Boozy Mistake: How It All Began

Marunouchi, Tokyo Circa 1989ー
“Alright, folks! —HERE WE GOOOO!! GRRRRRAAAAH!!!! ”
I grabbed a Kirin Lager—the big one, 633 ml—and stood tall, legs wide apart, overflowing with kiai (fighting spirit). I raised the bottle over my head like a trophy and grinned.

“She’s gonna chug that whole thing?” said the art director.
“I think she’s serious,” whispered the senior copywriter.
“Is this her… talent?” someone from HR blinked.

Clap. Clap. Clap.
And just like that, the chant began.
“Ikki! Ikki! Ikki!” (chug! chug! chug!)

I tilted my head back, wrapped my lips around the neck of the bottle, and let the golden nectar pour straight into my soul.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp… Gulp.
Jaws dropped.
One executive choked on his edamame.
I didn’t stop.

“What… is happening?” whispered the VP.
“Apparently, she’s the new copywriter.”
“We… hired this?” he said, staring at HR.
HR looked away like it was something wildly above their pay grade.

Hi. I’m Megumi.
A six-foot-tall Japanese woman. Yes, woman.
And this was my first week at my dream job—Tokyo’s top ad agency.
THE agency. The one every wide-eyed college graduate in Japan dreams of joining.
After surviving countless interviews and tests, we were the chosen ones.
We are the elitist of elites! And somehow—I slipped in.

And this?
This was the new hire “talent show.”
A room full of polished gems.
Everyone was good at something.
Someone sang a ballad in some foreign language.
Someone else danced like it was muscle memory from a past life.

I did the one thing I do better than anyone else:
Made a full-sized beer disappear in one go.
No magic. Just gravity and guts.
By the time I hit the bottom of the bottle, I let out a mighty:

“PUH-HAAAAAH!”
And then…
“BUUUURP.”

It echoed through the open-concept office like a foghorn.
Someone dropped their chopsticks.
The head of Creative froze mid-sip—mouth agape, beer dribbling down his chin.
I casually unfastened my belt, exhaled, and stood there—victorious.

“She chugged the whole bottle?… and burped?” whispered the new account exec.
“So… we’re working with this monster now?” he added.

Yep. That’s how my career began.
A sleek office in the heart of Tokyo.
Our clients? Olympic sponsors. Global brands. Even politicians.
We were the ones shaping the world—one glossy campaign at a time.
My poor manager had just come back from a commercial shoot in Hollywood featuring a major celebrity, only to be told he now had to mentor me. Lucky guy.

I loved my job.
My business card was a golden ticket—it got me into places, meetings, and all kinds of mischief.
No door was closed. No celebrity off-limits.
I worked on beer campaigns, wrote ad copy that made executives cry (occasionally for the right reasons), and drank on the company’s dime—well, yen.

I became the Queen of After Five.
The office fridge was full of client-gifted booze. Technically for researching. Realistically? Mine. We worked nonstop. The lights never went off. Late nights meant “research.”
I was always “researching” the perfect buzz to come up with a great copy.

And then one night, I got blackout drunk at the office.
The blackout itself wasn’t new.
The phone call I made during it? That was.

I woke up the next morning with a killer hangover and a sticky note stuck to my forehead.
It read:
“You called someone named John. He’s coming to Tokyo this weekend. Good luck.”

I blinked. John? Who the hell was John?
And then it hit me.
Sort of.

There had been talk about some American guy—John-something.
Tall. Blonde. Teaching English up north. A friend mentioned him once.

“You should date my friend John.”
“Why?”
“He’s taller than you.”
“Okay, then I’ll marry him.”

I vaguely remember that conversation over tons of beer & sake at an izakaya one night.
I’m huge. I’m loud. And in Japan? That’s not “cute.” Or anywhere else, to be honest. Guys don’t hit on me. I don’t get second dates. So I roar: “If he’s taller than me, that’s all I need! I’ll marry him!” And I mean it. That night, I think I really did.

Apparently, during my blackout, I used the office phone to call him. (Back when phones sat on desks and numbers hid in wallets.)
According to my sources, I screamed something like, “Come see me in Tokyo, babyyyyy!” and passed out at my desk.
I didn’t remember getting home. Someone must’ve shoved me into a taxi—by then, they were practically trained professionals at dealing with my drunken exits.

So who was this John?

Turns out, he was my classmate from a tiny college in the American Midwest. I spent two years there. He had never once caught my eye—so he probably wasn’t my type. But for some reason (let’s call it intensive late-night research), we were about to meet.

He took my call seriously, called back, and said, “See you Saturday!”
Then he boarded the Shinkansen (the Japanese bullet train-arrives on time even if you don’t !) —Tokyo-bound and Megumi-magnetized.

I spotted him crouched by the famous panda statue in Ueno Station, reading manga (comic books from Japan. Not just for kids. Sometimes not even safe for kids!), wearing a pair of oversized geeky glasses.

My first thought?
Oh no. I knew it. He’s not hot.
I almost walked away.
Then he stood up.

My friend was right.
He was tall.
And I thought, Huh. Maybe I’ll give him the weekend.

I went up to him and said hi.
I agreed to show him around Tokyo. Not because I liked him. Not because I wanted anything. Just because I told him to come. I’m a woman of my word. When sober, anyway.

“PUH-HAAAH!”
“GU-EEEHHH!”

Of course we went to an izakaya. We found a “nomihodai”—all-you-can-drink. Japan’s greatest gift to humanity.

