Love takes time.


love yourself
You. An Alt. Love yourself for a long time. TOY!


One major pet peeve I have with myself and Azeroth these days is when I miss a toy opportunity–for the Lunar Festival there was a new toy, but because I didn’t do my research I’ll have to wait till next year. But not for the Love Festival! There is a toy called the True Love Prism, and it’s very easy to get — it just takes patience. “Patience” meaning you sit on your but for 25 minutes and click. Once you get 50 love tokens, buy a prism, log onto an alt, and hit that alt for 50 shots of love. The cooldown for the prism is 30 seconds, so that’s where the patience comes in. Also, I suggest you two go to a dark corner without a lot of traffic –get a room, people–because you don’t want to be like my warlock and spread your love to random strangers. I had to pull Ceniza in to finish the job. My bank alt Kellae has never felt so loved. Once the stack of 50 is on your alt, the toy will show up in your bags.

Too bad the course of real love doesn’t run this smoothly…



And this…this is a shadow priestess…

Story time: The Two

The Two

A little girl with a big green bow covered her mouth to cough. If her germs were glitter, the room would have been sparkly shards of pestilence.

The mage regretted not staying in her tower, away from coughing, germ-y children with big green bows and mousy hair, cardigans to match. She just got over a cold herself not a few days ago, the mucous forming gummy balls in her sinuses. And that little girl would not stop hacking. The thin mother strung her brood with her, goslings forming the lines, the oldest girl, the girl with the cough, leading the way, younger brother next, then a toddler girl, and baby girl in arms. All well dressed, jumpers and tote bags. Coughing and hacking circumference around the public space. The noise created a Doppler effect in the cushioned hall. Well, give the mother credit for birthing four babies and still keeping a slim figure, even if they were little germ bags.

Yes, she should have stayed at home.

Human mothers…disgusting.

But she had been bored, so she went to the library. Made a few scrolls, scribed a few cards. On each card, the ink seemed to pulse, living veins in black, thinning and swirling to create lenticular images. When singular the cards were ineffective; it was the combining of them that revealed truths, the skill of the interpreter enhanced by the crafted cards. Her favorite to create was the Two of Wands: this card represented planning, strategy, and ideas in motion. No more “_____of Hearts” cards. Ridiculous joker cards they were.

Her inking skills came at a tiny blood cost: small droplets of blood went into every pound of soot, ash, vinegar, and water. Just a tiny bit. Of course she was being superstitious and playing warlock—she shrugged. Couldn’t hurt.

She scribed a few variations of the Two of Wands—in one version, the wands were a couple speaking to one another, and in another, the couple turned their backs, disconnected and angry. She’d have to destroy that one, for its magic cratered at its inception. Angry wands do not good plans make.

Her favorite illustration was an optical illusion: the two wands crossed each other, but if the card was held at an angle, you could see the wands never touched. Alter the other way, and the one in the foreground faded to the back. You couldn’t tell where one started, ended, or where the connection stopped. The trick of optical illusions was to show the viewer exactly what they knew they would see, but could never be puzzled out. Things appear to be touching, yet never quite meet.

In addition to some romance novels, (the best place to press inky cards), she grabbed some music—a little classical—Bartok perhaps—and Spanish guitar. The librarian seemed tired, ready for the late winter night to begin, or end; the mage couldn’t tell which. Or maybe that’s just how she felt. There was nothing in the cupboards to eat or cook. Acoustic guitar did not fill up an empty tummy. If only she had a man to buy her wine, bring her food, take care of the house. She took caution in what she wished for, however, because those plans often took more than they gave.

Slipping the freshly inked cards in between borrowed books, leaving smudges on the bodices and heaving bosoms, and unbridled lust, she straightened her green bow, buttoned her green cardigan, and coughed, theatrically, into her sleeve. At least she was old enough to buy her own wine.

Sgt. Zeptepi’s Lonely Heart Club Band

An apology: this past Saturday I was both sick and decided to do a family thing, and didn’t make it to my own OLRG run. I have an unreliable habit of making promises I can’t keep. But hey, going to cut myself some slack, because I need to report on such a rare sighting, such an unusual phenomenon, that if Bigfoot was sitting next to me pouring me a cup of coffee, or a chupacabra cleaning out my fridge, you would find those more believable than what I’m about to tell you:

I saw the Big Love Rocket drop.


Now I know some of ya’ll have been playing a lot longer than I have, with many more alts. You’ve sought this love rocket near and far, to the twisting nether to the shores of the Eastern Kingdoms, to no avail. (Which lead me to this website–just how much is Stormwind Castle worth?) But if loves eludes us in Azeroth, pray it finds us in the real world at least, even in the form of a beloved pet or pint of pistachio ice cream.

(Pistachio ice cream has never let me down.)

But we Azerothians suffer from something even more cruel than love. We thrive under a gambler’s fallacy, which makes us try again and again Me seeing that Love Rocket drop didn’t discourage me, it made me think if it can drop for that guy, then it surely will for me, too.

We keep trying though.

Oh, and if you’re not listening to the Hidden Brain podcast, you’re missing out.

Look, that rocket will probably never drop for me. But after m4,986th run to get love, this cheered me up:

OLRG: Ain’t Love Grand?

olrg man


Old Ladies Raiding Guild: Gird Thy Loins.

Clearly: We have Cupid/Eros in our midst. He beckons to us, dangling his…shiny…blue…er…hook, baiting us, the merman, this Neptune, the Poseidon-adonis of the Waves. I believe, given a little pixie dust and smoky Manhattans in Lalique highball glasses he could actually fly.

Love? Sure. If that’s what you want to call it.

Let’s make him proud:

Old Ladies Raiding Guild

Saturday, February 13 — anytime between 1PM Pacific and whenever.

Glitter optional.



Till the end…


I’m procrastinating as usual– the question of the hour being how has Facebook changed lives–and of course I’m thinking of all the wasted hours–but then again, there was this article about death doulas-– women who stay with people during the end of their lives. That might come in handy in case I outlive everyone. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. In any case, they’re called ‘amicus mortis’ — and immediately: FORSAKEN PRIEST!

Ah, real life. Always an inspiration to my fantasy one.

Now the question is: to heirloom or not to heirloom?