Everything else on this site is a guide — where to eat, what to watch, how to get from the airport to your hotel without crying. This page is the opposite. It's just me, drawn as a small white bun with three hairs, living a completely unremarkable Korean life on the other side of the world. No advice. No rankings. Just the things that happen when you grew up in Korea and now keep a suspicious number of kimchi jars in an Australian fridge.

A few ground rules for the diary: the face never changes (that's the joke), every story is at least 80% true, and nobody in it has a real name — not me, not the friend, not the cashier. If you recognise yourself in any of these, hello. You're probably Korean, or you've lived with one.

episode 4 New

"subtitles"

September 2026
4-panel comic: a friend excitedly asks the Korean character to watch a K-drama with no subtitles; four minutes of characters arguing at double speed later, the Korean character silently turns subtitles back on to the friend's shock, then admits with a relieved smile: subtitles on, always, even in my own language.
Read the transcript
  1. Movie night. Friend: "You're Korean! Let's watch this K-drama with NO subtitles. Teach me!" (confidence: hers · dread: mine)
  2. On screen, characters argue at 2x human speed. Subtitles: OFF. Same face. (minutes survived: 4)
  3. *click* — subtitles: ON. Friend's eyes go round. (no words were exchanged)
  4. Friend: "Wait... you too?" Me, finally relaxed: "Subtitles on. Always. Even in my language." (mumbling exists in every country) (friendship: deepened)
episode 3

"the rice cooker"

September 2026
4-panel comic: on moving day a small white character anxiously hugs a box labeled 밥솥 (rice cooker) while 14 boxes wait; ten minutes after arriving only one box is open and the rice cooker is being plugged in; thirty minutes in, the cooker sings its melody and dinner is perfect with no furniture; that night the character sleeps happily under a pink blanket next to the glowing cooker, saying 'Home.'
Read the transcript
  1. Moving day, new country. Hugging one box like a baby: 밥솥 (rice cooker), FRAGILE. (boxes: 14 · held like a baby: 1)
  2. 10 minutes after arriving. Boxes everywhere, one open. Plugging in the rice cooker first. (boxes opened: 1 · priorities: clear)
  3. 30 minutes after arriving. The cooker sings its little melody; dinner on a cardboard box. (it sings when the rice is done. of course it does.) (dinner: perfect · furniture: none)
  4. That night. Asleep under the blanket next to the glowing cooker. "Home." (unpacking: tomorrow) (priorities: correct)
episode 2

"the diagnosis"

September 2026
4-panel comic: a small white character watches a medical drama at 11 PM looking anxious (patient: fictional, stress: real), wakes up thinking 'my arm feels weird', spends 40 minutes searching the symptom on a phone, and ends up under a pink blanket saying 'Rest. Doctor's orders' (diagnosis: too much drama).
Read the transcript
  1. Tuesday, 11 PM. On the sofa, medical drama on. "...intense." (patient: fictional. stress: real.)
  2. Wednesday, 7 AM. Looking at my own arm. Thought bubble: "...my arm feels weird." (arm: fine. probably.)
  3. Wednesday, 7:10 AM. Phone: "arm feels weird" — about 127,000,000 results. (search time: 40 min)
  4. Wednesday, 7:50 AM. Under the blanket, relieved. "Rest. Doctor's orders." (doctor: the one on TV) (diagnosis: too much drama)
episode 1

"the kimchi situation"

August 2026
4-panel comic: a small white character opens a fridge with one nearly empty kimchi jar (status: critical), calculates '3 days', buys six jars at an Asian mart while the cashier asks 'Just one?', and the fridge is now completely full of kimchi (crisis: averted).
Read the transcript
  1. Sunday. Fridge open. One kimchi jar, a quarter full. (status: critical)
  2. Thought bubble: "3 days." One drop of sweat. (calculation time: 0.2 sec)
  3. Asian mart, 20 min later. Six jars on the counter. Cashier: "Just one?" Me: "...six."
  4. Sunday, 6 PM. Fridge: eleven jars of kimchi, nothing else. "Safe now." (crisis: averted) (space for other food: none)
episode 0

"just one episode"

August 2026
4-panel comic: at 10 PM a small white character under a pink blanket says 'One episode.' The show ends on 'TO BE CONTINUED'. At 3:12 AM the same expressionless face says '...one more.' Next morning a friend asks 'Rough night?' and the character, holding a third coffee, answers 'I regret nothing.'
Read the transcript
  1. 10:00 PM. On the sofa, blanket on, phone up. "One episode." (blanket: deployed)
  2. On screen: "The real heir is—" TO BE CONTINUED. Same face. One drop of sweat. "..."
  3. 3:12 AM. Dark room, phone glow, eye bags. "...one more." (face: unchanged)
  4. Next morning. Friend: "Rough night?" Me, with coffee: "I regret nothing." (coffee: third one)

About the character

She's me, more or less: a Korean who has lived abroad for a long time, runs on coffee and kimchi, and has exactly one facial expression for all occasions. The three hairs are important — that's how you tell her apart from the friend (curly line), the shop customer (one tall strand) and everyone else who wanders in. Reactions are done with sweat drops, eye bags and posture, never the face. I find this very relatable.

The diary has no schedule; an episode appears when a small true thing happens that's worth four panels. If you'd like them delivered, the Seoul Mate newsletter below gets the new ones first, along with the week's watch-and-eat picks. And if you're a pinner, every episode is drawn at pin size on purpose — go ahead.

💬 Suggest an episode

Lived-in-Korea moments, "my Korean friend does this" moments, "I married one and now our fridge looks like that" moments — send them over. Real names never appear; ridiculous situations always welcome.