“All-you-can-drink for two hours?” John gasped.
“Yep,” I said, already three mugs deep.
“And you pay 3000 yen but I only pay 2,000 yen because I have a uterus.”
He blinked. “Wait. What?”
“Ladies’ Special. I am a lady you know! Ladies get to drink cheap until even tequila starts to taste like water.”

I wasn’t trying to charm him. I wasn’t pretending to be cute or delicate. I was just… me.
All six feet of me.
And drink I did.
Mug after mug of beer.

“PUH-HAAAAH!”
“GU-EEEHHH!”

My burp is a masterpiece. A sonic boom of pride.
The waitress showed no signs of trauma. She just kept the beers coming. I think she liked me.

“So the rumors were true,” John said, grinning.
“Huh?”
“In college, people said you could outdrink football players. I didn’t believe it. Until now.”

He knew.
He knew about me.

The Japanese girl at a tiny Midwestern college who played varsity basketball, drank with the football team, and wrecked linebackers like they were light beer. I beat them at Beer Bomb, every single time.

We’d never spoken before.
But he remembered me.

So when he got a drunken call from the legendary Japanese girl he never had the guts to talk to, he thought:
“This must be fate.”
And so, he came to Tokyo.

“Can’t believe we’re meeting like this, 7,000 miles from campus,” he said, pouring me another beer.
“Cheers,” I muttered, slightly impressed and deeply buzzed.
He watched me drink like I was a fireworks show.
Not judging. Just… delighted.

He was weird.
But the nice kind of weird—the kind that hands you tissues when you cry and holds your hair when you puke. He was the only one who didn’t flinch at my size, my voice, my appetite, or my epic belching.

“Bigger is better,” he said, refilling my mug.
“Even ramen’s better when it’s extra large,” he added.
“And gyoza. And fried rice. Bonus points if they come free,” I said.
“God made people in all shapes and sizes,” he said, like some Zen monk.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be. Big means more room to love,” he said.

I let out a burp that could wake the dead. He didn’t even blink. Just poured more beer.

For the first time in 23 years, I forgot I had a height complex. Ever since kindergarten, I’ve always been a head taller than everyone else. Always towering. Always visible.
I learned early onー if I didn’t want to be picked on, I had to be strong. So I got loud. I got fast. I got tough. Before anyone could laugh at me, I made them laugh with me.

At work, there were tall, good-looking guys too.
Over six feet, sharp suits, perfect teeth–the kind of Japanese men who practically screamed “elite upbringing.” But tall guys liked tiny girls.
I was just… too much. Too tall, too loud, too everything.

Then came this American guy.
I kept drinking.
And he kept pouring.

By the end of the night, he asked:
“So… are we dating now?”
I squinted at him through my beer goggles.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“You’re tall, blond, blue-eyed–you could date anyone in Japan. Girls in the countryside would line up just to take photos with you.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
Then he smiled. “But they’re not you.”
“You’re clearly insane.”
“Maybe. But I like what I like.”
“I’m loud, big, and burp like a foghorn.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m a Hinoe-Uma, you know. Ever heard of that?”
“You mean the Zodiac thing that only comes around every 60 years?”

Bingo.

I was born in 1966—the infamous Year of the Hinoe-Uma, the Fire Horse.
In Japan, that makes me legendary…in the worst way.
There’s a delightful superstition: women born in that year are said to devour men.
Not romantically. Literally. Spiritually. Emotionally. Maybe physically, too.

The panic ran so deep, the birth rate nosedived in 1966.
OB-GYNs panicked. Some even considered shutting down for the year.
There were even reports of unmarried Fire Horse women from the previous cycle—1906—who ended their lives in despair.

And still—my parents went for it.
“Let’s make a baby!”
Thanks, Mom and Dad. Bold choice.

I turned to him and said, “You sure you know what you’re getting into? Hinoe-Uma women eat men alive.”
He shrugged, “I’ll do my best not to get eaten.”
“I am strong-willed, you know.”
“I like strong women.”
I paused. The room spun slightly.
“…AND I drink like a fish.”
“I have noticed.”
“I’ve got big feet, too.”
He grinned. “Even better. More to love.”
“They’re really stinky, too…”
I gave him every warning label possible.
He still wanted in.
So we started dating.
A two-hour shinkansen, long-distance relationship.

I announced to the world that I finally had a boyfriend—
My friends were ecstatic.
“Do NOT mess this up,” said one.
“This guy deserves a medal. Or hazard pay.”
“He’s Gandhi,” said another.
“You’re the chaos. He’s the calm.”

My parents had already made peace with the idea of me dying alone in a Tokyo apartment surrounded by empty beer cans and expired izakaya discount coupons, and were stunned with joy.

“Bravo! I knew there would be some odd-taste man out there!!” my dad cheered.
“Get pregnant before he changes his mind!” my mom urged.

When my younger brother met him for the first time, he got down on his knees—full-on Japanese dogeza style—and pleaded:
“Please marry her. We’re exhausted.”
He must have been tired of picking me up from various sketchy night spots across Tokyo.
“And the sale is final. No returns accepted,” he added politely and seriously.

Apparently, the people in my life had reached full emergency consensus:
Marry. That. Man.

And honestly?
I was starting to agree.

He pours beer.
He does not flinch when I burp.
He knows I am Hinoe-uma and he does not care.
He never asks me to shrink.
He does not try to change me.
That’s not just rare.
That’s sacred.

“Fine,” I thought.
“What’s the worst that could happen? ”

So I decided.
I’ll marry him.
I was having a moment—like, Wow, look at me, doing something normal and girly for once!

And just then, right on cue,
from across the Pacific Ocean,
a voice thundered: