A Top-to-Bottom Tale

This is one of those stories that I think to myself, please, please, woman, stop sharing. As if the thought is a shoe and the very next mental step is gum on a hot sidewalk, the next thing I think gets stuck to me: "No, if it wasn't for writing, your head would implode, the free world would collapse, and there would be unholy alliances universally. Share, Matty. Share away."

I cannot get over how many mental pieces of discarded gum have stuck to my mind-shoe lately. The most gloppy one is how many players have stopped writing their WoW blogs of late, and how many players are bailing fast and furiously, another free-fall ala Cataclysm, from the game.

Recently, a young paladin friend was thinking of coming back, and I was both overjoyed and, well, reticent on his behalf. The game has changed in so many ways, and not all for the better. I sent him a "paladin care package," and it was returned unopened. I think he wised up. I should have sent him a letter that said, quite simply, "RUN! Run for your life!"

So lest you think this is another rant on dailies, poor loot luck, or the like, I'll tell you this story. And before you read it: I am sorry. You may not want to read this one.

About every two years or so I think I am going to save money by using box hair color. I have been seeing the same hair dresser for over twelve years. She knows my cycle, and is there with her masterful expertise to correct my mistakes. I have naturally dark brown hair, three grey ones now, and because of living in the Northwest and not being exposed to much sun, it has turned much darker over the years. Vitamin D is an issue for us Washingtonians. We are sparkly vampires, deal with it. Being I was about due to trust L'oreal instead of Mel the Super Stylist, I doomed my roots and tresses once again. My job recently (recently: no. It is always, always, always this way) very stressful, I decided to add a massage to the hair appointment. Again: you are going to judge me as the little pampered princess. Yup: that's me. A Seattle version of Kim Kardashian, Snooky, Diana, Belle, and Buttercup all rolled into one. I decided that I would try to get a massage about once a month as a New Year's resolution (see what I did there? Doable goals, people, achievable!) Mel saw my cherry-colored roots and the black tips, and immediately set out to make things right. It involved re-dying my roots darker, and then an overall bleaching, and then foil highlights. The process was not cheap, but the results worth it. No picture: you'll have to take my word. Mel is a genius. She even regaled me with stories of her dating world (recently divorced) and trying a rave for first time, and what to wear to a rave (apparently the black lights, cut jeans, and white things work). The best part of the story was about a googly-eyed man who unabashedly kept staring at her ample breasts with admiration of a Rembrandt, wearing a Ninja Turtle T-shirt which admonished youngsters not to do drugs. Irony abounds at raves. So, hair is fixed, and sassy, and off I go for the massage. The hair took longer than anticipated, so I was late for the massage part. (It's a full service spa sort of place.) By now I have to pee. In the massage/facial portion of the establishment, there is a wonderful bathroom with lavender soaps, fresh towels, and all kinds of nice girly stuff. However, there's only one toilet, and the door locks so no one else can get in. I go in, lock the door, and see that there's still a butt-gasket tissue on the toilet seat. Odd, I think. I guess it didn't catch when the toilet was flushed ohholylordthereisstilladookieintheoilet NOOOOOOOO!
Oh please NOOOO!  Yes, in the toilet is a neat little brown turd someone forgot to flush. No. No. No. Please no! Well, I had to go, so I grabbed some toilet paper, put the butt-gasket down the potty and flushed like a trooper. I then went myself, washed hands, and went to the massage room, all the while thinking: should I say something? This turd, this little poop, more than ruined the moment. All the new-age music and warm oils and blankets in the world could not erase that image out of my mind. Again: don't judge. I have had my fair share of poop, virus poop, vomit, spit, snot, blood in my lifetime. I am not a squeamish little rose. I can take it. But there's a time and a place, you know? I worked very hard to get that image of the friendly little brown bullet out of my mind, thought about sunsets and summer and that I was warm, safe, and all in all, very, very lucky. One little shit isn't going to slow me down! I am going to relax and be pretty, dammit, and one errant absentee flusher isn't going to spoil it.

And this is the moral of this story, as it relates to Azeroth: There are many ways in which Blizzard has forgotten to flush the metaphorical toilet. They don't get everything right. The new game of dailies is not fun, which is a shame. Because I adore the quest line, the legendary line, the new looking for raids, the scenery, Vereesa Windrunner, (Jaina, I have determined, is still a sadistic bitch), There are some parts of the game I am just going to have to flush myself, and focus on the good stuff.

I mean, really: my mage friend gave me some snowflake stars tonight:

Pretty.