I'm going to Denver next week. I grew up there. I hate visiting, not only because family drama is just... ludicrous; not only because there may be snow and ice and cold. Because people there might know me. The anonymity that comes from living many states away from where you grew up is absolute luxury. Plus, I have a brain problem.
I don't remember people. They look familiar, but I long ago swapped out people's names for things like four-digit produce codes (grocery store checker) and the names of every muscle in the human body (massage therapist). I don't remember long division, I don't remember my home phone number, and I don't remember your name, even though you were the friend of my friend's boyfriend and we dated for two months before you went to juvy. I'm sorry.
I can quote Clueless, Ferris Bueller's Day Off and National Lampoon's Vacation from start to finish, though. And quite frankly, I'd rather be able to do that than remember your name.
Plus, I didn't really like Denver. I didn't like who I was in Denver. You remind me of that time. You are Wiccan rituals, the marching band, the Renaissance Fair(e), and Lithium. You are forty extra pounds, the ice scraper, the Doc Martens, the Caramello-and-Grandmothers-Cookie-sandwich breakfasts, AOL. You are Bible-thumping, sex with strangers, mean Koreans, community college.
I am going back to see my parents and my grandpa. Also, to sleep. I will sleep twelve hours a night to make up for the last year. I will go to the hot springs and soak, get a massage, let my husband's mind rest. I will hug my grandpa every possible moment. It might be fun to make my aunt uncomfortable.
I do not want to reminisce. I will not attend my ten-year high school reunion next year. I pity the people who will.
So if you see me, don't assume I remember you. If it makes you feel better, know that I have become a stark raving rude bitch, and leave me alone.
My god, I'm a Schizoid
among other things. Thanks brendanthorne. If you want to discover your own personality disorders, take the test at:
http://www.4degreez.com/misc/personality_disorder_test.mv
AL, Whoring for Items, BRD and the Flu
I need a friendly reminder not to group up with Turiel for instances anymore.
The guild tag is sexy, though. He is in Afterlife. To me, this means he is not from Warcraft 3 or Diablo 2, which means he knows what is supposed to happen in dungeons and that means a lot to me. You get an invite to the Sunken Temple from a guy from Afterlife, you know the guy probably knows how to play his class and wants to get through it as quickly and with as few deaths as possible.
Turiel is a good tank, really. But he's impatient. If you need to med, or rez someone, you're just shit out of luck. He's way the hell on the other side of the instance, with just a flickering red hope of hp, and you know that if he dies, he's going to blame you. Also, he doesn't seem to like Biny, and I think that's a punishable offense.
Sunken Temple is pretty awesome, though. There's this part with this scary dragon/snake thing that is a ghost until after you kill a bunch of his minion things and then he comes to life! And he is only bones! It's like if the exhibits at the museum came to life and tried to kick your ass. I wasn't paying much attention, because in instances, I mostly watch the avatars, but what I saw was pretty rockin'.
Xarpolis is generous enough to make you a sexy new robe, but you will have to jump through some hoops first. He will want some runecloth and an ironwood spider silk (for which you will have to fly and ride to Nehrak in the Western Plaguelands and trade him some mageweave) and a gold - but before any of these negotiations happen, he will ignore you, then sound confused, then ask why Mr. Aran can't do it, making as if you are asking him for some dirty thing behind your husband's back, and only after you tell him NEVER MIND IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE WEIRD ABOUT IT will he grudgingly give you his list of demands.
So there's a new robe in my mailbox, but it's not fun anymore.
After all this madness, I met up with Temuchinx again. You may remember this guy from a few posts down. I was in the Badlands and he was cool enough to show me how to get to BRD, BRS, and the Burning Steppes. I haven't been able to play with him for weeks, seeing as how he shot past me to level 60 in a matter of seconds, so it was nice to see him again on his way to the Spire.
The unanswerable question: What level do you have to be for BRD?
I see this question asked in guild and general chat quite often. I've been the one asking a couple of those times. The answer never comes. For any other instance, you'd get a quick answer. Shadowfang Keep - twenties. Monastery - thirties. Spire - godly. Why can't anyone just say? Please to explain this.
