If you're a blacksmith, probably the proudest day of your life is when you get your first anvil. How innocent you are, little blacksmith.
In today’s rife political climate, with everyone at each other’s throats like wolves on deer (a deep and complex imagery – set the scene, girl, set the scene, you’re making a Point), and tension spilling over like oil into rivers (nature metaphors, yes, we’re doing this), satire is more commonly seen than ever, though at times in this ridiculous world separating satire from reality becomes more and more difficult, like cleaning up all the oil that spilled into rivers, or trying to read an incredibly long opening sentence crammed with metaphors and freewriting.
Yet satire is important – we must laugh, even when we don’t understand why people act the way they do, or why actual human beings I see on my Facebook timeline unironically post Onion articles thinking they’re true. It’s important because we must laugh – I said that already, but editing is for losers and repetition is for winners even if they have to use spell check to spell repetition – because laughter keeps us going, it binds us together (like knots, to steal an ongoing simile from my Hamilton fanfiction which I will someday write another chapter of).
However, that’s a completely different kind of satire so that’s all pointless, like internet argument.
This Satire – or Satty, since we’re all friends here – is way less important to our current climate, and exists as a function of narrating my rapidly disintegrating thoughts, and also to totally rule Beqanna someday (he’d tried once before, and was promptly ignored, because some people can’t accept their one true king when he’s breakdancing in your face).
This Satty should 1000% be dead but time is fake and role playing games even more so, so he’s not, he’s here, he’s walking into the meadow, his legs like majestic pillars holding up popcicle stick house, which is not the imagery I intended but it’s what you get.
(No thinking, we write like men, by which I mean we act self important and explain everything to women much more intelligent than us.)
Back to the point of this post, which is to introduce Satire by detailing his actions, which currently consist of: walking.
What else? Satire is a Frankenstein’s monster of confirmation, he wears every fault that comes from breeding a Friesian to an Arabian mix, or something like that (I don’t remember and I’m not looking it up). He’s here to meet some cool dudes, or ladies, or anywhere on that spectrum because like time, gender is also an illusion.
“Hello!” he shouts, cheerful to be brought out of the closet for this woeful narrator’s entertainment. Also, he’s just always a happy guy, and we love him for that.
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