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I'm going to die, for various reasons. I'm supposed to read a lesson tomorrow at Church; of all possible lessons, I'm reading the one in Genesis wherein Eve takes fruit from the serpent, etc, etc, which not only do I not believe, but which I dislike particularly. The pastor says he doesn't believe it either, but that's little comfort. He also made comments about my height. *fume*
Also, Mum wants to "get me ready" for Iceland. Good God. In June we are going to Iceland and staying with Uncle Joi's family. The only words in Icelandic I know are yao, nay, brunterta, and levabred; two of those are foodstuffs (delicious foodstuffs, I grant, but not overly helpful for a conversation), and I am very dubious as to the spelling of the first two, which are simply yes and no. Icelandic is a completely beautiful language, but I have no basic comprehension of it. Also, this trip is going to be two weeks long. One week of that will be spent on bloody horses riding over craters and bloody glaciers! And therefore, Mum wants me to start riding our home-horses, the vicious Titania, the apathetic when not annoyed Falcon, and the ditzy Lily, as Waen puts it. I am doomed. I am incredibly, unutterably doomed.
And in remarkable high spirits, considering. At least Icelandic ponies are rather fat and very short. I shan't have far to fall.
And I shall be able to listen to lots of men speaking with very thick Icelandic accents, as well as possibly singing with them. How much closer to heaven, I ask you, can one get?
Also, Mum wants to "get me ready" for Iceland. Good God. In June we are going to Iceland and staying with Uncle Joi's family. The only words in Icelandic I know are yao, nay, brunterta, and levabred; two of those are foodstuffs (delicious foodstuffs, I grant, but not overly helpful for a conversation), and I am very dubious as to the spelling of the first two, which are simply yes and no. Icelandic is a completely beautiful language, but I have no basic comprehension of it. Also, this trip is going to be two weeks long. One week of that will be spent on bloody horses riding over craters and bloody glaciers! And therefore, Mum wants me to start riding our home-horses, the vicious Titania, the apathetic when not annoyed Falcon, and the ditzy Lily, as Waen puts it. I am doomed. I am incredibly, unutterably doomed.
And in remarkable high spirits, considering. At least Icelandic ponies are rather fat and very short. I shan't have far to fall.
And I shall be able to listen to lots of men speaking with very thick Icelandic accents, as well as possibly singing with them. How much closer to heaven, I ask you, can one get?