Jeong Jeong looked down his torso and attempted to read the poem Piandao had written on him. It was so blotchy it was illegible.
“You complained about my calligraphy,” Jeong Jeong stated with a confident smile. “You didn’t do much better yourself.”
“I never complained,” protested Piandao, indignant at the false accusation. “I merely said you need lessons.”
Jeong Jeong rolled his eyes.
“It was hard to write,” Piandao added. “You squirmed around too much. I’m used to writing on a parchment; it is a flat unmoving surface!”
“Is it my fault the bristles of the brush were tickling me"”