For most of last week, Flu was > than me. I spent a hell of a lot of time draped onto my chair playing WoW because I couldn't lay down (it made me cough) and I couldn't really eat (fever) and I just wanted a distraction. So I'm level 52 now. I want my goddamn BRD.
A Friend, an Enemy
I was in Uldaman last night. I think. It's tough to recall. Between catnaps, I think I healed people. So Deeds may not have been a fantastic mage. I do know he was mostly quiet, attracted very little aggro, kept my buff up and handed water over whenever I was thirsty. In this day and age, that's notable. So add Deeds to the Samus Friends List, and send him some love whenever you get thirsty.
And then there was Gorthrock.
Ungoro Crater is my new favorite zone in the game. Forget the lush, gorgeous Faralas. Ungoro has the pretty rocks cropping up everywhere - red, green, blue, yellow! Waiting for you to loot them! And plants for you to pick and give to hungry kodos. And black dirt that's really... useful... to someone. And sometimes, when you're looting a yellow pretty rock, an enormous elite DINOSAUR comes and rapes you until you like it.
That's right. Ungoro is filled with dinosaurs. WoW never fails to fill me with awe.
Then there was Gorthrock.
A tauren in Ungoro has a hardon for gorillas. He loves them so much, he wanted me to kill several of them and bring him their pelts. Logic aside, Mr. Aran and I went off to find us some gorillas. In the gorilla cave place, we met a warrior named Gorthrock. He asked us what we were doing.
...
Writing a thesis? Washing our hair?
We were killing fucking gorrilas. Forgive me, but stupid questions don't warrant an answer. So I didn't answer. I waited until he started beating on our mobs to say this:
"Stop, please."
See, if Gorthrock hits something we're hitting, our xp is lessened. Unless we're having a difficult time, it isn't much appreciated.
Gorth didn't take too kindly to my polite request. He made it his life's mission to train fuck out of us for the duration of our gorilla-smacking time. At one point, you couldn't see Mr. Aran and I for the pile of gorilla corpses stacked around us. We did not die, however. Know why? Because EVIL NEVER WINS. Fuck you, Gorthrock. May you be the first person ever to know the humiliation of being kicked out of Silvermana, the guild that invites anyone.
Spinning, Angry Asian Women, and Randomness
First, a moment of silence for these poor individuals:
1) The man in the row behind me who had to watch my ass, particularly, the jiggling that naturally happens out of the saddle and the unfortunate squishing things that happen when in the saddle.
2) The janitor(s) who had to clean up after the veritable hot tub of sweat I left behind on and around the bike, having forgotten my towel.
...
Every night is MILF night in Orange County, California, and there were a few great ones in my spinning class tonight. However, I was distracted by the Angry Asian Woman happening all over the place. There was Marathon Angry Asian Woman, a chick with nice calves and a tee-shirt proclaiming her marathon-ness, who had the bike in front of me, who did the Fake Smiling thing at the MILF next to her at first and then spent the whole class slacking off. I must outweigh this chick by sixty pounds, and I can out-spin her. She reminds me of a phone conversation I had with my mother. She had been going to the little gym in her apartment complex for a couple of weeks, and she said, "A lot of skinny women go there. Why do they go to the gym?"
I don't know. For the fashion? Obviously, Marathon AAW wasn't there for the workout. Way to motivate the people behind you.
Gaggle Of Angry Asian Woman was really several Asian women, but you couldn't tell. They walked together en masse, like a school of fish, or one giant, angry glob of chicks. Gaggle of AAW came together, got bikes together, and talked to one another, but there was no encouragement or laughter between them. They were there for business.
MILF Angry Asian Woman was a treat. She was a rare specimen. Long hair (no ponytail, no sweat), enormous fake boobs. She looked about thirty-five; in Asian years, she must have been in her fifties. In the locker room, her look of death was enough to wilt me. She was the water to my Wicked Witch of the West.
