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dopaminoname: song minho
nickname: mino
band/solo: winner
journal: dopamino
aim: baldmino
age: 20
dob: november 20th, 1994
year: junior
dorms/off-campus housing: dorms
fraternity/sorority: n/a
major: health promotion
clubs/sports: basketball
biography:
[1999, july 30th, age 6]
"well," a younger woman in her early thirties drawls (vainglorious mother of kim ji hoon; golden boy and brilliant-in-every-aspect kid), a complacent expression thinly defining her features, "no one really does play dates anymore, wasn't this a great idea?"
"of course." an older woman responds (stouthearted mother of song minho; that simpleton kid who can sort-of run well and is sort-of-not-really good at studies) with an affable smile, but there's a certain tightness laced in her voice.
"your son —" ji hoon's mom starts, and there's a shriek in the background (minho stumbling down a slide and landing face first into the sand) that she blatantly ignores, "he's... very active isn't he?"
"yep."
another shriek (minho losing his shoe and gawkily crashing into his friend).
"it must be very lively in your house. how many children did you say you have again?"
"six —" the older woman's short laugh is drowned in the aftermath of her son being chased by a bee (more shrieks).
"five daughters. one idiot."--------------------
[2006, november 12th, age 13]
it's five p.m and a certain eight grader is sure — twice the sure he usually is — he's the happiest kid alive. he's a perspiring tousled mess in his kitchen, still clad in in his rugby uniform, running shoes thinly coated in muck. shoes in the house is nothing short of a death wish but there's a reason why he's so negligent in his manners today; there's a wrinkled piece of paper attached to the cool, stainless steel exterior of his fridge and he stares, eager, happy and jittery.
"is that —" a voice from behind startles him and minho swivels around on his heels, stumbling back.
her eyes are narrowed slits. she leans in to briefly touch the tarnished paper above his head and the boy flattens himself against the fridge with bated breath.
"a really good grade you've never seen me bring home in my last pitiful thirteen years of life?" minho spews out a plausible response his mother isn't able to generate because she's busy holding his paper up to the light.
"ma, what are you doing —"
"is this real?"
"heh, yeah." he puffs his chest out when his mother finally pulls away, grinning toothily at her stunned expression.
"oh my god, there's still hope."
"haha, yeah — wait, what do you mean by that —"--------------------
his mother leaves it up on the fridge that day and brings it up during dinner, content and proud. his face hurts because he never stops smiling, and in his bed that night he whispers to himself, quiet with a spark of hope, this is the best day of my life.--------------------
a foretaste of a promised future, it becomes a pipe dream that fuels drive, and the boy aspires and fervently hopes for an influx of 'best days' he's never really had the luxury of.--------------------
[2008, april 1st, age 15]
he grows up, aware (a simmering suspicion) that he's always been an atypical child since birth, endowed with a relatively confusing mishmash in his genetic make up. he sports neither the looks nor the ideal insatiable traits of his father, and his mother is completely out of the question.
so the early comparison to their family dog is almost conclusive but he takes that pretty well.
at least until his third oldest sister decides to completely desecrate his life one day.
"minho-yah."
"what."
"there's... something i have to tell you."
"okay."
"have you, uh, ever noticed something really off about yourself while you were growing up?"
"yeah ugh —"
"what, really —"
"androgenetic alopecia. male pattern baldness; have you seen how much my hairline has receded —"
"no one in our family has that, minho."
"........................... what do you mean."
"i mean you're adopted."
"...."--------------------
the prank lasts approximately three and a half days. he spends his time in a slew of dramatic moments; mostly just lying in a fetus position, cocooned in his digimon blanket and crying himself to sleep (christina aguileira's beautiful on repeat). it ends when his mom finds him (in a situation systematically planned to attract her attention) trying to shove his last stained underwear into his backpack and choking out incoherent whispers of "establishing life in mountain monasteries", "pursuit of the noble eightfold path" and "human self-reflection".
his sister is beaten severely with a bristled broom that day, and his father reveals that his second cousin once removed is completely bald, enough to put the theatrical boy at ease.--------------------
[2009, september 14th, age 17]
it's a month after his seventeenth birthday that minho finds and seemingly accepts he doesn't possess any extraordinary talents (except that one time in middle school when he narrowly won the 'who can spit the farthest' competition and was reigning champ for about three years or so), magical abilities (at which point the words 'mom you haven't been confiscating my hogwarts letters have you' and 'quiet you insolent muggle' were banned from the house), or super powers (although he did believe for quite a while he had a very special connection with pigeons) —
but he also finds that he's quite alright with this new found — enlightenment, is it?
yeah, he thinks he's okay.
(he isn't.)
(it leaves internal acceptance and self-love tarnished.)--------------------
the night before his final exam, he dreams of tens and hundreds of immovable papers plastered against his fridge. minho never finds that day he'd been so adamant, adamant, adamant for — not once.
and that quiet spark, he had held onto so dearly, gradually succumbs to the doldrums of a flawed education system.--------------------
he graduates however with mediocre colors, and his sisters put together enough to buy him a second-hand video camera.
and in the midst of a half-hearted celebration, a flurry of kisses on the cheek, and nerve-wracking cliched words of support, minho's stomach clenches with anxiety so many times he thinks he might puke. still, he smiles through it all, stiff and exhausted, and hates that his cheeks hurt for all the wrong fucking reasons.
he goes to bed early that night, camera in hand and unfamiliar fear coursing through his veins, thinking he prefers the dispiriting stagnancy of education —
he's not quite ready for the real world yet.--------------------
