Saturday in Korea. I’m going to saddle up and ride to this tower in the middle of Seoul. The first shot of warm sun is here and has exploded through the prism to give us five million shades of blue. I’ll stand on top of the structure like King Kong and scream IS THAT IT? to the universe. Because I’m alive again. My back is healing up; we’ve almost returned to 100%. When you’re 27 you still bounce off the concrete with a little zip. You think that someday you’ll be 60 and that makes feel like Wolverine by comparison.
This week: fuck this week. I taught at the elementary school. When I joke that I hate children, I’m actually not joking. I hate the dumb ones and the ones who scream and the second-grader with a mullet. Teaching is the best birth control. Monday through Friday, the whole twelve rounds. By Friday morning I was weighed heavy with the chains of fatigue. I moved through my neighborhood and offered up the requisite smiles at the relaxed speed of someone who exists in a campaign commercial. But it’s all over now. I won.
Tonight I’ll go see friends in town. Back slap and palm press. How ya doing man. So good to see you tonight. Oh, me? I can’t complain. Three drinks and then I’ll draw the phone. Ladies, let’s do this. Who wants to fuck me without going on a date first. Then I’ll sleep in and wake up and then write. Write, even though nobody reads anymore. If you’re a writer in 2015 you might as well be a blacksmith. I’ve got all these novels and novellas on a flash drive; they are awful. A young hack wrote them. What to do now. Well, I don’t want to do something else. And I’m 27; it’s too late to start mastering something else. I’m a container ship that takes over a mile to turn. So this is gonna be it then: this wasteful addiction that consumes all your hours. I guess it’s more constructive and rewarding than having a crack problem. But only slightly.