***
I have never been to a spinning class where there was not one guy in the back who would beg for more. I don't like to talk during classes; I'm not one of the wooo! girls. Maybe I got over it in my pentecostal fundamentalist Christian childhood. Can I get an amen? Shut the fuck up and let me think.
I understand why the instructors want you to woo. It's to make sure we're all okay, all breathing. So I don't mind the woo girls, even though I'm not into it. But I cannot abide the asshole in the back. If the instructor says, "How is this pace?" and you say, "No problem! Make it harder!" you need to be punched in the throat. The instructor wants to make sure that nobody is overtaxing themselves or in pain; if the pace is to easy for you, clever boy, here's a hint: TURN UP THE FUCKING RESISTANCE, PUSSY. No one is impressed with you. We all think you're a dick. Shut the fuck up.
***
Lastly, here's a random quote from IRC. No need to thank me.
and then sean was all "how much will you give me to rub my dick on the door"
Debauchery... of sorts.
Let's get this out of the way right now. Brittney... is a girl.
I was surprised as anyone.
Sean and Zhoup figured it would be better to sit at home and, I don't know, make out than come see me - fine. After some therapy and medication, I think I'll get over it. The Britt, Mr. Aran, Ace (Tec) and assorted Britt fans (Dantrin, Darren the Driver) came along to dinner at an Irish pub, where Mr. Aran had enough Guiness to numb the pain of his afternoon dentist appointment and I had red snapper with water. Yes, I am boring. I rarely drink, because when I drink, I act like my mother when
she drinks.
Picture it: Denver, 1992, 2:00 AM. Your mother stumbles through the front door after many hours of drunken kareoke, singing at the top of her nasal voice: "My D-I-V-O-R-C-E! BECOMES FINAL TODAY! ME AND LITTLE J-O-E! WILL BE GOING A-WAY!"
So I don't drink much.
I go out with these kinds of people on occasion, and I always get geeked up. Drunken debauchery! Subtle hints that the boys are homosexual! Not-so-subtle hints that the girls are whores! It's my kind of party, in my head. So I put on my Bounty Hunter boots and head out, only to spend the evening zoning out while everyone else argues over whether Final Fantasy seven or nine was better. I eat all the appetizer bread. I wish I were a drinker.
I'd hoped the evening would degenerate into the kind of drunken debacles that happen during EQ conventions. I had to be satisfied with sitting around, making fun of Sean in his absence, and discussing the game. It was like irc, with beer and eye contact. But I played footsie with Ace, and then there was the general satisfaction that comes from being the hottest girl at the table.
Sorry, Britt.
Dumbshit Sickness; A Really Big Fucking Gorilla
I have a low-grade fever. I'm not seeing things too well. I slept so deeply that I woke up thinking I was in Colorado, at my childhood home, that my parents were together, and there was a cake hanging from the ceiling. I was trying to figure out how many points of cake I'd eaten. It took me a few minutes to realize I was in California. Then the Sous-alarm went off. My alarm has been on this classical station for years, I'm too lazy to change it, and the Sous-alarm is their way of being clever. Nothing like waking up to parade music.
I feel like utter hell, but it is not the kind of hell you can call in sick for, because it was self-induced. I believe that most illness is self-induced, but in this society, you can't call in because you made yourself sick being a dumbshit. I worked out too hard.
People who never work out build it up to be this horrible, difficult thing. What's really horrible and difficult is coming back to a certain kind of workout after not having done it for a month or so. You think you can do what you did before, and your body goes through the motions. Then you're fucked.
I did three sets of ten good squats with forty pounds. In between, I did jumping squats and jumping lunges. I did a few situps, maybe ten good burpees. It wasn't a real workout. It was the kind of thing I do when I haven't planned on working out.
Next day I was sore. A pleasant soreness. Sort of surprising. "Oh, it must have been too long since I worked out my legs! Should probably give them a light cardio workout tonight, just to let the blood flow." That kind of sore. Mr. Aran and I went to 24 Hour and proceeded to the eliptical trainers. Sore legs on an eliptical trainer is heaven. You feel nothing. The endorphins come, the blood in your legs moves mercifully away, you sweat a little. It's nice. I did some good ab stuff that made me feel super tight.
