First thing this morning, one of my eight year-olds pegged me in the eye with a tennis ball. Furious and half-blind, I let out a beleaguered ogre groan and groped for the would-be assassin, eventually snagging him by the collar. I ripped his ball away and tossed it in the garbage. Rule number one: never martyr a fuzzy spheroid. For the next forty-five minutes, the kids went on a rampage, scribbled all over me in black marker, roundhouse kicked the walls, tore everything to shreds. In spite of my recent advances in pretension and musical literacy, I still do not deal well with bullying.
I had so mori soup for dinner. "So mori" means "cow head." As much as I wanted to be revolted by the stuff, it was indescribably bland. Well, I could describe it to you, but I would only end up using some worthless description like "indescribably brand." You know?
I just finished reading 1984 for what might have been the 1,984th time. It's the only book I can re-read with any sort of non-contrived enthusiasm. It's written like a shark. There isn't a sentence in the book that isn't pure muscle. I still jump when they get caught.
Tomorrow I'm going on a road trip to Gyeongju with the Korean brothers and the Bostonian neo-hippie. I'm excited because we won't be in Daegu, or on top of a mountain overlooking Daegu, or in a historic Shilla Dynasty suburb in the process of being swallowed alive by Daegu.
It's 4:45 in the morning and I'm holed up in the fourth floor stairwell of an emptied-out office building, slurping from a cup of authentic ramen noodles. It's time for bed.