He was fluent in Japanese and much younger than me but we didn’t care. He was trying to learn Korean for me. It was rather cute but I preferred him to speak in Japanese than in Korean. He couldn’t get the accent 100%, which bothered me. I also like how smooth Japanese sounds, it rolls off your tongue so much nicer than some other Asian languages.
I, in return, would try to speak Japanese with him but the only words I’d say were extremely inappropriate. I would lovingly refer to him as チンカス (chinkasu) which means smegma or dick cheese and he would laugh about it. He was much more proper than I was but I think I rubbed off on him because he was becoming more offensive with his Korean. And TBH, I liked it.
He wrote a poem for me. He mentioned writing in a different font, so I questioned him about why I hadn’t seen it in this magical other font he was talking about. He was probably hoping that I would have forgotten about it…but I didn’t. I remember everything, it’s just a matter of whether or not I want to confront someone about it or let it slide because it’s petty or I don’t have the bandwidth to address it. This for whatever reason leads people to think that I’m forgetful or stupid, which I am neither.
In this particular instance, I was feeling quite feisty actually. I mean if you’re going to do something, you should do it right for fuck’s sake.
Anyway, he wrote the poem in a different font and had it framed when he gave it to me. It looked amazing. It felt very special to me. I mean it should because the poem was about me but still. I melted. What girl doesn’t love this sorta shit, eh?
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