And now, this. My body simultaneously wants masses of protein and has no appetite. I am maneuvering around the office at point-five miles per hour. My fever has made my skin sensitive, so scratching my head hurts. I want to go home and crash, stare at the cake on the ceiling for a few hours, but that would be ridiculous.
----
As I suspected, the famous FoH boys flaked. I will track them down another time and write in detail about their drunkenness.
Last night, off the coast of Booty Bay, a few of us faced a really fucking big ape. I don't know what it is about Stranglethorn Vale that produces these massive beasts. Until we're sure, don't drink the water.
Drewon, Szader, Mr. Aran and I had all found messages in bottles on the sand near Booty Bay. This tauren chick was held captive on an island. We were feeling mighty, so we swam (or, in my case, levitated) across to the island and found her. This is when she drops the bomb on us: the guy holding her is a massive, 55 elite gorilla, and she ain't leaving until he's dead.
The four of us weren't going to cut it. I did a /who. I messaged a few people who had no love. I struck gold with a level 60 warrior who came over in a jiffy. I would love to give you his name, to add to your friends list of love, but my condition is bitchy with a chance of squish. I can't remember his name. There was a 'z' in it. I will try to find him later.
Sexy level 60 warrior guy made wormsmeat of Big Gorilla Guy and the tauren chick gave us her nose ring (ew!) to use as bracers. Sad days, though, as it was mail and I'm strictly a cloth kind of girl. They vendored well, and the quest gave me 8450 xp.
Off to Feralas with Mr. Aran, where we killed some ogres and I dinged 46. Half asleep, I travelled to TB to train a couple of new nukes and a level 2 Greater Heal. Now we are playing with powah.
Horde Warlords
Just an update to my very first post way down there. I logged in quick this morning and said good morning to Devotchka. A sly /who reminded me: the guild name with "horde" in it is the Horde Warlords. Please assume that everyone in this guild is sexy as hell.
Tonight, I am supposed to meet up with some famous FoH'ers Britt, Zoo and Sean. This will only happen if their angelic ride decides it's a good idea to drive all the way fuckall to OC from way fuckall up north. Hey, driver friend of Britt's: I would flake, too.
There's a party at Sigil on Friday night, though, and I think I should be there. What's a party without a bounty hunter?
Nothing else new to report today, except that I am wearing knee-high boots that make me 6'2", and I am not sure that I am pulling them off.
Meat Market
Mr. Aran and I have belonged to many gyms over the years. We are super active people. At the moment we belong to one gym and one kickboxing studio. We have belonged to Bally's, Bodies In Motion, the Y, OC Kickboxing, Integrated Martial Arts, Punch Out Fitness, and now 24 Hour Fitness.
After Bally's, we weren't really into the meat market. We liked the old people at the Y, the sweaty, dirty people at the fighting gyms. I was so over the Bally's women with their fake tits and full face of makeup going one mile an hour on the treadmill while chatting it up with their personal trainers. When I go to the gym, I get fugly.
So it was with great trepidation that I signed up at 24 Hour. I didn't want to leave the Y, but the weight room is about 2 feet x 2 feet. There is one of each type of equipment, and you can't do a squat without sexually harassing someone. With my work discount, 24 Hour was the same price. We signed the papers, I put away my glasses, and we worked out.
I stepped on the treadmill for my warmup, and noticed it. Them. Boys. College boys. Cute, dark, Asian college boys, all at least a foot shorter than me but absolutely edible. Sweat pouring over muscle. That tight, strained look on their faces belying childhoods chock-full of angry, overbearing, immigrant parents. Every one of them looking like what they needed was to be strapped down to the bed and abused by the Samus. Every one of them slightly fuzzy from my lack of glasses. I walked a little faster.
