RTMT: Never tell me the odds, kid.

Things could be worse. Could be this squirrel.

Today's Random Tuesday Morning Thought is sponsored by Random Number Generator: "when you absolutely, positively have to have it: we won't let you. ™" 

Driving young cub to school yesterday morning, he bravely, but resoundingly, told me my chances of getting the Horseman's mount were slim to none. It involves real math. This conversation inspired him to consider taking Statistics, which I strongly encouraged because who knows what I might have become if a young Matty had taken stats and physics instead of art and, well, art? I could have been somebody: I could have been a contender. Or at least earned a comparable salary to my years of degrees. ANYWAY.

Sorry. 

Okay. Back to math. (And why does British English call it 'maths?') Turns out, there is a big difference between decimals and percentages. Consider the only source of drop-rates I could find was from 2008, which provides a .5%. Now, if it were simply .5, that would be pretty damn good, because it would be 50%.  But it doesn't say that, it says this:

I do not feel confident this early to share my math noob-ness. I used to be pretty damn good at it, until I got a gin-drinking Algebra teacher in 7th grade who reflected upon his life behind a newspaper while I sat bewildered. Hope he got it all worked out. But I can't blame him - but I can blame the RNGs. For "fun," (I really need to work on my definition of "fun") I have been keeping this chart of my horseman runs:

So far I've gotten 3,456 candies, three troll masks, one Horseman helm (on my druid, ROCK ON MOMO!), a few sinister swords, and a few razor blades in the apples. To date, this is 77 times. By calculations, I should have gotten the horse 38.5 times. But alas, no: 3.85 times. But where is my pony? No where. Ponies don't do math. Nothing to lose a head over, I suppose. Godmother has done a lovely job discussing rewards, and has thoroughly analyzed everything Azeroth. I can't even get my calculator to work right or remember third grade math.
Here: let's look at some pretty Draenei:

It's okay, chicas. I won't give up on you. You'll get your pony.

It's the Great (Fill In the Blank) Charlie Brown!

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.
--Washington Irving

I woke up this morning so excited, so PUMPED! What is it? My fourth year? Fifth? For trying for the Headless Horseman's mount. This is the holiday event that gave me Mrs. Whitworth, and for that I shall be ever grateful. But as with all dealings with the capricious RNGs, the horseman's mount is one I feel entitled to. Yes. I said it. The "e" word. The word we are never to say out loud for fear of being perceived as selfish, elitist snobs. I have been to Washington Irving's house when I was a teenager. I LOVED IT. I have listened to the stories of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow since I was a little girl. I have analyzed Ichabod Crane's character and Katrina Van Tassel's coquestish role in Ichabod's implied demise. So, dammit, you pumpkin-breath-halitosis-ridden Hessian! GIVE ME MY PONY!

Let's think about this, shall we? The first year I had the one leveled shaman. Then others followed: hunter, priest, paladin, mage, warlock, each taking her turn in the dark, gloom-shrouded graves of the Forlorn Cluster, supposedly increasing my RNG luck, but alas, no. The helm drops for my cloth-wearers, the rings blossom just after obtaining one by other means, and the efficacy of the fight depends largely on the interest and skill of the group. Those pumpkins bite, damn them!

I was off to try my luck this crack-of-dawn, but apparently the ghosts and ghouls come out around 1PM server time, and I shall be working.

Gir's gotta have some bling in her life...

In other news: my buddy Krash had an 'extra' one and gave me a Blingtron pet! Now we know he's an avid pet battler extraordinaire, smart with his gold, so I want to thank him for steering me off from my path of self-destruction and giving this to me before I bought one. (Still saving my gold for one of those sprite pets, however.)

I confess, the real reason why I didn't wait for the RNGs to provide me Moon Moon is one of the oldest reasons in the world: my heart melted when I saw another player dressed in her wolf attire running and playing with Moon Moon in the Darkmoon Forest. I went out of my mind for a while and saw a wolf mother and her cub playing--it was really sweet. Mataoka wanted her own cub. Simple as that.

