I've been getting on my own case for a while now trying to make some changes in my recently lax lifestyle here in Korea. I've already successfully implemented one big change - my lessons are now much more carefully planned than they had been in the past, with varying levels of success.
I figure the only way to really make myself do these things (I've had several "this is the day" moments already) is to publicly hold myself to these changes I'm looking to enact:
~I will get to bed earlier and wake up earlier. This will probably take a while but baby steps here, people.
~I will be all about breakfast. I miss it.
~I will get to the gym four times a week. Since I'm switching over to the YMCA when my contract at Prime Gym runs out, the inclusion of a swimming pool and squash court should provide added incentive to get my slothful behind out there.
~I will resume reasonable progress on writing projects. These include letters and this here blog.
Well, I'm publicly accountable now.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
The Story of How I, Tyler Stokes, Quite Nearly Saved a Dog
Gather round, friends, and listen to my tale!
This is The Story of How I, Tyler Stokes, Quite Nearly Saved a Dog.
I was walking home from Lotte Mart, my arms burdened with creative metaphors for heavy objects, when I espied not five feet in front of my lumbering legs a 20-something Korean woman holding in her arms a dog quite miniscule.
The dog was garbed in regalia most fantastic! It sported a gray cotton sweatshirt, complete with hood, and over that a rather stylish red sweater vest. Its eyes were quite protuberant, but as we walked the little fellow did not seem to notice your humble storyteller.
When we the weary travelers arrived unto an intersection, yea, the young Korean maid placed yon dog upon a sturdy stone pedestal inscribing the corner of the intersection. The young chap was quite well-behaved and stood steadily upon the pedestal, casting his vision this way and that.
Finally his bulging eyes alighted upon your humble storyteller, and into my own eyes deeply he stared. His smallish doggy mouth began to move, as if it were forming the words, "help me." Small mournful moans escaped his canine lips. His eyes testified unto me untold mortification, the unbridled shame of being a dog in a sweater vest. "Help me," his eyes said, "Yea, for I know I am but a dog, but even a dog such as myself must surely be learned enough in the ways of the world to understand that a sweater vest belongs not on anyone, but indeed it is especially ill-suited for the likes of a dog such as myself."
"I know not what I might do to help thee," mine own eyes replied unto the mongrel. "Your owner wears heels sharp enough to punch a hole straight through my abdominal wall."
At this juncture in our wordless communion, the dogly chap's owner noticed his unwavering stare in the direction of your humble fable-weaver, and she straightaway bent down and hoisted the fellow back into the smothering grasp of her arms.
Delightfully, the small lad was undeterred, and swiveled his head around to resume eye contact. His eyes pleaded more strongly than before. "You have the power to stop this!" they exclaimed.
"I'm sorry," was all the reply my cowardly self could muster.
When his beheeled captor noticed his attempt to reestablish eye contact with your unworthy narrator, she immediately shifted his weight until his head was facing forward-ways again. Each time she did this, the indefatigable mongrel turned his head so his eyes again were staring deep into mine. This small struggle occurred five or six times, yea, and with each occurrence the beleaguered beagle's plea grew fainter and yet somehow more desperate. "You have the power to stop this."
Finally, the smartly-dressed maid won out, and repositioned the pooch so that he could not see your humble storyteller. Frustrated, the wee mongrel nipped the vixen smartly on the nose! I inwardly cheered the small victory of my captured companion, but outwardly maintained a strict aura of indifference to avoid the unpleasant possibility of a three-inch heel swinging sideways upside my brow.
This has been The Story of How I, Tyler Stokes, Quite Nearly Saved a Dog.
This is The Story of How I, Tyler Stokes, Quite Nearly Saved a Dog.
I was walking home from Lotte Mart, my arms burdened with creative metaphors for heavy objects, when I espied not five feet in front of my lumbering legs a 20-something Korean woman holding in her arms a dog quite miniscule.
The dog was garbed in regalia most fantastic! It sported a gray cotton sweatshirt, complete with hood, and over that a rather stylish red sweater vest. Its eyes were quite protuberant, but as we walked the little fellow did not seem to notice your humble storyteller.
When we the weary travelers arrived unto an intersection, yea, the young Korean maid placed yon dog upon a sturdy stone pedestal inscribing the corner of the intersection. The young chap was quite well-behaved and stood steadily upon the pedestal, casting his vision this way and that.
Finally his bulging eyes alighted upon your humble storyteller, and into my own eyes deeply he stared. His smallish doggy mouth began to move, as if it were forming the words, "help me." Small mournful moans escaped his canine lips. His eyes testified unto me untold mortification, the unbridled shame of being a dog in a sweater vest. "Help me," his eyes said, "Yea, for I know I am but a dog, but even a dog such as myself must surely be learned enough in the ways of the world to understand that a sweater vest belongs not on anyone, but indeed it is especially ill-suited for the likes of a dog such as myself."
"I know not what I might do to help thee," mine own eyes replied unto the mongrel. "Your owner wears heels sharp enough to punch a hole straight through my abdominal wall."
At this juncture in our wordless communion, the dogly chap's owner noticed his unwavering stare in the direction of your humble fable-weaver, and she straightaway bent down and hoisted the fellow back into the smothering grasp of her arms.
Delightfully, the small lad was undeterred, and swiveled his head around to resume eye contact. His eyes pleaded more strongly than before. "You have the power to stop this!" they exclaimed.
"I'm sorry," was all the reply my cowardly self could muster.
When his beheeled captor noticed his attempt to reestablish eye contact with your unworthy narrator, she immediately shifted his weight until his head was facing forward-ways again. Each time she did this, the indefatigable mongrel turned his head so his eyes again were staring deep into mine. This small struggle occurred five or six times, yea, and with each occurrence the beleaguered beagle's plea grew fainter and yet somehow more desperate. "You have the power to stop this."
Finally, the smartly-dressed maid won out, and repositioned the pooch so that he could not see your humble storyteller. Frustrated, the wee mongrel nipped the vixen smartly on the nose! I inwardly cheered the small victory of my captured companion, but outwardly maintained a strict aura of indifference to avoid the unpleasant possibility of a three-inch heel swinging sideways upside my brow.
This has been The Story of How I, Tyler Stokes, Quite Nearly Saved a Dog.
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