It’s okay to lose your mind, as long as you don’t mind the loss.
You no longer see minnows at the beach I used to go to as a kid. That was back when I was a young goat, before I became a full-grown satyr. Recently I read somewhere that minnows are actually young fish that grow up to be large adults. I was surprised by that, as I’d always thought they were already full-grown, a compact species that swims in elementary schools. I still haven’t found the answer yet to this conundrum. I’m praying to the god of laziness for an answer.
I suppose I should apologize for not writing for so long, or else apologize for writing now.
In the sticky summer heat of sweltering Seoul, my attention span has grown even shorter than my dick. Bring me a microscope at once.
Hence the tiny sentences posing as paragraphs.
Since my last blog post, I’ve read a few books and done little else besides teach kindergarteners vital information about the alphabet.
Although I’d intended to write about the books in detail, I’ve already traded them in so I can’t go back and review their contents. Here are the titles and authors anyway, minus the ISBN’s. China in Ten Words (Yu Hua), The Psychopath Test (Jon Ronson), The Forever War (Dexter Filkins), The Violent Bear It Away (Flannery O’Connor). All of them are worth reading, especially the first.
The other morning while my wife and I were lying in bed (though not to each other), she said, “The mosquitos are having a party.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“You have to do it quickly!”
She’d spoken in such a lucid tone of voice that it took me a moment to realize she was talking in her sleep. I can’t remember what else she said, and I decided not to ask her any more questions in case she woke up. I was also focusing all my energy on suppressing the geyser of laughter that threatened to erupt from the image her remark about the partying mosquitos had conjured.
The following night, the mosquitoes did have a party. I’d gotten smug about how they always bite Jina and never bite me. Maybe I won’t be laughing so hard when I contract Dengue fever. (I used to have the same cavalier attitude about deer ticks, nonchalantly pulling them out of my skin, thinking I was immune to Lyme disease–until I finally got it. D’oh!)
As long as they’re not vaccinating my arm with malaria, I don’t mind being bitten by mosquito(e?)s too much. What I don’t like is their uneasy whining sound. I hate the way they fly up to your ear in the dark, make you slap yourself upside the head so that your ear stings, then fly away laughing at their little prank. When you turn on the light to seek your revenge, they hide under the bed, snickering malevolently.
Jina likes to spray bug repellent around inside the apartment, something I don’t appreciate either, but she ignores my admonitions. She has some other stuff that comes in a little bottle with a pump handle you spray directly on your skin. It’s more innocuous and made of natural ingredients. It also smells nice, like citrus and cinnamon. The mosquitoes seem to like it too.
Since I had to get up at six-thirty the following morning in order to go teach a bunch of Korean salarymen, I couldn’t afford to toss and turn all night. One of the mosquitoes had already bitten me in the small of the back in a spot I couldn’t reach to scratch without the bamboo back scratcher my brother sharpened for me with a Swiss Army knife to make it more effective.
I finally gave in and asked Jina to come in with the big guns. She sprayed bug dope all over the room, guaranteeing that one of these days I’ll look in the mirror to find I have a Kim il-Sung-style goiter growing from the side of my neck (a great place to rest your drink).
But at least she managed to murder the mosquitoes, flattening them on the program for her church, adding my blood to that of Christ.
Love is in the air, between the clouds of bug spray and reeling mosquitoes.
(Turns out you can spell the plural either way. English is one convenient language.)