Poor Varda
Varda is sitting upon her cushy, golden throne in Valinor, being absolutely and completely bored.
“Manwë!” she shouts. “Bring me a glass of water.”
“Yes, Milady, I am your humble servant,” he replies from somewhere about the hall.
“And be quick about it!” she adds.
Sighing, she thinks about how utterly boring her life is. Sometimes she is jealous of Melkor, being free to terrorize the people of the Earth, and having fun doing it. She’s made all the stars she can possibly make, and she’s been having to play the “good girl” for her entire existence. Sure, her husband can be entertaining at times, but since half of the time he’s groveling to her, and the other half, he’s acting like he’s the brains of the outfit (because Tolkien wasn’t exactly confident in women), he is also boring. So now, her life is filled with a constant self-pitying depression that no one can cure her of. . . .
“Manwë! How’s that water coming along? Don’t forget the ice!!”
“Manwë!” she shouts. “Bring me a glass of water.”
“Yes, Milady, I am your humble servant,” he replies from somewhere about the hall.
“And be quick about it!” she adds.
Sighing, she thinks about how utterly boring her life is. Sometimes she is jealous of Melkor, being free to terrorize the people of the Earth, and having fun doing it. She’s made all the stars she can possibly make, and she’s been having to play the “good girl” for her entire existence. Sure, her husband can be entertaining at times, but since half of the time he’s groveling to her, and the other half, he’s acting like he’s the brains of the outfit (because Tolkien wasn’t exactly confident in women), he is also boring. So now, her life is filled with a constant self-pitying depression that no one can cure her of. . . .
“Manwë! How’s that water coming along? Don’t forget the ice!!”