Graham Specter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heartwrenching) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sortinghat_rp2012-09-22 08:32 am
heartwrenching) wrote in sortinghat_rp2012-09-22 08:32 am
Entry tags:
1 Sad, Sad Story
Let me tell you a sad, sad story. It's a story filled with tragedy and the slings and arrows of cruel, cruel fate, so get some tissues ready. You'll be bawlin' your eyes out!
You see, once upon a time - a time that is now - there was a boy. Is-was?! Tenses. What am I supposed to do with tenses in a framing device like this?! I'm talking about now, but convention dictates past tense for tales of tragedy and woe like this, ones on par with the sad stories of the Ancient Greeks, where people accidentally married their mothers and the like. Which frankly I never understood. Now, I like older women - I like them a lot! - but there comes a point where you just gotta look at the situation and think, "This broad could conceivably have given birth to me." I'm just sayin' it should give you some pause so you can evaluate your life choices.
Now what was I - RIGHT, the tale of anger and frustration!!
Anyway, this boy kept seeing people moaning about getting on a certain sports team - let's call it Shmidditch for anonymity's sake. And this boy - ah - he loved Shmidditch. And he was good at it. Great, even. And while he'd normally be a shoo-in for getting on the team, a pack of cold-hearted wizards who spend all of what little time they've got on this great earth sitting around in dusty rooms and always, always, always sneering down on anything and everything that doesn't fit just so into the neat little boxes of conduct that they approve of conspired against him to prevent him from even trying out!
So the boy was sad. No, the boy was angry. No, the boy was... - the boy is a lot of things all of the time.
But what you should take away from this little fable is that the boy hates it when people don't appreciate what they have, especially when they rub their false, pretend tragedies in everyone's face. And the boy has very particular ways of dealing with the things he hates.
You see, once upon a time - a time that is now - there was a boy. Is-was?! Tenses. What am I supposed to do with tenses in a framing device like this?! I'm talking about now, but convention dictates past tense for tales of tragedy and woe like this, ones on par with the sad stories of the Ancient Greeks, where people accidentally married their mothers and the like. Which frankly I never understood. Now, I like older women - I like them a lot! - but there comes a point where you just gotta look at the situation and think, "This broad could conceivably have given birth to me." I'm just sayin' it should give you some pause so you can evaluate your life choices.
Now what was I - RIGHT, the tale of anger and frustration!!
Anyway, this boy kept seeing people moaning about getting on a certain sports team - let's call it Shmidditch for anonymity's sake. And this boy - ah - he loved Shmidditch. And he was good at it. Great, even. And while he'd normally be a shoo-in for getting on the team, a pack of cold-hearted wizards who spend all of what little time they've got on this great earth sitting around in dusty rooms and always, always, always sneering down on anything and everything that doesn't fit just so into the neat little boxes of conduct that they approve of conspired against him to prevent him from even trying out!
So the boy was sad. No, the boy was angry. No, the boy was... - the boy is a lot of things all of the time.
But what you should take away from this little fable is that the boy hates it when people don't appreciate what they have, especially when they rub their false, pretend tragedies in everyone's face. And the boy has very particular ways of dealing with the things he hates.
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I feel pretty confident on the details of my situation, since I skimmed the fine print of my verdict for 20 whole seconds. I can't play and I can ride a broom if and only if I am under Ministry-approved supervision and have my hands charmed to be unable to release their grip on the handle, lest I improvise a bludgeoning weapon. In other words, THEY HAVE KILLED EVERYTHING THAT MAKES BROOMS WORTH THE EFFORT. THEY HAVE STABBED PLEASURE IN THE HEART.
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But to spin a happier story, I don't think they know about the Fight Club. There is nothing in the particulars of my punishment about the Fight Club.
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And at least you'll still have something fun to do!
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Yeah, it's what's keeping my poor spirit from draining away into ab. so. lute. misery. I won't be held accountable for what I'd do if those stuffy fiends in the Ministry find out about it and ban me from that too. [inkblots]
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You'd really think the Ministry'd want you channeling all your [inkblots] You think they'd want you to do something productive and regulated like quidditch instead of finding other outlets.
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The Ministry has never had its head screwed on properly. If a decision is to be made, they always - ALWAYS! - seem to go right to the one that makes no sense in this or any universe! Up is down, left is right, right is wrong - none of it makes any damn sense!
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Ah! I thought I had the market cornered on sadness, thought I had a monopoly goin' on there, but you - you win this round. It's thrown me into a tailspin of misery! My heart's full to bursting just imagining the tragedy of that kind of shared heritage!!
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Damn, that might be even sadder than the Ministry relative thing!
It might be the saddest thing I've EVER HEARD!
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