It was nearly a decade ago at Bobwundaye, in its old location in Taipei, in the middle of a typhoon. Katrina Ku dragged me up there, got up on a chair, and yelled at everyone to shut up and listen. Then she offered me a shot, which I had to refuse because I was about to throw up. When it was over I believed, if only for the night, that I was an artist. Whatever bridge I end up under, whatever bottle I drown in, I’ll be forever grateful to her for that.
The packed bar was silent, the typhoon raged outside. Everyone looked at me. I said this:
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