I saw him, then. Doing chinups, his muscular legs crossed at the ankle, the chin set with determination. A brunette girl in the situps corner had stopped to watch. Three little Chinese girls in track pants huddled together and pointed. The boy on the treadmill next to me almost tripped. I walked a little faster.
Then he waved. At me. He grinned. And I realized I had been gawking at my husband.
Three Surprising Things Post-Weight Loss
This probably wouldn't apply to someone who grew up thin, gained a little weight because of illness or pregnancy, and held on to it for a couple of years. I grew up fighting fat. My mother is fat. Her mother is fat. Her mother... etc. Lucky for me, my father is tall, and I am tall, so I never dipped into obesity. I did carry an extra thirty to forty pounds for about ten years after junior high, and recently lost it.
Observation number one: People still don't like me.
You grow up fat, you see thin people getting what they want. You hear stories of thin women getting free drinks, crying their way out of tickets, getting their flat tires fixed. You think this happens only to thin women, that your ticket to that comped martini is putting down the fork. Problem is, in the meantime, you learn to take care of yourself. You make enough money to afford the martini. You get a AAA card. You pay the ticket.
I am not horribly ugly, and now I am not fat, but I still don't get hit on. I don't get anything free. It could be that, very often, I am with Mr. Aran, who is big and beautiful and scary and does full contact knife and stick fighting. Without him, though, the veil has lifted: I have a personality that short circuits the process of taking care of me in any way. Nobody strikes up conversations with me because I used the Los Angeles bus system for a year, and cultivated a dont-fuck-with-me look while alone in public. And if I want a martini, I buy one immediately, because fuckeduppedness is on the agenda and I want to get started.
Observation number two: I am not Lucy Liu.
I mean, what the fuck? I push away the Krispy Kremes, learn to love skim and fat free, subsist on salads and pick at my own birthday cake and I still look like
this?
Yes, I look good. Supah fly, ladies and gentlemen, especially in comparison. I spend entirely too much time in front of the mirror now, especially the mirror in the dressing room at Express, where I am weak-in-the-knees sex appeal girl. But still.
You spend a decade equating beautiful with slim and small and Asian, you're going to be disappointed when you lose your fat and you're still four inches too tall, white and dorky with a big ribcage, boxer shoulders and child bearing hips. I spent my teens and twenties thinking there was a svelte little Asian chick inside me, waiting for her chance to go shopping for knee-high socks and schoolgirl skirts, but I still look like a beer frau. A
cute beer frau, okay. I accept that.
Observation number three: Shopping still sucks.
Not as bad as it once did. I used to spend hours trying things on, and the first thing that zipped up, was comfortable and did not make me look disgusting: I bought that. It had nothing to do with fashion or personal style.
So, when I first started losing weight, I had to let go of that mindset because the shopping bills were getting ridiculous. I looked good in everything, and something on the rack always fit. Very weird.
That doesn't mean it's easy. Women's sizes are retarded. Guys, you look at the tag and it says so many inches wide, so many inches long, it corresponds to your inchage so you try it on and you buy it. At Express alone, I am anywhere from a small to a medium, a 6 to a 10, depending on fabric and color. Swear to god, different colors in there mean different sizes.
This means that for every garment I want to try on, I have to take two or three versions of it to the dressing room. This never happened when I was fat. Back then, I just dug through to the very back of the rack and pulled out the biggest size, while catching smaller, weaker sizes on my industrial-size hanger, then stepping on them.
Salesgirls now do a strange, annoying thing, though. They recommend clothes. I go to the dressing room, and clothes appear over the top of the door. "This jean jacket looks so adorable with the pants you're trying on!" The first time, I yelped, "I'm in here!" because I thought they were trying to give my room away to some smaller, richer girl.
You really do spend a lot of time thinking you're being shoved aside in life because you're fat. It was sad to learn that the problem really wasn't how I looked. It was the lemon-lime scent of evil that permeates my personality. There really needs to be a Weight Watchers for that sort of thing.
This Little Piggy
I am not the worst priest ever, because I do not think I am a mage and I am willing to learn. However, I am not the best priest, either. I am the worst good priest in WoW.
