Most things are going swimmingly on the Eastern front, but my host father is kind of a tool.

Dear Mr. Oh,
I was hoping we'd get to bond a little bit this weekend during that fishing excursion you proposed for Sunday. Instead, you woke up the house by banging away at a piece of shit coffee table for the house. You didn't fool anyone, we know you didn't make it yourself. It's ugly, clashes with all the other mismatched wood in the house, and smells like a combination turpentine and urine. You also have no feng shui with furniture and I'm surprised god himself has not reprimanded you for your lack of taste. I hate to tell you, but your "natural" looking table is atrocious and in America that kind of ineptitude is worthy of divorce.

The fishing trip would have redeemed your poor purchase, but as usual you disappeared and left me to wonder if you really meant it about the fishing trip. I'm just fortunate to have been pseudo-adopted by Rafiq's family. They took me orange picking, which, I regret to inform you, we were also supposed to do LAST weekend. I wish you could have seen the teachers' faces when I told them that I didn't go orange picking, they read "liar!" all over. You're dead to me Mr. Oh.

But don't get me wrong. I still want to live in your house. It's quite convenient and your son needs a good role model since you lack the neccesary skills. Hell, the electric blanket alone is worth enduring you. Maybe I just have high standards for a father, maybe I'm still pissed about you laughing in my face, or maybe it's just me, but either way, you suck.

Sincerely,
The guy who lives in your house and eats all your kimchi when you're away.