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Kind of a Taiwan diary, kind of not.
So here’s the thing. I fucking love strawberries, right? They are one of my favorite fruits. In Idaho, it’s hard to get really good strawberries unless you can go to a farmer’s market. The strawberries available in stores are often big, bland, forcibly-ripened things that are virtually tasteless. They’re good filler for smoothies or vehicles for sugar. But in Taiwan, the conditions are perfect for strawberries. Not only are there lovely strawberries in most grocery stores, there are trucks parked throughout town with people selling flats of strawberries. There’s strawberry season specials all over. In some of the fancier grocery stores, you can even buy a four-pack of imported Japanese strawberries for something like THIRTY DOLLARS or more!!! Yes! You read that correctly. THIRTY US DOLLARS for FOUR STRAWBERRIES!
(I haven’t bought any, although I won’t like — I kind of want to try them, but while I’m happy to be frivolous for a lot of things, this sort of purchase is just too much for me.)
So strawberries. Abundant, affordable, delicious. I should be so happy, right?
Friends, I have bought a little flat of strawberries every week for the last six weeks, and every single one has rotted in my fridge. I have not eaten a single strawberry. I want them. I can buy them. I DO buy them. And then…I just don’t eat them. And I don’t know why.
I mean, I’m reasonably sure it’s a side effect to the stress from the toxic stew of a work environment, which in turn affects my physical well being (which is already turning a bit sketchy as I get older, which I am firmly ignoring because I just can’t handle it). And I’ve got another plagiarism issue to deal with, and this time, it’s the child of another teacher on campus, and I’m almost certain she’s the one who “helped” kiddo “write” this essay. So I have to email her about the kiddo’s grade and why I cannot accept the product that has been submitted (the prose is actually quite gorgeous and was most definitely not written by this sixth grader who, in response to an activity today, wrote TWO sentences in the paragraph reflection portion of the assignment). If she didn’t write it, then it’s a Chat GPT product. Plagiarism aside, it’s off topic so he fails anyway.
And the whole psychic static of the family issues is in the background.
It sure would be nice if I could have some delicious fruit, like strawberries.
Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
So here’s the thing. I fucking love strawberries, right? They are one of my favorite fruits. In Idaho, it’s hard to get really good strawberries unless you can go to a farmer’s market. The strawberries available in stores are often big, bland, forcibly-ripened things that are virtually tasteless. They’re good filler for smoothies or vehicles for sugar. But in Taiwan, the conditions are perfect for strawberries. Not only are there lovely strawberries in most grocery stores, there are trucks parked throughout town with people selling flats of strawberries. There’s strawberry season specials all over. In some of the fancier grocery stores, you can even buy a four-pack of imported Japanese strawberries for something like THIRTY DOLLARS or more!!! Yes! You read that correctly. THIRTY US DOLLARS for FOUR STRAWBERRIES!
(I haven’t bought any, although I won’t like — I kind of want to try them, but while I’m happy to be frivolous for a lot of things, this sort of purchase is just too much for me.)
So strawberries. Abundant, affordable, delicious. I should be so happy, right?
Friends, I have bought a little flat of strawberries every week for the last six weeks, and every single one has rotted in my fridge. I have not eaten a single strawberry. I want them. I can buy them. I DO buy them. And then…I just don’t eat them. And I don’t know why.
I mean, I’m reasonably sure it’s a side effect to the stress from the toxic stew of a work environment, which in turn affects my physical well being (which is already turning a bit sketchy as I get older, which I am firmly ignoring because I just can’t handle it). And I’ve got another plagiarism issue to deal with, and this time, it’s the child of another teacher on campus, and I’m almost certain she’s the one who “helped” kiddo “write” this essay. So I have to email her about the kiddo’s grade and why I cannot accept the product that has been submitted (the prose is actually quite gorgeous and was most definitely not written by this sixth grader who, in response to an activity today, wrote TWO sentences in the paragraph reflection portion of the assignment). If she didn’t write it, then it’s a Chat GPT product. Plagiarism aside, it’s off topic so he fails anyway.
And the whole psychic static of the family issues is in the background.
It sure would be nice if I could have some delicious fruit, like strawberries.
Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
