I spent yesterday with Aunt Becca, more or less, who's in town on a whirlwind business trip. Her Grand Hyatt hotel is the swankiest place I've seen in a while. I ate french onion soup and sole (I filleted it myself!) and creme brulee and several glasses on Chilean wine, and we talked for four hours straight and it was surprisingly cathartic. I guess I really don't talk about myself all that much here. At least about things that matter.
Three days ago I was happy as a clam. Now my mind is saturated with the kind of thought clutter that weighs down the joints and clogs up motivation. Instead of writing grad school essays I'm worrying about gaining back all the weight I've lost. My energy dissipates into the Seoul skyline, my creativity is a creaky old swing in some abandoned playground. And I can't find the inspiration to do anything about it in this insipid daily life of mine.
2months2months2months2months2months2months2months
With a mantra like that it's easy to forget that I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do once I'm out of here.
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