"Is that the fucking elder futhark?"
I pulled an eyeliner pen out of my purse and quickly copied down the runes onto my wrist. Walking home I s
tudied
it, cursing myself for not knowing if a) it WAS for sure the elder
futhark and b) not remembering the bloody alphabet if it were. I then
realised nobody in their right mind would give two shits.
A google search later, I discover, A-HA! It's the MEDIEVAL expansion on the younger futhark. I then set about translating my wrist.
It says, 'Larson.'
What we have learned today: some kid named Larson has a sharpie, and I have no life.
A google search later, I discover, A-HA! It's the MEDIEVAL expansion on the younger futhark. I then set about translating my wrist.
It says, 'Larson.'
What we have learned today: some kid named Larson has a sharpie, and I have no life.
(My sister, however, thinks it's adorable that a) I was upset for not knowing my runic alphabet, and b) for being honestly pissed that it was just some kid's name.)
I too would be upset. It's like the time my brain blanked at the MFA and I couldn't translate any of the hieroglyphs in the Egyptian wing. I felt utterly mundane. I am glad you reconciled the script though!
ReplyDeleteI once bought a pen and notebook to transcribe something someone had written in some kind of runes (it was a *very* long time ago) on the back of a lavatory door in a shady part of Rockhampton. At least my effort was sort of rewarded; it turned to say "life can be beautiful if you let it be that way".
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