It has come to my attention that there are people who actually read this blog.
Why? You do realize that it’s just me rambling on my laptop for a half-hour, don’t you? That you’d be far better off doing just about anything else with your lives? cIf you’re so inclined to read, why not something worthwhile? Maybe a good novel, the New York Times, or the nutrition facts on a water bottle? All contain more substantial, more life-informing content than what you are reading here.
See? You just spent a good few seconds reading all that. In that time, you could have gotten up, walked over to the microwave, and put in a packet of popcorn. It would have been popping right now, and in another minute or so you could have had popcorn. I assure you, that hypothetical popcorn would have been more edifying and edible than this blog.
You’re still there. At least, I’m assuming you’re still there. If you’re not, then you haven’t read far enough to contradict the statement that you’re still there. Thus, all things considered, I feel safe in asserting that you are, in fact, still there. But you shouldn’t be.
But fine. If you’re so insistent on wasting your time, I suppose I shall indulge you.
Thursday and Friday of last week were particularly eventful, in that events happened. Namely, I managed to make myself travel to Greyfriars Kirkyard and up to the top of Arthur’s Seat.
The former, for those who don’t know, is a graveyard. Or a churchyard, I suppose, “kirk” being an old Northern Britain term for “church.” But it’s a graveyard; there are dead people buried there. Among the more well known of Greyfriars’ long-dead are Thomas Riddell, inspiration for Harry Potter’s Tom Riddle. For many, his grave is the main attraction, and I find it quite amusing to consider that, every year, lots of people come to lay flowers in remembrance of a fictional character at the grave of a real man. I’m not really commenting on that, either way, I just find it interesting.
In addition, one of the more hilarious graves belongs to William McGonagall, who might (or might not, I don’t know) have been inspiration for the Hogwarts professor. To be accurate, the grave itself is not the hilarious part. Rather, I find it funny that, while the fictional character in this case is a steel-eyed transfiguration master, the real-life McGonagall is widely recognized as having been the single worst British poet in history.
Arthur’s Seat was less funny, but still quite enjoyable. I made the split-second decision after leaving class on Friday and realizing that if I sat down in my room, I would be unlikely to get up again except for dinner. If I had planned my spontaneity better, I would have picked a day with better weather. It was far from pouring, only a slight drizzle, but neither was it the warmest of days. Not to mention that the wind–which blows across Scotland with such force that a sail of great enough size might carry the whole country off into the Arctic Sea–was particularly fierce across the unguarded faces of the mountain. That’s not to say it was unpleasant. On the contrary, if I’m going to climb an extinct volcano, it seems appropriate that the elements should suit the occasion. But it was also cold.
Nevertheless, I climbed, conquered, and posted pictures to Facebook. And then, in another burst of ill-conceived spontaneity, I decided to take the hard way down.
Whereas the easy path up and down has steps, the hard way has, well, not steps. Sort of. Suffice to say, there were several points at which I had to sit down and scoot, rather than risk slipping on the drizzle-slicked stone. Not my brightest move. But I made it, so ha.
I also participated in the Murder Mystery Society’s weekend event (which was a murder mystery, in case that wasn’t clear). The host had constructed a theme based on role-playing board games, and my character ended up being Ardred, a fascinatingly stupid orc with a poor grasp of grammar. I spent most of the evening concocting complicated murder plots in simple, broken syntax. Sample utterances were “Ardred strong,” or “Ardred punch bad man,” or, when running for mayor in the game, “Ardred promise aggressive foreign policy.”
And with that, I come to another abrupt end. I really have nothing more to say, though I should probably apologize for the weird, old-fashioned sentence structure in this entry. I’ve just been reading Magnus Merriman for class, and I’m afraid it has infected my writing with a pretentious over-stylization for the next few hours, at least.