My Fucking Feelings

Being a witness

10.28.20. 4:10am

I miss when blogs didn’t have to have a point. Before we discovered that adding a picture got more clicks. I miss waking up in coffee shops. I noticed I’m very particular about the mug I use for my coffee these days. They have to be one of those thick $30 dollar mugs or the small tin ones you hook to a backpack, the kind that people post on Instagram when they go glamping so we think they’re cool and rugged. I have two. Not sure why I’ve become so picky with mugs all of the sudden. Maybe I like myself more today. Or I’ve realized that I have less time here.

My grandmother is dying. I remember she used to scrub me and my brother in the tub when we were way too old to be taking a bath with our grandmother. It’s a generational Korean thing to bathe your grandkids when they’re too old to be in the same tub with you. She’s a hard woman, tough as nails. She came to a family dinner with blood on her face once. Said someone guy tried to mug her. He was on a bike and tried to snag her purse but she didn’t let go. So she got dragged. She was in her early 80’s. She’s 93 now and still alive. But not living. When you witness a smile or a moment of joy in people who grew up in the depression or during war, it’s very satisfying. Like popping a ripe whitehead. I was always afraid my friends would hear us since the window of the bathroom was right next to the front door of the house and they often came by unannounced. I miss having friends who would come by unannounced. There’s a purity in it that…