The burnt remains of the pizza have been chucked into the free-standing, kitchen style garbage bag sitting inside by my front door. There was no proper garbage can when I moved in, so I just decided to use what i had left over from the moving bags. It's simply too exhausting to walk to Target or Walmart, both 20 minutes away on foot, buy a can, and walk it home. This town is too small to have a worthwhile bus system, and an inner ear balance problem prevents me from utilizing a bike. Not that a respectable garbage can could fit in a bike basket anyway, even if I had one.
The idea of making something else felt too exhausting to even begin to contemplate, so I ate three spoonfuls of peanut butter out of a jar and called it a supper. I wish I knew why these circles keep appearing on my spoons after I wash them. Soap and water isn't enough to do the trick, I suppose.
It's starting to get earnestly daytime outside, but happily, my balcony is enclosed on three sides, recessed to give it the feeling of a cavern, and so, when I grab my pack of Parliament 100s and go out to smoke, the sunlight isn't too invasive. I light and inhale, listening to the sound of a car honking to summon one of my complex mates while I stare at the trees that look kind of like palm trees, but aren't, across the street.
What to do next, in the game, I wonder? Set an ambition, of course. But the wife?
And just as I ash onto the pile of cigarette corpses crowded in the crack of my balcony's cement floor, it hits me.
Make her my prison bitch, then kill her.
I finish my smoke and hurry back inside to my screen.
My vassals, a mayor and a bishop, both have 49 opinion of me. Perfect.
Sadly, I'm not holy enough in thought to kill her outright, but I'll just wait for her to slowly die the agonizing death associated with medieval prison life, even the non-Turkish variety.
My half-brother is my heir and he needs to be married, the game nags. But he isn't my direct line, so no wedding bells for him. Halfsies don't count.
Ambition? Let's go with raising my martial ability to at least be competent. I'm paranoid and arbitrary, so war will be my route to success.
Ho-hum, I suppose I should do something with my courtiers, so the usual train troops and get taxes for marshal and steward, neither of whom matter to me right now. My spymaster's shipped off to Spain to study useful technology improvements.
Then begins the long, slow wait for something to happen. Mid-November my chancellor tells me my king has a child that needs a mentor, so in hopes of being awesome, I send off a letter, only to be laughed at and rejected. Game imitating life.
That thought reminds me to look at my cellphone. As usual, no calls or text messages. I get maybe one every month from my mother. In fact, the only times my phone ever really makes noise at me is when I turn it on or off, or when it's screaming at me to charge it, which is often. Terrible, terrible battery life. Still a better life than mine.
Oh, and then the stupid Facebook game notifications I keep getting from the 107 friends of mine. No, I don't want to farm. No, I don't wish to play slots. No, I don't want to be a superhero, at least not that way. The worst part of it all? Of those Facebook friends, 57 are relatives, and the other 50 are people I went to high school with. I never cared about the first group, and as for the second? They ignored me, and now, all of a sudden, it's ZOMG WE WERE BEST FRIENDS!! PLEASE LOOK AT PICTURES OF MY BABIES AND MY TRIPS AND SEE HOW HAPPY I AM WITH LIFE, LOSER!!! ...Okay, so the last word isn't what they say, or maybe even consciously think, but it's implicit in their requests and their postings.
Me? I don't post anything, other than my own albums of vacations, in which case I bombard them with 30 albums of 100+ pictures each trip. Yeah, take that, you contended bastards.
Back to the game.
My steward dies of natural causes at 25. My half-brother would make a better steward, but screw him. I go with someone a tick below. Brosef complains; I tell him to get bent.
That slattern Helena, the one who kept me from murdering the wife I hate, dies at 17 of illness. I'm disappointed I'm not the one who caused her demise, but karma is karma, I suppose.
Then, in the summer of 1067, King Svend II gets a mass case of heatstroke, evidenced by his naming me Chancellor and getting involved in not one, but two wars. At the same time.
Yep, old Svend II gets himself involved in the very English mess I was hoping to avoid, and on top of it, interferes in Swedish politics. I'm just like, hello, oh mighty dumbassed redheaded liege, we're a tiny island nation. Stop trying to act like you're all that and a bag of chips, when you're none of that and a sack of shit.
Time passes. By May of 1068, I've pissed off everyone by refusing to let the Hedge Knights in, my half-brother even more so by refusing to find a wife for him and by making him Spymaster after my old one dies and punting him down to Spain. The war over England is still going on.
An awesome new financial wizard by the name of Hans av Nyborg or some such thing comes wandering in. I name him Steward, marry him off to some court doxie when he wants the old ball and chain, and invite him to join the plot to kill that irritating wife of mine. He accepts, but since my spymaster died, there's nothing doing with that.
Until July, 1070. Finally, after an ungodly amount of Sundays in church, I finally am considered holy enough to execute my imprisoned wife, which I promptly do.
At last, there will be something for me to do. But now the sun's starting to penetrate my living room, which means it's time for me to go to bed before my usual night shift at ye olde station.