![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
My dad just signed off a ten-word email with old one hand. As in:
good to know.
surgery went well.
old one hand
It's kind of like I'm receiving coded riddle emails from my maimed arch-nemesis, a rogue privateering sea captain confirming the date of our french polynesian rendezvous, where he'll hand over my captured ward (a stubborn teenage boy in a ruffled collar from a good family) who he's recently performed some kind of high-seas butchery on with a hacksaw and a bottle of rum, because an encounter with the British fleet - my own ship, mayhaps? - put a cannonball through my ward's foot, and when I see him the boy will be pale but stoic and Old One Hand will threaten to walk him off the plank until I commit some act of derring-do, and it is revealed that my arch-nemesis has always been my estranged father, and by our own similarities in the midst of an action sequence we will be reconciled.
Fortunately, I know my dad was not getting a hand amputated. So. Crisis averted. I will not be joining the navy any time soon.
'Tis the season of awkward gifts and tokens from people you don't like well enough to have got gifts for yourself. In this case: bag of chocolate, and a silkscreened print. :/ One more reason to work people up so I can blacklist Christmas entirely next year. The secret is to have a social circle so small or held at perfect arms-length, so they'd never think of you, either, and then tell the people you actually care about that you refuse to buy into the megatheocorporatocracy. I WILL GET THERE. I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL.
good to know.
surgery went well.
old one hand
It's kind of like I'm receiving coded riddle emails from my maimed arch-nemesis, a rogue privateering sea captain confirming the date of our french polynesian rendezvous, where he'll hand over my captured ward (a stubborn teenage boy in a ruffled collar from a good family) who he's recently performed some kind of high-seas butchery on with a hacksaw and a bottle of rum, because an encounter with the British fleet - my own ship, mayhaps? - put a cannonball through my ward's foot, and when I see him the boy will be pale but stoic and Old One Hand will threaten to walk him off the plank until I commit some act of derring-do, and it is revealed that my arch-nemesis has always been my estranged father, and by our own similarities in the midst of an action sequence we will be reconciled.
Fortunately, I know my dad was not getting a hand amputated. So. Crisis averted. I will not be joining the navy any time soon.
'Tis the season of awkward gifts and tokens from people you don't like well enough to have got gifts for yourself. In this case: bag of chocolate, and a silkscreened print. :/ One more reason to work people up so I can blacklist Christmas entirely next year. The secret is to have a social circle so small or held at perfect arms-length, so they'd never think of you, either, and then tell the people you actually care about that you refuse to buy into the megatheocorporatocracy. I WILL GET THERE. I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL.
