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You are what you eat. Really? Is that true? I love eating ???? (nakjee bokkum, or spicy little octopus tenticles) — does that make me a spicy sea dwelling animal?
In the instance of this blog, I am writing about my life. The writing is autobiographical, it’s based on my experiences. So am I what I write? Is my life what I write? Some might say so, but I think not.
The second that I write about any experience, the I that is me, disappears. It might have been Foucault or Lacan or some other French pre-cursor to deconstructionism that said “when the author writes, he disappears into the words”. Through writing, I become non-existent. All that is left behind, is words. The words are read by a reader, and digested and thought about by that reader, but the author who penned them has vanished and is gone.
These words are a boat that I send off on a suicide mission in the deep and dangerous waters of the internet. These words are sent off absent of my name so that I don’t get google-harpooned to death.
These words are fictions of my life. They are not really me, and they are not to be confused with me, but I’m afraid my reader might not know that. When I send these words off, when I hit “PUBLISH” I leave myself open to your interpretations, judgments, and accusations. In Korea, where reputation and image and status is everything–this is incredibly true. It rings true everywhere else, but it seems to be especially harsh here.
Through this medium I wish to express the things that I would never dare to express to my boss, or some of my co-workers, but that I feel that I must tell. I understand that as readers, we love to attach a name, a person, a soul to what we read. I know that authors love to attach their soul to what they write, but “ it ain’t me, babe “. If you want that in a writer, I urge you to read on and continue to read, as a formula, a style, a better purpose and understanding will emerge from this exercise, but you chose not to–that’s okay too. I know that some of you will be angered by what you read. Oftentimes I can’t stand reading blogs because it really is a form of torture for me. I get so fed up with some people and their ideas. I’m as unfaithfaul to blogs as I am unfaithful to women I date. I can’t stand them after awhile. I lose interest, and I move on. I only expect you to do the same.
Sex sells, sex grabs attention. I got your attention with the title of the blog. Now some of you will be interested. Some of you will sit and read with your ears perked up. Some of you will get a boner. Some of you will double click your mouse. I will want you to double click your mouse. Some of you will get really angry with me and go over to the “Report as Mature” option and report me to the authorities at WordPress. Some of you will write me nasty e-mails or leave me nasty comments. Some of you will be left with the notion that “those dirty fucking foreigners teaching English in Korea really are losers who just come over here to steal our women ” and some of you will become obsessed with hating me, and you will read these words only to disagree with them and churn up some ball of hate inside of you for what you think I am and what you think I represent– all of this okay. I am fine with it, but really, I just don’t want my name, my beautiful name (it really is a beautiful name, I swear, I’d love to see it up here _______ _______ it’d look so nice in bold 14 point Times New Roman!) but no, no I just can’t do it! I just can’t do it for me, for my family name, for my future children, for my job, and for my employer, and for my country (bullshit!).
If I must have a name, if you must call me something, call me “ Danny” short for “ Daniel” .
Deconstruction’s got my back. I’m disappearing into this thing with every stroke of the keys. Hello…Goodbye…
Like a magic trick. I’m disappearing into this thing and never coming out of it. You want Sex With Seoul (or sex with soul), I’ll tell you about it.
Anonymity is a good thing. It’s sometimes it’s a good thing….
and now an anecdote from The Book of Daniel.
Back in New York there was this girl that I dated. I met her when I got invited to her apartment through a friend of a friend of a friend. She was having a Halloween party. I can remember it pretty well because I showed up sober, and I remember thinking that it would really suck. It was an okay party. This girl was a nurse and her roommate was a nurse too. The roommate was this hot Trinidadian girl with skin the color of burnt sienna (you know, the Crayola crayon color), and maybe it didn’t even really look like burnt sienna, like the way that Crayola made it, but in my mind, synesthetically, the color of her skin made me smell something burnt, like the burnt bark of a tree, or some burnt incense. She was dressed up like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. The other girl was a tall curvy white woman dressed up as Flapper Girl, or like a 1920’s flapper dancer or something. She had on this sparkly ruby red dress and these fishnet stockings, and these heels, and a shiny black wig that was in a bob. She had blue eyes, and thin lips that she made bigger with red lipstick. She smoked her cigarettes out of a cigarett holder, she was a fantastic host, but she was nowhere near as memorable as her roommate, the sexy Trinidadian girl dressed up like Dorothy with the burnt sienna skin.

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