I finished the boring-ass informatization article today. You know how sometimes you can read something over and over and you realize you're not paying attention so you really bring your mind to fore and you STILL don't understand what the hell you're reading because it makes the U.S. tax code look like bedtime reading for five-year-olds?

My brain kept insisting "You just have to concentrate, Helen" and I kept answering, "It's not me!" and it kept replying, "Puh-leez, nigga! Don't even be trying to pull dat shit" so I resorted to disapproving and slightly snotty remarks about appropriating another culture's vernacular, to which my brain smugly pointed out that in the end, I still had to read the stupid article, as it was my job.

So I didn't do a very good job, but that'll be between you and me.
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Pointless and Gross Skeeter Story

A couple of days ago, I was standing on a subway platform when the skin of my foot sent a message to my brain (annoying git that it is): "Slight burning sensation down here, B. Better have the eyes do a look-see." I glanced down to see the scourge of mankind, Mosquito, slurping happily away and automatically swatted it with my copy of Of Mice and Men. I think that's the first time I've ever killed a mosquito that was currently feeding on me (which doesn't include the times that someone else has killed a mosquito feeding on me for me, most memorably on the ninth grade class trip down the Colorado River: dusk, Sarah's Hand O' Vengeance, my own blood splatted across my arm, mixed with mosquito body parts).

So I was feeling pretty smug about that, since I don't know how many times Ms. Skeeter's bitten me without me noticing until the bite section swelled like Klaus Baudelaire after eating peppermints (Lemony Snicket ref) or Harry Potter's Aunt Marge (yes, I only read kids' books which is funny considering I hate kids).

The following day, the bite mark looked a little more bulbous than other bites, and I wondered if maybe Ms. Skeeter's proboscis had maybe gotten left behind when I whacked her out of this existence.

I was immediately grossed out by the thought, and remembered what my Japanese friends had told me that their mothers used to do when they got bitten as kids. Basically, they'd take their thumbnail and press it firmly twice into the center of the bite location, making a plus side, in order to drain the wound. So I decided to do this and lo and behold, some liquid came out, so I felt all, "Go Japanese moms!"

Until the next day.

When the bite mark featured a blister the size of the Goodyear blimp and my entire foot was feverish and swollen.

More amazed at the reaction than anything (I have a strange fascination with any wounds I have, self-inflicted or no), I just washed my foot and put some medicine on it and left for work. Later in the day, as I mentioned I was thinking of doing in yesterday's entry, I went to Gangnam and studied in a coffee shop for a while, then looked around in the Eigenpost store (which I've heard is part of the Gap? the clothes look like it). While I was debating buying a lime green tank top for 7,000 won (about $5), I absently swung my bag near my foot, and immediately felt a stab of pain.

The blimp had blown up. And the passengers, all carrying liter bottles of water, were strewn across my instep.

Okay, that's a bad metaphor. And this is a sick thing to describe. But you see what I mean. Blister. Broken. Lotsa liquidity. Grody to the max.

As of tonight, I think the swelling's gone down a bit, while the bite site has become curiously hard. I dunno. All's I know is that I'm not doing as the Japanese moms do. I think I'll stick to what Korean moms do, or at least my mom. To stop the itch, she would hit whatever part of you that had gotten bit with the flat of her hand.

Smack!
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And finally, I just had to write that last night I went for a walk with my dad on the banks of the Han River, and we stopped at a playground and played on all the equipment. We did the seesaw last, trying to get the "down" person into the "up" position from a motionless state, and laughing a lot. I think I might remember doing that til the end of my days.

It's strange. I know that my dad's a flawed man -- his past actions have proved that. But somehow, because we have similar senses of humor and (in certain aspects) similar personalities, I seem to have gotten over the fact that he's very flawed. Forgiven him, I guess. Or at least forgotten.

Is this why people are so willing to give George W. a pass for lying when they couldn't forgive Clinton for Oval Office sexcapades? Because they identify with him?

In any case, as my ex-shrink pointed out many months ago (is it strange that I keep in touch with my ex-shrink? she would probably tell me that it doesn't matter if you think it's strange, since I like it), even if I accomplish absolutely nothing else, getting along with my father again was worth the trip here.