I have a big mana pool. You wouldn't know it, though, because I like to push the wrong button, sometimes several times in a row, using my highest mana cost buff over and over, until I have a sliver of blue left and a tank with a blinking red avatar.
Malgura was warned before we ever set foot into Razorfen Kraul, I promise.
Pickup groups are a bitch. Most of the time, the annoyance is your run-of-the-mill loot whore or RTS-style zergfest or shadow spec healer who thinks whoever has the most aggro wins the game. There was one famous warrior way back who said he was a rogue too, who demanded all agi loot, who also demanded leet shields even though he didn't have his defensive stance... because he was a rogue, dammit! He was my favorite. I used to group up with him just to watch him go.
Bad pickup groups can make a four-hour dungeon crawl feel like work. It's supposed to be fun, for fuck's sake; it's a game. Don't worry, Samus make it all bettah.
In addition to Temuchinx and Devotchka and all the wonderful people in his guild, I bring you Malgura. I sent an invite out to the guild - twinks and newbies, we're doing Razorfen Kraul. I didn't expect any takers. Rorg messaged me, thinking we were going to do Downs, but I broke his heart. Then Fulorian messaged me, asking if his friend Malgura would be welcome.
Mr. Aran and I are jerking off at the entrance to the instance, killing one thing at a time. I'm a 45 priest (yes, still, shut up), he's a 28 warrior, and we're thinking we can duo this thing at least to finish his warrior quest. I invite Malgura, and everything changes.
First of all, Malgura was there, at the instance, ready to go, in ten minutes. I swear, they should put minigames at the openings of instances, because people normally spend an hour there waiting for people to fly, zep, vendor, eat, mop up the sticky remains of their cyber, whatever.
Malgura is a 30 shaman. He's one of those EQ sweethearts who spent years as a cleric. He knows that if he doesn't laugh at my jokes, I'm going to let him get way the hell down in hp before I throw up a heal. He likes to pull. He knows how to play his class. Most of all, he knows where he's going. Mr. Aran and I haven't been to RFK before.
RFK is full of piggies. There are piggies on all fours and piggies walking around on their hind legs with flags on their backs. There are piggies with guns and pet hyenas (I don't know, don't ask). And there is one gi-huge-normous piggy who liked me very much. I couldn't so much as scratch my ass without gaining this big boy's attention.
For most of the mobs in RFK, I would take a little extra aggro, just stand there and throw up heals on occasion while the add piggies nipped at me, because at level 45 they were missing an awful lot. Whenever Mal and Mr. Aran finished off one mob, or I hit 25% health, I'd fade, the piggy would turn his back on me, and I'd first-aid up.
I was using this tactic, sort of, with Big Piggy. He was going to market on my ass, Mr. Aran was at 50% hp, I threw up a heal...
...
...heal still throwing...
...
I have a screenshot of this moment. My entire screen is filled with piggy face. My hp is at about half. My spell cast bar is full. My hands are full of magic. I am so ready to throw this heal. For thirty seconds, that's my screen. Bad time to have a lag spike, yes?
Apparently, Big Piggy did not have the same lag problem on his end. When it ends, I'm dead, Mr. Aran is dead, and Malgura is blinking red. In any other group, this is the wipe. I'm typing out my thanks to Malgura for the fun time when Big Piggy leashes. He turns around, wiggles his ass a bit, paces, and then it turns out that Malgura would like to rez me. I push the pretty red button.
Big Piggy went oh-so-fucking-down after that. It was during this second fight that the prophecy was fulfilled. Thinking I was shielding Mal, I buffed him instead, and my mana went bye-bye. Good thing we are all so leet.
We made it all the way through. I personally kicked the ass of the bitch crone piggy at the end, who has some maniac ability to replace her mana 100%. By the end I was nuking fuck out of her, screaming, "Just die already!" Then I took the ring off her finger and bolted for the front door.
Didn't make it. I would have, but I got lost. This is what happens when you just follow your tank around, making wisecracks.
