I've been having fun tormenting the poor little sort-of squire. I am having him brush up on his ancient civilisation geography. He is pretty okay with the Roman geography from Republic to Empirial times. Deep in his core, he's Roman. It's almost revolting. He speaks Latin pretty well for a contemporary mortal.
It's the Greek he's having a little problem with. I gave him until tomorrow to know it. The only places he knew were Mt. Olympus and Athens. That would not cut it. After all, he should know where Sparta and Mycenae are at the very least. And I thought places like Delos, Dodona and Eleusis would be beneficial for him to know as well. It is my chosen culture -- he should know something about it.
Seriously, he should just be grateful that I have not enrolled him in a Ancient Greek language course. I've tried to at least to get him to use the letters and start trying proper pronunciation. He makes it up fairly well -- his actor's training coming in. The little one helps him too -- poor Valt, so humiliated by being instructed by a babe. But hey, if he knew it before he came to me, he wouldn't have had to start learning it now. No sympathy.
A regular slave-driver,
Z
Monday, January 29, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Too Bloody Perfect
I know "they" say that life has a habit of taking over. And like many other things "they" say, I thought it was complete bullshit. I mean, after all, 900 years of nothing to do pretty much cures you of saying "well, things just got in the way, and I was too busy" because, face it, there's nothing to do in Alaska. But even we fossils can be surprised sometimes -- and yes, life did get in the way. So I wasn't here, as I am sure you all noticed.
Now, just because I'm out there battling the "forces of evil" for all you spoiled little brats to continue living life as you know it, don't all fall apart at once with your overwhelming gratitude and concern.
So, what was the fearless Z doing? Good question. I ask that myself now and then. Making an ass out of myself probably, or at the very least, doing the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong place -- particularly if my astounding (bad) luck continues to live up to its reputation. So what was I doing? That's right, voluntary active service for the undead army of the Virgin (read in: slut) Goddess, brought to you by Hell's one and only Acheron (the brand where you can shit on everyone and come out smelling like roses!)
As if fighting along side those dead-beats isn't enough, there was no internet, so I had to endure their company as well. I don't know about any of you, but being in Ash's company for anything more than a few hours makes me look for the vomitorium. Was there anyone ever alive who appeared more disgustingly perfect? He doesn't let you know that his words of wisdom are plagarised from some of us (like me) who had more sense than he did when they (I) met him. He doesn't let you know about how many minds he's screwed up with fictitious thoughts (like blaming a certain person for the destruction of an entire town left to that certain person's care). The way he likes to drop melodramatic little hints about his life to arouse sympathy and then act as if he never meant to say it. He doesn't even tell you that he has made mistakes. Ash? Make mistakes? Oh, neeeeeeeeeveeeeeeer. Ugh... It was a terrible terrible time.
Ash, dude, just like, look in a toilet after you've gone and see that your turds are brown and stink like the rest of ours. Sorry to break it to you, but they are not diamonds. FYI.
But! It wasn't all Ash talking about himself. The others talked about themselves too. Okay, you know what? If any of you bastards are reading this: if I wanted a friggin biography, I would have asked you for it. Likely, if I can't find it in a textbook, then your life really wasn't all that interesting anyway. Why would I want to know about them two thousand years later? Yeah, that's right. Point.
I did get a little free time in the midst of this boyscout one-up-ya camp-fire story-telling time however. And I made good use of it. I found myself a studio. I like Mt. Olympus and all that. Really, it's amazing to be living there, among the Gods and Goddess I worshipped in my lifetime -- underdog success story, slave turned demi-god. But.... Yeah, don't I sound ungrateful? But, it's not a good place for me to work -- and when I say work, I mean sculpt. I like the glass enclosure, I like the sun coming in at every angle. I don't like when one of the muses (I can't tell them apart) comes tapping on the glass and then tries to use sign language to tell me something that I could have lived without knowing. Or when Astrid's sisters come into our apartments and stand there watching me as if I'm some sort of exhibit. I can imagine them thinking "I never get over how much those humans look like us. It always looks like an ant farm from up here." Not for me. So, hopefully, I will be able to outfit the new studio with everything -- maybe even start branching out into metals. That would be very interesting.
Worn out Z, signing off.
Now, just because I'm out there battling the "forces of evil" for all you spoiled little brats to continue living life as you know it, don't all fall apart at once with your overwhelming gratitude and concern.
So, what was the fearless Z doing? Good question. I ask that myself now and then. Making an ass out of myself probably, or at the very least, doing the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong place -- particularly if my astounding (bad) luck continues to live up to its reputation. So what was I doing? That's right, voluntary active service for the undead army of the Virgin (read in: slut) Goddess, brought to you by Hell's one and only Acheron (the brand where you can shit on everyone and come out smelling like roses!)
As if fighting along side those dead-beats isn't enough, there was no internet, so I had to endure their company as well. I don't know about any of you, but being in Ash's company for anything more than a few hours makes me look for the vomitorium. Was there anyone ever alive who appeared more disgustingly perfect? He doesn't let you know that his words of wisdom are plagarised from some of us (like me) who had more sense than he did when they (I) met him. He doesn't let you know about how many minds he's screwed up with fictitious thoughts (like blaming a certain person for the destruction of an entire town left to that certain person's care). The way he likes to drop melodramatic little hints about his life to arouse sympathy and then act as if he never meant to say it. He doesn't even tell you that he has made mistakes. Ash? Make mistakes? Oh, neeeeeeeeeveeeeeeer. Ugh... It was a terrible terrible time.
Ash, dude, just like, look in a toilet after you've gone and see that your turds are brown and stink like the rest of ours. Sorry to break it to you, but they are not diamonds. FYI.
But! It wasn't all Ash talking about himself. The others talked about themselves too. Okay, you know what? If any of you bastards are reading this: if I wanted a friggin biography, I would have asked you for it. Likely, if I can't find it in a textbook, then your life really wasn't all that interesting anyway. Why would I want to know about them two thousand years later? Yeah, that's right. Point.
I did get a little free time in the midst of this boyscout one-up-ya camp-fire story-telling time however. And I made good use of it. I found myself a studio. I like Mt. Olympus and all that. Really, it's amazing to be living there, among the Gods and Goddess I worshipped in my lifetime -- underdog success story, slave turned demi-god. But.... Yeah, don't I sound ungrateful? But, it's not a good place for me to work -- and when I say work, I mean sculpt. I like the glass enclosure, I like the sun coming in at every angle. I don't like when one of the muses (I can't tell them apart) comes tapping on the glass and then tries to use sign language to tell me something that I could have lived without knowing. Or when Astrid's sisters come into our apartments and stand there watching me as if I'm some sort of exhibit. I can imagine them thinking "I never get over how much those humans look like us. It always looks like an ant farm from up here." Not for me. So, hopefully, I will be able to outfit the new studio with everything -- maybe even start branching out into metals. That would be very interesting.
Worn out Z, signing off.
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