The Wilderness Years, Part II

Writing Psychedelic Kimchi, I often come off as a brash, conceited jackass at times, I'm willing to admit. But the truth is (and I realize you might believe the Holocaust didn't happen before you believe me), I'm a very calm, collected, and very often shy man. A lot of this has to do with my boyish looks: I really do look a lot younger than my age (more than 10 years younger, by more than a few accounts). So I have this complex that, even when I talk with people younger than me, I am their maturity-wise inferior. The rest has to do with the fact that, honest to Gordie Howe, I am a genuinely kind, caring human being. Like anyone, I have nasty thoughts; and I've been known to toss out a few F-bombs -- and cats -- at times, but I sincerely hope you take me at my word when I say that I don't have the power to intentionally be cruel, that I would rather [I can't think of an analogy] than make someone feel bad or think of me as an asshole. Selfish? Sure. Lazy? At times. But uncaring? Cruel? Overbearing? Violent? Never. I've lived with two people who taught me that that's no way to live one's life -- one whom I love dearly (my brother, Paul), the other whom I despise with all the hate that I can muster. If that's contradictory, so be it.

Nobody's perfect.

---

I remember as clearly as I remember my own phone number the first time my ex-wife -- God, that's such a refreshing word to say/type/shout at the top of Mt. Everest -- hit me. June, 2002. Burlington, Canada. She was upset because my father was at work (with one car) and my mother was at work (with the other), and there wasn't a third to drive her to the Korean supermarket 40km away so she could buy ramen. Obviously, this was a big deal, so I told her to take a nap while I went upstairs to watch Blade II (a man should know his priorities). My father, who finishes work at 5, oddly enough wasn't home by 3, so my ex started screaming and throwing stuff (at that time it was only blankets, but, word to addicts, it would quickly escalate to items that can actually cut skin, such as...let me save that for later*).

Me, the more-often-than-not idiot that I am, told her if she wanted to lash out and release her anger that she should leave my mother's duvet out of it -- it hadn't done anything wrong -- and take it to, word to David Mays, the source.

And that's just what she did. She hit me full force on the right side of my face.

I was shocked.

But I would get used to it.


* Hint: knives!