I met Kennan Highly nearly fours years ago. In the scheme of things, that's not a long time, but for four glorious years I was able to, schedules permitting, hang out with a man I consider my best friend. Thick as thieves, we are; and it's such a beautiful thing that two expats living in Korea -- one from Idaho*, the other from Ontario -- could form such a bond.
Tomorrow, Kennan is leaving. I'm going to miss you, Kennan, you fantastic bastard.
South Korea, Psychedelic Kimchi, and an adorable Shih Tzu won't ever be the same without you.
Do Kennan. And make sure you don't stop until Kennan is done.
Dear Chicken Wire, Harbinger of Half-Baked Annotation,
I don't intend to mince words but you need to understand a few things. Firstly, I do my best to exercise restraint in potentially-explosive situations (and you know how I am regarding emotions!) so I won't get too upset about your abrupt departure. Given how I struggle to control my temper, however, please understand that this predicament in which we find ourselves is entirely your fault, and thus, any forthcoming abuse is entirely warranted.
Second, since you're leaving me, I feel it's my duty to inform you that I, in fact, left you first. Sure, this is still my house (and my rules!) so it's not as if I'm going anywhere but nevertheless everyone in town will be made to think it was I who dumped you. Please understand this aspect of my culture as to do otherwise would result in me losing face, which is a concept that trumps integrity in all possible circumstances.
What next? Oh yeah, money stuff. Pursuant to the horseshit you've just been fed, it stands to reason that you owe me some cash, and if not, I'll pettily concoct some ridiculous pretense for withholding a portion of your earnings. Undue rent, inflated utility bills, nonexistent pension plans, taller-than-me tax: whatever works, my friend! Please understand that you've only yourself to blame for having the audacity to jump ship before I saw fit to cast you overboard.
Lastly, I'm only being such a bastard 'cause you stole the last bottle of soju that one time. You know how much that shit means to me.
We've had a lot of fun, the two us. For eight years (give or take a few months I can't for the life of me recall) you've been a constant companion of mine; through thick and paint thinner, I've been lucky enough to crash at your place with nothing of myself to offer but a veritable lack of wit and tact, yet you've never once asked me to contribute to your well being. Over the endless days and even lengthier nights which comprise a solid chunk of my adult life, I've sought to wrap my addled brain around the magic that is you. Savvy, sexy, and sacrilegious you are, and who am I to judge you harshly for, well, anything? Everything you've done, be it misstep or triumphant prance, is merely due to your inherent flamboyance, and I for one applaud such endeavors.
There comes a time, however, at which point a person comes to realize that a relationship is doomed to fail. Gregarious though you may be, I've taken notice of how much your voracious appetite has affected me, insomuch that the very marrow has been stripped from my bones, while my colon has long since ceased to absorb electrolytes properly. This is to say nothing of my liver, but that's a can of worms we need not open lest we acknowledge certain unpleasantries - suffice it to say that damage is what's been done, and gloriously so.
It's not that I don't love you, Korea; it's just that we've reached the point of diminishing returns. You've grown weary of me, that much is readily apparent. I can smell it on your breath, taste it on your skin, and hear it through all the heavy breathing you do through your nose whenever you're flustered. Don't take this the wrong way, but you stink. Verily.
I know, I know, don't let the door hit you on the way out and all that. Fair enough I suppose, since I've been a less-than-ideal paramour. Needless aspersions aside, it's been a wild ride and besides, we'll always have Bundang, correct?
Regretfully yours,
Chicken Wire, once known as the Harbinger of Heavenly Annotation
P.S. There's no need to spread rumors about me once I'm gone, as you've enough suavity to keep this party rocking long after I depart and even if that were untrue, the jilted lover angle is totally played out.
P.P.S. Remember that day you were so furious about someone drinking the last bottle of soju yet couldn't determine who was to blame? Yeah, that was me.
The Soundtrack: For starters, people should be aware of just what, when, and where they're getting themselves into, right?
The Scrapist: To whom do you bequeath this magniloquent requiem for inanity?
The Soundtrack: What kind of question is that? How can I possibly respond to anything so utterly absurd?
The (Pipe) BombPop: Anything would suffice, given that it wasn't an inquiry being asked of you.
The Soundtrack: Break out your dictionary, miss, and look up the meaning of interrogative or, for that matter, interrogative sentence before you enter into adult conversation.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Hm. Yes. I'm well aware of what you think he's saying, and what you contend is entirely rational, yet when all is said and done -syntactical horseshit and egregious solecisms included, of course- what we have here is anything but an inquisition. He's saying You'll soon be dead, and that for all intents and purposes, any message to impart upon your audience would be as meaningless as the recipients themselves, or something like that. Translation's not my bag.
The Scrapist: Spectral vomituration at its very finest, lads and lasses; of this hallowed order, the two of you are exemplary specimens indeed.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Ontological dry-heaving aside, the two of you -namely, stinky you and sticky me- aren't quite as different as some would imagine. Given that you're a mainstay of the Short Bus Brigade, however, I'll go ahead and simplify this unnerving propinquity: with regard to humanity, we're nothing if not apodictically remiss.
The Soundtrack: Sounds to me like your friend there is very much the deipotent asshole, which would make you, what, the dangling fecal matter?