Thanks to Malgura and Mr. Aran for a pleasant piggy experience. And again: if you're a cool boy or girl, add Malgura to your friends list and make use of him.
The Geekiness of it All.
I spent most of the weekend playing WoW, I think.
I say "I think" because if I really had done that, I should have gotten more than one level. It doesn't help that I'm soloing a lot these days. I met two boys in the game, Temuchinx and Devotchka, who are superb players and very nice and put up with my girlish "yay!" stuff. They don't flinch when I do the /chicken emote to them as a greeting - this now has sound. You can imagine the hilarity. I follow up with a /kiss, which also has appropriate smooching sounds. The animation is new and improved now, as well, which means that when you miss, you really miss. As in, my wand shots were missing by a good six feet, flying fuckall out into the aptmosphere as if I hadn't even tried.
I met Temu when he was two levels lower than I, and this morning ("I have seven minutes! I can kill some things!"), he was level 55. This is insane. I am insane, having spent my entire weekend LFG, /chicken, burning through mageweave bandages, and only going from 44 to 45. I told him to quit it, or we wouldn't be able to play together anymore. He said he couldn't help it.
Devotchka helped start his guild - so help me, I can't remember the name of it. It had "horde" in it. Good on him; all good things have "horde". He was sweet and ready to fight for me within an hour. Not the fake fighting he does with his enormous staff...
...
...but real fighting, as real as it gets on the Internet. Like in the general chat. When someone called me a guy. Quote of the week:
Devotchka: Don't make me lose to you in a duel!
Angry General Chat Guy messaged me soon after, very pissed off. Internet Boys have a hard time with Internet Girls because Boys have often tried very hard to get into the RL panties of Girls only to find out their Girl is wearing size XXXL boxers in his mother's basement. I understand the frustration. Testosterone is a difficult thing. I feel for you, boys, I do! But if you are nowhere near my panties, and I have done nothing to make you think that said panties are being offered, could you please get off my ass about being a chick?
Angry Guy wanted to know when I'd gotten into the beta, and how, because as the official Booty Bay Sheriff, he had not seen my name in /who before, so I must be lying, not only about being female but about all things.
I wish I'd had time to have fun with him. He was being harassed by a GM at the moment and wanted to rail on GFrazier, a quiet boy I've met a time or two at my husband's office. I couldn't, however; Mok'rash, a giant who lives by his lonesome on an island close to Booty Bay was making a lot of noise, like you do when you live on an island by yourself and you are enormous. The only interesting thing to happen to poor Mok'rash, ever, was when some guy called Smotts gave him shit, and Mok has been pissed ever since. Mok was really cutting into my /v flirt schedule, so he had to go.
Devotchka was game. I was game. Some other priest from Silvermana was game. It was on.
Silvermana Priest and I levitate across the water like the badass priests we are. We stare down the Mok guy, who paces and whines in all red caps. Dev goes bear and it's on.
DOT. HOT. Flash heal. Heal. Dev dies.
Feeling very *not* badass, we retreat to Booty Bay. Dev says maybe we should try again, but heal this time. Ouch.
Drewon, a boy from my guild, who is sexy as hell for doing this, comes to our aid. Several other people from the "horde" guild come to our aid. We have ourselves a raid.
Dev goes bear. A helpful shaman gives us waterwalking buffs, which make us priests a little sad that we don't need to float about anymore. Dev goes in.
DOT. HOT. Hea...
...I'm out of range. WTF?
Dev-as-bear floats away into the horizon, sort of swimming. Into the sunset, right through the air. Our tank has crashed. Later, he will apologize profusely, as if he did it on purpose to spite us.
The giant goes down laughably easy. We take down another giant a short while after, also easily.
Dev and I also duelled in the PVP arena. He's five levels above me. He kicked my ass, but I made it hard on him by running around a lot and mana burning fuck out of him. More people need to take advantage of the arena.
In short, if you are a very cool person, add Devotchka and Temuchinx to your friends list. Send them some peacebloom or something, and tell them Samus sent you.
