Brad Pitt is my spirit animal

Brad Pitt became my spirit animal after mom died. He came to me when I was in St. Louis, a couple weeks after the funeral. I went to stay with pops that first month after her funeral. It had been two weeks since she died. I had snuck some THC oil from my local dispensary, onto my carry-on.

I’m pretty sensitive to THC, but, through trial and error, I found the right dosage for my light weight condition — 15 drops. The oily tincture takes about two hours to break down in my liver, and then activate its mild, and sometimes moderate, psychoactive effects. I would squeeze out the tiny droplets under my tongue when I awoke each morning, and then head off to the gym with pops. It was hard to wake up in a world without mom. She was the first person I loved. And for the first couple years of my life, the only person I Ioved. Being born the only male in a Korean American family with three daughters, is a sickly sweet blessing. I was spoiled rotten.

My mom was drop-dead gorgeous. I could show you pictures of her when she was in her 20s and 30s, 40s, Christ, even in her 50s and 60s; you’d say, “Yes. She’s so beautiful.” I loved her as any child does; without question, and without any doubt of her unconditional love. It was pure. My love for her was joyful, playful, and full of wonder. Little did I know about the layers of trauma, and the dark side of her moon, that she’d imprint upon me a world of deep insecurity and codependent relationships.

The night before Brad showed up, my dad and I had eaten some Korean noodles in blackbean sauce. It’s a heart bomb concoction of big doughy noodles, covered with thick blackbean sauce that’s mixed in with diced potatoes, beef, shrimp, and calamari. I slurped back a couple Macallan 12s afterwards, and went to bed.

I woke up bloated, but ready for the gym. It was there when I realized that THC could hit me differently in my grief. I heard Brad’s foot steps pacing behind me. His angry breaths, and forced sighs, hitting the back of my neck, as I hungoverly tried to conduct my workout.

“You want me to give you a Missoura whoopin? Then grab that weight, and squeeze out 20, and then after that, give me another 20. And after that? Hit the bench, you got a little saggy after that jjajangmyeon you had last night.”

So, enter Brad Pitt, the most famous Missourian of all time, besides Mark Twain, to begin speaking through me at a St. Louis gym in the middle of March, 2020; it was a couple days before the world would shut down, and then became disgusted with itself in its locked-in loneliness. And he didn’t give a shit that I was in a state of despair. He wanted me to get back in shape, to heal, and to exhibit a sense of worldly wonder again.