Eighteen months into Korea. Great cuisine, undisputed status as a nightlife legend. I should stay.
But also: eighteen months into Korea. Horrific off-balance haircuts like you get before brain surgery, dumb job on this workaholic treadmill. I should go. Somewhere else, absolutely anywhere in the world except for America. I get too infuriated being on the ground there; it’s run by murderous Puritans. And it’s also boring, like living inside PBS. Familiarity has bred absolute contempt.
I should go. I see clear cave lakes in Iceland on the Bing page and want to cry. I’ve conquered Seoul but who gives a shit about Seoul. One city in one country. One small pinprick of light on the map. Time to play a new level: Shanghai, Perth, motherfucking Hanoi, wherever. Too bad moving to one of these places means I’ll have to actually work a job. And I understand that there are children getting sucked into gears in Bangladesh garment factories but even working until lunch is an indignation to me. I’m a blogger on the cusp, fuck your punch clocks. Don’t you know who I think I am. Enough of the grind, of the alarm hitting like a defibrillator at 6:45 A.M. Motherfucking money. Everybody just give me money.
Tokyo, Cairo, goddamn Capetown: I’m en route. I’ll admit that I’m going to miss my Korean ecosystem. Gym store workplace apartment all on the same street, all within a paintball shot of each other. But great new challenges await me in some new place. Like maybe having to make a ninety degree turn off my street at some point in my day.