The Thing About Fantasy Worlds Part 1

The thing about being transplanted into a fantastical world filled with magic and mystical creatures and shit is that there’s no convenience here. Like, there are no words for how much I wish I could charge my phone, and for it to say something other than NO SERVICE once it turned on. And a Starbucks! I would kill a unicorn and drink its blood for a grande quad ristretto half-sweet hazelnut latte.

Hang on, orcs. Back in a sec.

<sounds of slaughtering>

Ok, so where was I? Convenience. Right. So there’s just nothing easy here, you know? I can’t even make oatmeal properly. It’s all gather grains, boil them ALL DAY, find a fucking beehive, get thirty stings trying to get enough honey to sweeten my chewy, unsalted because where the hell would I find salt, disgusting oatmeal, then eat it. With what? A leaf? My hands? Also, there’s nothing here that I would attempt to milk, so there’s nothing besides that honey of pain to put on it. Gross. And then it’s bedtime and I’ve wasted the entire day trying to make breakfast. No wonder the elves make that shitty waybread.

<unsuspecting rabbit has its neck wrung>

Good, that’s supper sorted.

Sometimes I have nightmares that I’m in a Burger King drive-thru and I don’t have any money and the only thing they’re willing to barter with is my sword. And sane me, sleeping me, knows that it doesn’t matter, that I don’t need a sword in the real world and I can just hand it over and everything will be fine. But me in the dream has a screaming meltdown, because this sword is literally the only thing I have of value, and by value I mean use, in this place. Apparently it was someone’s great-great-great-grandfather’s, but he was deep into the wine casks and didn’t seem to mind loaning it to me. I only found out it was an heirloom later, and I felt a little bit bad, because I had my grandma’s decorative plate collection back home and it was special, you know? But I’m sure it’s fine. He’s definitely over it by now. And it’s dead useful, since no one notices me or respects me until I whip this baby out. Then it’s all what can we do for you, OMG, do you know what that is, etc etc, and then I show them that yes, I do know it’s a sword, and what’s that you say? This end is sharp? Let me test it. Whoops, that was an accident. And now I’m going to take all your meat pies and bugger off. It’s totally brilliant.

Oh, hang on, someone’s coming. Oh look! Speak of the devil; it’s the sword guy. He seems pissed. Maybe he’s not actually over it yet. Well, it’s been nice chatting, but it looks like the rest of my day just filled up. Come back next week. I have a whole rant built up about the misogyny in this place. It’s unreal!

<violent clashing>

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