|Those sheep are walking right into becoming lunch...|
Everyday, Guarf and I go in there, he tanks the snot out of the mobs, and is faster than I, so he will see the boss we don't need before I do. I will see a "Boo!" or an "Argh!" and I know, yet again, the RNGs are laughing up their robe sleeves.
I have real-life Herculean tasks. Actually, they are feeling Sisyphean right now. Need to get one concrete/sequential thing done today. One. Just one.
But the eagle whose mission it is to eat out my liver everyday and the boulder that keeps rolling downhill are in cahoots. I'm at the point now where I pull out the organ myself and hand it over, and the rock looks nice right where it is. If it wasn't for my own Irish tenacity and the patience of a dwarf paladin, perhaps the shamanistic impatience would take over. There is a fine line between impatience and stubbornness. I'll keep at it, all right, but I'll just scrunch up my nose and look all goofy-mad. I'm cute when I'm in a man-versus-god conflict. (Aren't we all?!)
Maybe if I look the other way? Stroll up to Violet Hold nonchalantly, whistling a spirited tune, and then WHAM! Ichoron will get out the bathtub, wrap a towel around waist, and I'll surprise it with a flame-shock pizza! Ding-dong! Put a bag of dog-poop on her (his?) doorstep, light it on fire, and bolt?
Theme song: Profanity Prayers/Beck
So, when I am feeling stressed, I do one of two things:
Shop or write.
I did some shopping in Stormwind. I bought an Elwynn lamb. Not a bad price, but not a bargain either.
|Sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell, or at least according to Cake|
The squirrel photobombed his last shot: he died a fiery critter death not long after this was taken.
*yes, pixelated animals were harmed in the making of this post.
Here is the writing part:
Crinkly-creped lines carved sparkly rivers around his sapphire eyes. He lit his pipe bowl by using his tough, flint-sharp thumbnail against the match head. The pipe smoke smelled of a special blend of cherry-smoked tobacco infused with vanilla and honey. He had a penchant for sweet things, especially Darnassus peaches, served with cream, mild spices, and sugar.
As he sat in his chair, his stubby, but granite-strong legs propped on the arctic-ram fur covered footstool, he pondered over the weeks’ events. Truth, only one event. Every single bloody day, he tried to help that silly shaman defeat one monster.
This monster…not a tough kill. Defeated him a hundred times before. Helped others defeat him, too.
And yet: did the monster know? Was he in hiding out of fun or fear?
When the shambling shammy defeats the monstrous revenant, this living-dead elemental of rock and water, the dear girl would receive a drake of such beauteous sheen, reds, fuchsia and orange, he was sure she would never dismount, but spend her days flying, flying, flying, never touching hoof-to-earth again.
Why he served as her champion so patiently, gods only knew. But they were having a good laugh watching the show. Bored gods are the most dangerous of all.
He tamped down another bowl-full, the fire hugged the walls, and a smile crept out of one corner of his mouth.
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