But The Future Must Be Met

1: A Love Of Shoes Did This To Me, And I Have Nobody To Blame But Jimmy Choo

I am not commonly a violent woman. Being a violent woman, after all, seems like a lot of hard work. The scowling, the grumping, the marching. But believe you me, when I hear my alarm clock app go off at suck-my-dick-o'-clock in the morning, and I can no longer hit the 'snooze' button because I've already hit it six times in a row, I always manage to rethink my stance on violence.

I always come out on the side of non-violence. But it's not easy. The urge to pick up a knife and stab somebody at that hour is strong.

But because capitalism wins every time and apparently I have to get to Uni today because Professor Kim is an absolute urinal cake-shaped walnut shell, I have to throw my legs over the side of the bed – which, might I just say, is unpleasant because it's October already and shit's getting really cold outside of the warm, snuggly confines of my bed – and get up.

If you haven't hooed and haaed your way down the corridor on your tiptoes, trying not to touch the cold floor with your arms full of towel and clothes on your way to the shower, have you ever really lived? I think not.

Some women shower luxuriously, their bodies covered in light foam, their hair wet but lovely, sensual, enjoying their experience. Unfortunately, I am not the magical woman from the Dove Body Shower Gel commercial, so I spend my time predominantly scrubbing a loofah and some 99ct bodywash all over me, ducking in and out of the water spray when it suddenly turns cold for no reason and then goes back to hot, and do I really need to wash my hair? Can I get away with using dry shampoo today?

Don't misunderstand. I already know I can't. But if Professor Kim is going to force me to show up at class at eight AM, he's going to look at my greasy-ass hair and cringe in the same way I cringe at his nasty-ass face. In some ways, that kind of gives me some relief. To know that, petty as I am, my existence bothers him.

And it does bother him, and several others. The course I'm in is a high-brow cuisine course, and out of twelve of us, there's only two girls. We're not expected to be there. No, the ambition to be the head honcho in the kitchen is a male thing, and us females are expected to sit back and be sous-chefs and kitchen wenches.

Honestly, some days, it's the sheer will of petty feminism that gets me out of bed. If men weren't such dicks, I don't think I'd put in as much effort.

"Good morning!" I sigh a little at the sight in the kitchen and quickly cut Becca's crusts off her sandwich. "Don't eat such crappy food for breakfast in the first place. Jam and bread is empty carbs. Eat some protein."

She takes in my damp ponytail, the leather gloves scrunched in my left hand, phone precariously shoved in the tiny alcove that's meant to represent a back pocket, as I lean into the fridge to grab my water bottle. "You don't get to talk when you're not even going to eat breakfast."

She's right, of course – although, it's not my fault. Anything I attempt to digest at 7:30 is instantly rejected by my stomach, and throwing up in the subway in Seoul isn't cute.

"What time are you getting home?"

"Late – I'm going out with Ilhoon to a movie."

"Okay. Text me when you're on your way back, alright?"

"Sure."

I'm out of the building with few minutes to spare: for some reason, even though I have it all timed out, it's still a race to get to Uni on time. I don't know how it's possible, but I barely make it, every single morning. It's like inside my cosy goshiwon time goes by just a little slower than the outside world.