AN: Welcome to the second installment of the Technology in the Modern World series!
To the insufferable (and entirely sentient, though I haven't the least idea why) presence of this journal,
Greetings.
I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Quite a mouthful, I know. To prevent the horrid mispronunciation of my extremely superior name, most people just call me England (though not America; if you dare call me what he does, I'll castrate you).
Moving on from the name situation. Why am I writing in such a seemingly juvenile fashion (the diar-journal, not my writing style, lackwit), you ask?
You see, it's all America's fault. Well, now that I think about it, most of the incidents that involve either me or my country started with that git...
So, anyway, it was only a few days ago when my birthday rolled around. Hooray. America decided he would be gracious (one must feel the sarcasm roiling through their viscera) and give me a present. The box was delivered to me through means which I have not a clue about, and the wrapping on said box was just as dodgy. Who wraps a present in toilet paper?
I picked through the absolutely disgusting wrapping, gingerly peeling back the many, many wraps of the delicate cloth/paper/whatever it is. Anyone care to take a guess at what I revealed (after hours of tediously revulsing work, of course)?
An XBox 360.
Is the name meant to be some sort of consumer trap? Is it meant to signify the 360 turn (not for the better) one's life takes after recieving the product? Or is it supposed to symbolize that, once you start playing, all the turns one could make consist of three hundred and sixty degrees? It could just be the circle on the logo, though...
Well, it's good enough. I remember thinking. It's not like I wasn't thankful, I have just mysteriously found myself possesing all of the PlayStation models. It has nothing to do with my gaming preference, really.
The cardboard that the technology came in was immaculately designed, with all the right amounts of brown, brown, and more-hey were those Chinese characters? I wedged my fingers under the flaps, quickly gaining a papercut from which I'll never recover, and tore the package clear off.
Huh. I never knew I was that strong. It must run in the family.
Inside, after I passed through the trials and tribulations of the bubble wrap and the too-bloody-many twist ties, I found a starter pack. You know, I'm sure, of the booklet, cords, and random other odds and ends that come from that company, Microsoft. What was strange about this finding, however, were the games included. Normally such games are of the Nintendo species, with happy plumber men who dream after princesses probably a decade younger. And underage. Pedophiles these days; it's just shameful.
The game cover was deceptively simple. Silver lettering on a black field (no, I am not describing a flag) that bore seemingly random bloodstains. Lovely.
I found myself flipping the case over, examining the summary and other such essentials. Wait. Was this the game my citizens were all riled up over? This pitiful looking thing of a game?
Yes, unfortunately. The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.
I hooked the XBox up and began to play. Just like that, you ask? What's with the sudden acquiescence to America's roundabout demands?
Well, it's not like I have anything better to do. And, I believe I can trust my citizens on some things. I pity America; he must not have that option.
Alright, so the music's not that bad- pfft! What the hell? He didn't just do that, did he?
And so I had found my calling: I was to be a Nord* of Skyrim and defeat all who stand in my way. Oh, and a wife would be nice too.
Two days afterwards (and just yesterday, it was) I was dead on my proverbial feet. I find myself using the word proverbial because you could count the number of times I actually used my legs the past days on one hand. Impressive, to say the least.
I was nowhere near to being finished with the game's five hundred-plus hours of gameplay. I hadn't even joined the Dark Brotherhood**; though, really, there's no reason I shouldn't have.
I was broken out of my sluggish stupor by an incessant banging on the door. I probably uttered some series of incredibly embarassing noises, but I was far out of my right mind. Maybe I was in my left mind...?
It turned out that the one calling at the door was France. Joy. I simply returned to my living room and continued to rot my brain with the fun, yet highly addictive game.
Was that the door opening? Oh, bollocks, I left the key under the doormat...
"Oh, Angleterre!" A slimy voice called.
I harrumphed, not letting his victory slow my spirits.
His disgusting blonde head peeked around the corner. "Mon cher, what 'ave you done to yourself? You look tres horrible!"
I glared, eyes devoid of challenge; I simply wanted him to go away. Nothing less.
"'Ave you even taken a bath in the past few days?" He looked disgusted at the mere thought.
"...No. Go away." I mumbled, intent on the Dragon Priest now beating the complete and utter crap out of my character.
He gingerly stepped forward, a wayward hand covering his nose, and with no provocation whatsoever- snatched the controller out of my sweaty hands.
I didn't take it well. Oh, no sir, I didn't.
That reminds me, I need to replace that section of the wall.
A frantic chase began, I slipping and sliding over the hardwood floor, and France triumphantly waving the controller above my head whenever I got too close. Why does he have to be so bloody tall?
This would have turned out better if I had been able to steal the controller back. Then, I wouldn't kill him too permanently. Maybe just for a little bit.
But, no. The stupid frog just had to go and start playing my precious game, taking extreme care to erase all of my data.
I lost half of my grey matter for nothing.
Currently, I'm attempting to win back all of my prized brain cells, and you, you stupid journal, are not helping.
AN: Ahh, the wonders of writing whilst half asleep...
The Skyrim references may have caused some confusion, so here are the clarifications:
*Nords are one of the many playable races in the game. They're normally blonde, huge, and they use axes. Think Sweden minus the glasses, and with an extra foot of hair.
**The Dark Brotherhood is a guild of assassins in the game. Highly secretive, but most everyone who plays is a member.
Translations:
Angleterre- England (French)
Mon cher- My dear; masculine (French)
Tres horrible- Very horrible, really horrible (French)