It's About That Time

Dear Korea,

    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.