Bad Wife, Bad Life

 

(The Dragon Lady's voice makes me ill.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty dump. Ninety-one people died in Korea last year due to bicycle accidents. And I’m a little shocked that the number isn’t actually higher. South Korea is densely populated, and the traffic is insane. Yet these biking maniacs constantly make a nuisance of themselves, riding on both the streets and the sidewalks. Silly motherfuckers.

I walked to the kitchen and prepared breakfast for Rice-Boy. I served him bacon and hash browns. After that, it was time to catch the bus. As I made my way through the crosswalk during a green light, I was almost mown down by an aggressive lunatic driving a BMW. I shit you not. To make matters worse, the son of a bitch actually blew his horn at me as if I were the one at fault. The balls on that motherfucker.

I eventually arrived at my office before 7:30 a.m. And I waved to my friend and colleague Richard Hurtz who was standing at the watercooler.

I said, “This chilly weather is really fantastic. It must be my age. When I was a youth, I enjoyed summer a great deal. But not anymore. I’m a winter boy all the way these days.”

He frowned at me. “I think you have it backwards.”

“Backwards?”

“Yes. Old people usually hate the cold. They’re always complaining about drafts and constantly wearing sweaters. Kids, on the other hand, seem to tolerate the cold far better than adults.”

I shrugged. “Well, perhaps I’m aging in reverse.”

He nodded. “Stranger things have happened.”

My day at work was OK. I’m currently reading The Necklace with my middle school students. It’s a story about a spoiled want-to-be princess who ruins her husband’s life with her childish behavior. The author is Guy de Maupassant. His writing instructor was none other than Gustave Flaubert.

I looked at the children. “Poor Mr. Maupassant went crazy and died in an asylum in Paris.”

One girl raised her hand. “What was wrong with him?”

“I’m not sure. But if I had to guess, I’d go with an extreme case of OCD.”

“What were his symptoms?”

“Who knows? But he wrote this story called The Piece of String. In it, the protagonist keeps insisting to his neighbors that he’s not a thief. He simply can’t stop himself. And the poor guy spends years and years telling the same story over and over again until he finally dies. Sort of like a broken record player.”

“Did he wash his hands a lot?”

I sighed heavily. “I’m not sure. But the main symptom of OCD is intrusive thoughts which lead to crippling anxiety. But I’m certainly not a psychiatrist. I’m simply speculating.”

Around 1 p.m., I had a phone call. It was the Dragon Lady. My heart began to race, and beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. Her very presence is akin to shaking hands with the devil. Her mere voice actually makes me physically ill. I’m not exaggerating.

She said, “I dwive to da apartment tomollow.”

“Home come?”

“I must tawk with da leal-estate rady.”

“Why?”

“It about bidness, you fucken idiot.”

“OK. Business. I got it.”

“I buy Rarry two pair of shoe. Where I put dem?”

“You can leave them outside the door.”

Then she hung up on me.

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