Imports

Went to Seogwipo with my counterpart in Sara(h), met Gretchen, agreed that I don’t get out enough, re-realized that I have a personality when I’m not try-ing ve-ry haard to. be. un-der-stood. Returning, caught a bus to the terminal out by the world cup stadium, which is next to E-mart, Sarah needed socks. Let me tell you what I almost bought at E-Mart.

Like mosquitos to my exposed ears in bed at night, we both veered against our conscious wills into the aisle of alcohol. I exclaimed “Oh my god” and picked up a bottle from the top level of the racks of wine, and exclaimed further, “Boone’s Farm!” It had a little American flag on the price tag to indicate the country of origin, like it was a German Reisling.

It might have been funny to buy it, would have recalled the summer after sophomore year, eating Antoons pizza with Randee and watching some movie about a kid following a band whose title I can’t remember. But a huge bottle of “wine product” weaker than beer is not worth $5. I bought Bailey’s instead. And berated myself without much intensity for my decadent lifestyle as I sat on the floor in my bedroom, re-crocheted the hat I had unraveled earlier in the day, and sipped my Irish cream on the rocks while watching episodes of House on DVD that Sarah lent me.

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