The (Pipe) BombPop: Something like that, but even so: I never said we were bosom buddies, not by a long shot. Second, don't shoot the messenger. Thirdly, and don't take this the wrong way; your taste in music is atrocious.
The Coyote's Grudge: Better yet, do shoot the messenger, preferably in the face.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Been there, defaced like that. Speaking of which, what have you been up to these days, fuckface?
The Coyote's Grudge: Oh, this and that. Coyote stuff.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Do tell, Wile E.
The Soundtrack: This whole operation is going to shit faster than an ill-conceived wedding ceremony, and that's saying a lot.
The Coyote's Grudge: Greg Kihn. Wow. That's a bit stale, don't you think?
The (Pipe) BombPop: What are you talking about? The Breakup Song is a phenomenal single to this very day. And don't change the subject.
The Scrapist: Though the fractured, morally liquescent Popsicle drips a juice neither veraciously abrasive nor abrasively veracious, she appreciates compositional wizardry nonetheless. The Breakup Song (They Don't Write 'Em) is one such melody as is, to a lesser extent, Jeopardy.
The Soundtrack: Verbosity!
The (Pipe) BombPop: On the contrary, my dimwitted scapegoat; the message conveyed is far more complex than your deficient comprehension allows. All things considered, it was quite laconic but I'm no interpreter, so fuck your cerebral inadequacy. Stick to what you know, which obviously isn't music, Jeopardy notwithstanding.
The Coyote's Grudge: What...What year is this, 1982? Enough with the Greg Kihn shit already.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Music endures! and all that. Anyway, back to you.
The Coyote's Grudge: I'm so glad you insist! I've been scouring the Internet, searching for images most representative of your illustrious character. To that end, I've unearthed two such photos:
The Scrapist: Recreant elegance personified.
The Soundtrack: Damn. Nice touch with the go-go boots. The (Pipe) BombPop: Oh, please. I'd never wear, no, make that endure anything so garish as a strapless dress no matter how much cerulean appeals to me as a color. Other than that misstep, not too shabby. P.S. You're a dick and anyway, misdirection only serves to delay the inevitable, you know.
The Coyote's Grudge: So you say. So you say.
The (Pipe) BombPop: So I do. Fuck. Anybody got a cigarette, per chance?
The Soundtrack: I have half a pack of week-old Marlboros but no lighter. Lost it on the ride in to, like, wherever it is we are now, I think.
The (Pipe) BombPop: No worries, chump, as I just so happen to have a few road flares on hand. Oh yeah, that's the stuff.
The Scrapist:Truly, a fortuitous moment for all involved; especially those aforementioned, emboldened souls yet unaware of the alleged what, when, and where of which you deem so very worthy of explication.
The Soundtrack: Hmm. Strange. You know...
The Coyote's Grudge: Yeah, I know.
The Soundtrack: In the light things don't quite look the same, lady. You included.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Is that so? Tell me more.
The Scrapist: Indeed. Share with us, fair-skinned troubadour, your reaction to this irradiation woefully misidentified as theosophical illumination masked by some frothy, malodorous conglomeration of narrative shrapnel. Liken the anagnorisis to something tangible; a song if you would be so kind.
The Soundtrack: What, shithead? Nobody in their right mind even knows what anagnorisis is supposed to mean! If you're looking for a description, it's like a place I've never wanted to be. Ever.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Hum. Well that's a shame, really, since you -or someone like you- simply had to be here; otherwise, the little doggy wouldn't have shown up. The mutt's unabashedly predictable in that sense, you see, yet his entirely unforeseen absence of late has proven to be, shall we say, somewhat disconcerting. Not so much for the patchwork messiah over there, of course, as he -I keep saying he but that's a crock of shit- is a goddamn celestial sieve if there's ever been one and don't ask me to explain, 'cause elucidating the rationale, objectives, and sentimentality of a walking, talking inverisimilitude is such a bitch; but yeah, for me it's a problem of sorts.
The Coyote's Grudge: Sorry, dude, but what can I say? Music intrigues me.
The Soundtrack: You're an ass. Scratch that. Assholes, the lot of you!
The (Pipe) BombPop: Oh, we're much more than that, bright boy. Much more. Even were it not the case, it's like the Scrape said; we're not so different, you and I.
The Soundtrack: How's that?
The (Pipe) BombPop: I can't tell you, but I fully intend to demonstrate the principal similarity for all in attendance. After this cigarette's finished, of course. Take this opportunity to choose one last song - a swan song, if you will.
The Soundtrack: Screw you. I'll do no such thing, and you ca- wait, what's... What's wrong with your face? Jesus Christ.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Tick-tock, tick-tock man. Make it count, assuming you can.
The Soundtrack: F-Fine! You want a song? Here it is. I hope you choke on it, bitch.
The (Pipe) BombPop: If only I could, but you know...
The Scrapist: Where you are with.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Right you are, Mr. Tuna Casserole, but oh, look; the poor sap's gone and wet himself. Hysterical and useless as Yorke would say.
The Coyote's Grudge: I'll be over there. I don't want any part of this.
The (Pipe) BombPop: Keep saying that and sooner or later someone's bound to believe you. Nevertheless: un, deux, trois, cinq.
The Scrapist: Alas, alas; crushed like a bug in the ground.
P.S. Yeah, the count goes 'one, two, three, five' but that's just in reference to a song on the sidebar.
