“Delicate” is not a word I like. Wan people are delicate, and you know how I feel about wan people.
I don’t like making delicate things, be they foods or crafts. They’re fiddly and intricate and time-consuming, and require patience.
I don’t like delicate issues that require sensitive handling or tact, because I have neither. And I don’t like people with delicate health, or fragile dispositions.
I don’t like subtleties. I don’t like pastels. And I don’t like the delicate washing cycle which always leaves clothes too wet to dry.
I like things that are robust, bold, vibrant, strong, distinct and overstated, such as the co-authors of this blog.
There’s only one thing worse than a delicate person, and that’s a person who hates delicate people having to admit they feel delicate themselves.
And that’s me, right now.
I have an enormous infected pustulous lump in my armpit, some kind of gross, angry staph infection. When I went to the doctor, they told me to wait until it was ready to burst, then come back. I waited two days, practically unable to move my arm, or find any comfortable position to sleep in, then returned. As soon as I gingerly raised my arm as much as I could for the doctor’s inspection, the lump erupted in an explosion of pus. I guess it was ready.
It turns out a pustulous armpit is exactly what it takes to throw me off my game. I came back to Hanoi with energy and excitement to Get Shit Done in our remaining few months, and instead I’ve spent the past five days in a self-pitying slump at my desk, precious petal that I am.
Is it because of this slump (and this lump) that I can’t even work out how to end this post? Will I be forever wan? All I know is I wasn’t wrong about people with delicate dispositions. They really are goddamn annoying.