The Gift of the Sweatpants Magi

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Yesterday, I got through the post with a sudden, late burst of positivity. I don’t know if I can harness that again to find today’s words. I have a crappy poem to read tonight. It isn’t crappy, actually…I love it. I just am not really with the game plan and I made the game plan. They’ll be positive and kind and I will do my best to have eaten something so I can be attentive and not completely thinking about Thedas and stories that aren’t fit for any sort of publication, not even scattershot in bits and pieces in my corner of the internet’s Grand Oblivion.

Maybe it’s slightly problematic how much I’m into my game. I woke up after falling asleep at nearly 2am nearly with controller in hand like a shot at 6:30a.m. and wanted banter. I don’t have to actually be up until 8a.m. so this meant blearily running through the Western Approach, on tenterhooks, for any new character development that might be sent my way via intermittent and random conversation. But nope. Nobody had anything to say at all. Drug them through the Hinterlands and they were completely unbothered. I mean, there are some icy glares between those folks, they aren’t all best of buddies yet (maybe ever), but hour after hour of expecting someone to have some sort of opinion about any of the weirdness we’re doing or seeing or being Cleared codex entries, ran back to Skyhold, spazzed out and jumped off of things that would have definitely murdered me anywhere other than my impervious fortress of death-defying feats, and nothing. Finally, I laid down the controller and turned my neck back to a someone reasonable position and maybe felt the soft pressure of sleep returning on my eyeballs, when Varric said something completely irrelevant.

Frankly, I both want to be done with it and if anyone tells me anything negative about what might happen, I might lose my mind. I might just lose my whole damn mind. So maybe I’m feeling a bit extreme about my Dragon Age at the moment.

Now, I’m drinking coffee loaded with creamer and sweetener that makes my face screw up like Leslie Knope when she’s trying to down the Swanson family moonshine. “Poison.” I mutter, but keep drinking. I’m needing to maintain some level of caffeine and sugar. It’s funny/concerning about how little I drive nowadays, and I’m not nervous about doing it, just irritated that my bubble, my personal sense of Skyhold is feeling a bit pressed. Not sure when I can get dinner and it’ll be black as coal on my ride back. If I think a bit positively, maybe I can see some Christmas lights and cool my jets.

The group won’t meet again until January so I can probably relax a smidge. They’re good people and I enjoy it as soon as I relax.  They seem to like me, heaven knows why that is, and so I should probably just relax, Frankie.

Just relax.

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