Only two weeks left before the end of my academic career, there was a moment where guest faculty ganged up on me about cutting my hair and fixing my tooth for Korean conformity. That these writers, who should have open minds, ordered me to do that dumbfounded me.

My student reading was during the third week—closing, same as the year before—overly critical even after listening to the recording. I got a refund check the next day, which sustained me into South Korea (I had had to save and scrimp and save before that). Thus I purchased some pot, working on Mister Pothead drafts eleven and twelve.

Cried at the end of the SWP, old tears—letting them out something new. After finishing the final manuscript, I was afflicted with a deeper spiritual hunger than ever before, reading books I had put off reading for a while.

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