Stalling Tactics


Mart. Luther

Here, for no reason, is a picture of a book made my Martin Luther.

Faithful readers,

Know, if nothing else, I feel deeply beholden and committed to providing you with fresh verbiage. Even now I am toiling in the word mines, chipping away at gleaming, fibrous adjectives and adverbs, preparing them to be refined into the glorious, perspicacious gems I usually present to you. My face is sweat-slick and my fingers are stained with soot and printer ink. My back aches from using the pick-saw–a pickaxe mixed with a chainsaw–which, as you know, is the tool of most writers. Letters and pronouns litter the ground of my home, waiting to be caressed and loved, shaped into something meaningful, something to be consumed by the ravenous, word-hungry monsters that make up my audience. I feel your hunger pangs, your need, and I feel like a pile of useless garbage when I cannot provide.

Unfortunately, I am not paid to sit in my pyjamas and type my laborious anecdotes into my laptop. I am paid to educate a flock of international tots, and also to write their report cards. If you’ve ever seen a report card before, know that it is essentially a compressed, flattened sliver of a teacher’s soul, rent from their very being and hammered into something presentable for you via hours and hours of tireless work and tedious record-checking. If you collected all of your children’s report cards and smushed them together, you could probably clone a whole new teacher from the amount of DNA you’d collected in teacher tears staining the pulp of the paper.

Also, as of right now Suzhou is in the midst of a massive smog-in, where the pollution has decided to pull up a seat and hang around for well over a week. The air smells like a burnt Mountain Dew bottle, and inhaling it feels like smoking a cigarette backwards, and also you eat the cigarette afterwards. The sky is the colour of rectal cancer. It’s not a good time, is all I’m saying.

Content is percolating in my blog folder. There are heaps of unfinished posts waiting to be loved. And they will be loved soon enough. Possibly when I’m on a 15 hour flight to Canada for Christmas. Until then, I hope that at least one of the metaphors or similes above has caused your facial muscles to flex uncontrollably into rictus or, failing that, a smile.

See you on the road,

Stupid Ugly Foreigner

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