Two men in a spotlight, eyes closed, fingers dancing in vibrato, and faces churning with the music.
I was at a kimbap jip in Yeomni-dong–a little hood in Seoul where I was living during the duration of my year there.
I have successfully branded my childhood memories with Thought Catalog.
The journal begins with Hyun-sil’s decision to join the United Korean Organization, or UKO, to avenge his foster parents’ murders in late December 1939.
The ammonia-overload instantly hit the senses, released a little more intensely with each chew of the rubbery meat. But what was interesting was how it felt like an entire new way of experiencing food.
His eyes were awake now and sunk into mine, his grin thirsty and familiar. I gripped my shirt to my body as I rolled over and inaudibly mumbled “yeah right.”
One television commentator who gulped down bowls of Fukushima vegetables on TV as part of the campaign resigned after he was diagnosed with leukemia. That might have been just bad luck.
Depressed people like to be as minimalist as possible on Facebook. They post sparingly and it’s usually only #dark quotes from poems or photos of Morrissey. Their profile pictures are all abstract pictures of nothingness, except for one that’s of their face, and even then it’s obscured by a hoodie.
I was looking for another orifice.
It feels like the work I do is only for myself and the company that employs me. Not for the good of the nation. Not for my family. Not for any “greater good.” In a way I prefer this.