Sweat

Buldak is translated into the vernacular as "fire chicken," and make no mistake, it's hot, like the hood of a Pontiac Firebird on a late summer day in Arizona. Our other dish is a crispy chicken salad (again chicken, always chicken) served over leafy vegetables. No complaints here. None.

I have a half dozen Chinese beers in my belly and another couple working their way down my digestive tract. And it's warm, so warm right now; and I might kiss this waitress. I keep trying to stand up to do it, but my acquaintances (friends, colleagues, Werner Herzog) keep pulling me back. I know she's got bright pink lipstick and cute cheeks, so why won't they let me kiss her?

Someone grabs my hair from the back and pulls me to the floor. Hard. Gravity? Gravity. That harpy. I suppose I'll never have fun again.

Thanks, gravity. You always win.