At school. This day is pristine; you grind through a cycle long enough and eventually you’re gonna start to fucking nail it. I’m sharp today. I feel like I can run through a brick wall. 370 days in Korea before I started to crush it. What does that say about my intelligence, that it takes me 370 tries to get something right. Good God. Anyway, the morning has been just goddamn enchanting, with dagger-nosed sparrows Crouching Tiger-fighting over the shrubs on my walk to school. Dueling over an apple core or sparrow pussy or whatever. Now there WAS one class of duds just before lunch, future taxi drivers and 7-11 clerks…I swear these kids are actually Samsung robots who have their memories wiped every night. This makes teaching feel like pushing a thousand pounds of cooked spaghetti up a mountainside. Middle-schoolers, some of have just turned racist for the first time and just squint lasers at the white giant. They think: what the fuck is this foreigner doing in my classroom, telling me how to speak his language. I already have a language. One’s enough.
Hey, there’s that teacher—I forget her name—and she’s 47 years old but looks 32 and when she wears skirts it’s a legitimate distraction. Skirt today. A long, hip-swaying stride—but only on skirt day. You foxy tart. This is why I have to write under a fake name. You minx. You aware of what you’re doing. You know you have a gift that is rare among your people, an extra soft inch on the thighs. She always blinks slowly, like her lashes are incredibly heavy or she’s just had a volcanic, blood-bubbling orgasm and is fighting the opiate of sleep. I am never leaving Asia. She gave me two wafer cookies today and I said thank you in Korean (감사합니다) and that allowed us to share a chuckle. So easy. Then I gave them to Ham because he’s fat and I’m not and I am one week away from my very first six-pack ever. If I paused pizza and beer for seven days I’d have it. So that means I’ll never have it. Anyway.
I found a teacher’s bathroom on the second floor that no one told me about. Fuckers. A CEO could use it and think, yeah, that’s a good bathroom. There is even toilet paper in the stalls. This is a rarity in Asia because poor people steal it out of public restrooms. You have to carry your own around because you encounter a stocked bathroom as often as you find $5 lying on the sidewalk. But this toilet paper, I think it’s double-ply. Shangri-la, motherfuckers.
Back in the office, a free period now. Swan dive into the internet. Join the rest of you. Why not have a one-sided conversation on the blog; there are no other foreigners within ten football fields of this place. You ruminate on this fact at random times. You and your alien status. Like the one last Jew in Berlin the SS hasn’t picked up yet.
Anyway, here you go. This is a Thursday in Korea. Now back to class.