BEYONCE GOES TO KOREA . . .

I'm so sad, Beyonce is leaving me.

No, that's not her real name, but that's how sassy she is. And she has hair like Beyonce too, sometimes, though she doesn't often whip it about in a dancing frenzy like Beyonce. But I bet she could.

Oh, Beyonce.

You know what kind of girl Beyonce is? She's the kind of girl who will joke with me about feeling like she's high on the crack-cocaine because she's been awake for the past four days. But then, she'll turn right around and clench my hands in hers and fervently tell me why I must make amends -- heartfelt, true, lasting amends -- with a mutual friend whom she loves as much as she loves me. She's the kind of girl who will snort and point and guffaw at the butchered nail-polish job her daughters did on me (only on the left hand, because I have to eat with the right). But then, she'll look me in the eye and tell me and try to convince me that I have deep-seated giftings worth cultivating. She's the kind of girl who will throw back a sour-apple martini ... or two ... or three, and encourage me to do the same. But then, she'll lean forward intently and give me marriage advice that she thinks I'm really going to need, because she's so much more confident than I am that I will find The One soon. She's the kind of girl who will refuse to laugh at my pirate joke -- the best bad joke ever heard by man -- but then proceed to tell all her bad Korean-pun jokes and laugh at herself. But then, she'll confess her feelings and thoughts to me and ask for prayer and friendship and sisterhood. She's the kind of girl who'll pick my nose, pull my hair, pinch my arm, thwack my forehead, pull on my skirt, ruffle my bangs, and give me the evil googly-eye for no reason. But then, she'll lean conspiratorially into my shoulder and we'll put our heads together for an hour-long private conversation about the meaning of life and humanity, even while sitting in the middle of a large crowd of people who want to talk to us but we don't want to talk to them.

In such a short time, months really, Beyonce has become like such a ... well, the phrase is so trite and I hate to make our sisterhood meaningless, so I won't complete the sentence.

File her under "People I Have Come to Love Like We Share Blood Who Leave Me Temporarily But I Know They Are Coming Back So I Won't Grieve Too Much, But Just a Little Bit, For Just a Short While, and So I Must Trust in the Revealing and Intimate Power of Email Until the Date of Return."