Losing My RNGs

What did the shaman do to upset the Random Number Gods? What blasphemous act, what heinous heresy, did this little brave shaman commit that caused them to turn their hateful gaze in her direction?

Well, maybe it's because she let her hit-cap fall to the wayside while she was busy trying her other restoration spec, or maybe it's because they're trying to teach her a lesson. What is the moral of the story, Blizzard?

What the hell are you thinking, woman?

This is unacceptable, but understandable. While playing many characters, it's tough to juggle all the recommended reforging, gemming, etc. Sometimes, well sometimes your socks just don't match, or you forget to floss your teeth. It happens. I think what I was waiting on, and holding my breath for, was a decent healing mace or DPS weapon. That has yet to happen. I have used every coin, every roll, every run, repeatedly, and still, to this day, March 13, 2013, about five months after the release of Pandera, I have nothing but blue weapons for both specs, as blue as my face from holding my breath and lack of oxygen.

Well, it's time to breath again. Find your center, little shaman. Cleanse, meditate, find your inner strength.

Because even though this happens instead:

Yes, I got the Leggings of Imprisoned Will as a drop, and tried for the healing mace, and got the Leggings again. AGAIN.

Something is broken with the loot system still, and the bonus rolls. Some mathematician at Blizzard. some goblin accountant, has made an error, but has too big of cajones to admit it. Big math cajones.

The bottom line is: at some point, there is a saturation point of patience. Mine is gone. I do not enjoy being a martyr, of lamenting and on-upping others about my rotten luck. It's a tedious, tiresome conversation. I'd much rather talk about fun things to go do and see, and know that my gear score, at some point after a few weeks, not months, is going to be good enough to keep up. I don't want to spend 3K gold on a top-of-the-line weapon enchant on a blue weapon for a few extra points. I spent 7k gold on healing boots thinking I was going to heal for the old guild, and learned a hard lesson. It's not worth it. Never do anything in game based on chancy promises.

At some point, if a player has logged in enough time, enough rolls, Blizzard needs to give over the stuff, period. Like a promise of Heaven for the faithful, I think 27 tries at the Empress is enough:

When I finally do get my fist weapon, and, or my healing mace, I'll probably write about it. But the joy of it is already gone. I'm sorry to be so negative, and you're all probably tired of me going boo-hoo. I know. I'm tired of it too.

So--what's a shaman to do? Nothing else to do. I still love playing, and maybe I'll just turn off the Recount Score, so I don't see how well other players are doing. I'll gem, reforge as much as I can. But I'm not holding my breath anymore. I need to breath. The weapon situation is a like a bad boyfriend, and it's just breaking my heart. I wouldn't play Monopoly anymore if I only landed on the other player's Boardwalk with five hotels repeatedly. But I would still hang out with the player.

A Prayer for the RNGs

I got a double-yolk egg this morning and made a wish.

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the RNGs my soulshards to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray for a rez for goodness sake

In the morning when I wake up

While the patch is loading, I need a hookup

I send this prayer to all grand pixelized gods

To update my characters, add-ons and mods

And please let that weapon drop in LFR,

If it doesn’t drop soon I’m going to go live in a bar

I’ve tried for weeks with elder charms and luck

But still running with blues, and it really does suck

I try to put on a brave face and am a superstitious git

But with low damage per second, I feel like a nit

I’ll not change my socks and light candles of hope

But when I humbly ask I get a big, fat nope

So RNGs if you hear my prayer

And if about this little shaman you ever did care

Send me that fist weapon all shiny, sharp, and trusty

Until the next patch, and it’s forgotten and rusty

*Shakes futile fist at the RNGs..."

Since May 30, the date we completed Zombiefest, I have been trying to finish my Glory of the Hero. I have ONE MORE THING TO DO: defeat Ichoron in the Violet Hold without allowing globules to merge. (Don't know how many times a day I say that!)

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:

Peace Pipe

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.

One.

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.