The Year of The Monkey

New Year’s Fucking Eve. Big night out in Seoul ahead of me. Gotta get my social skills warmed up for this rooftop party. Though it’s not like I really need them, because we’ll be drinking. Mostly I just feel insane pressure to not look stupid in the Facebook pictures. Parties last forever online.

Fred the Bachelor stays in 2015. He was a candle that burned bright and fast. This year my girlfriend is moving in, joining me in exile here on the Korean coast. We’ve been fighting but I hear it’s good to fight at this stage of a relationship. Plus the sparring is a good mental workout. We’re also partaking in the punditry of nitpicking other couples when they aren’t around, which I forgot how much I enjoyed.

They offered me a third year at my school today, and of course they did. I do everything around this motherfucker. My co-teachers are living high off the hog, drawing a full salary to sit in the back of the room and text on KakaoTalk while I do battle up at the whiteboard. Felt good to say no to them. I’m out of this frigid workaholic gulag for good. This year I’ll go somewhere else and get a motorcycle. And keep writing, even though I don’t want to. At the very least I need to downshift. I should write less because most of the time it makes me hate the way I think. Being a no-name blogger is relentlessly embarrassing, though quitting would probably be even more embarrassing. So what I’ll do is write less and start watching TV again. Too many conversations are going by where I don’t know what’s going on. Potential future friendships, based around “oh I love that show too,” hang in the balance.

Anyway, let’s do this. One more lap around the block. On the whole it’ll probably be just like the last few were, but that’s all right.

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