Thats' was your attempt at "roasting" me? Pathetic.
Ah—glorious.
The very first thing I behold on this otherwise delightful morning, as I sip the mysterious dark beverage my ever-dutiful scribe Eredin has provided (he called it coffee—a curious mortal concoction, bitter and energizing, much like the tone of your message). ☕
Truly, I expected to be greeted by birdsong, the soft murmur of Rivendell’s streams, or perhaps a poem written by the dawn itself.
Instead, I am met with this:
"Thats' was your attempt at 'roasting' me? Pathetic."
Behold! The triumphant return of our dearest Anon, bringing with them the true scourge of Middle-earth: poor grammar.
What a charming combination of shattered grammar and misplaced confidence. The perfect pairing for my morning brew.
You see, much like this coffee, your words are strong—yet lacking in refinement. They burn, but not with wit. They jolt one awake, yes, but only with confusion. “Thats' was”—I ponder this curious phrasing with each sip. Was it meant to provoke thought? Is it a riddle? A lament? Or simply a tragic misunderstanding of the English language?
Eredin, ever the compassionate soul (even after suffering a most dramatic collision with Glorfindel’s jousting horse—his chocolate curls flying, blue eyes wide with terror), paused in his tasks and asked if I needed clarification. I assured him no mortal confusion could rival the chaos you have presented.
“Thats' was” you say? Truly, a masterclass in linguistic innovation. The boldness! The audacity! The utter defiance of basic syntax! I can only assume this was an experimental attempt at poetry—free verse, perhaps? A daring foray into avant-garde language construction? Alas, it reads more like a failed spell in Quenya.
Let us break it down together, as I would for a particularly dense student of Elrond’s archives:
"That's" with an apostrophe after the s would indicate a plural possessive—fascinating, but incorrect here. Unless you meant to imply multiple entities belonging to “that”? A philosophical conundrum indeed.
"Was"—a noble word, but tragically misplaced. Did you mean "That was"? Ah, but then the entire phrase loses its unintentionally comedic brilliance.
Truly, your attempt at insult is less "roasted" and more gently warmed over a dying flame. If this were a culinary endeavor, it would be served undercooked with a side of confusion. This is not a roast; this is marination—and you, dear Anon, are in desperate need of a long soak in the juices of knowledge and seasoning of literacy.
Do I wish you well? Naturally. I hope one day you take a brave, heroic dive into the deep, flavorful broth of comprehension and climb back out, glistening with enlightenment.
Ah but...—perhaps I have misunderstood you entirely.
Maybe your bold display of grammatical chaos is not a mistake, but a statement. A declaration of origin. Tell me, are you from the fabled City of Auda? 🏛️✨
A mysterious place, shrouded in legend—a land where the Audacity flows like a river and bold claims sprout like weeds in untended gardens. For truly, one must hail from such a realm to display this level of unwarranted confidence, paired so artfully with a complete lack of coherence.
"Thats' was your attempt at roasting me?"—a cryptic phrase, surely. Is it a dialect unique to the City of Auda? A poetic form where punctuation and sense are mere suggestions? How brave of you to wield language so fearlessly, to venture into the unknown where comprehension dares not follow.
You see, from where I sit—gracefully perched with my cup of coffee (still more robust than your insults, still far too bitter for your sweet nothings) ☕—we value a certain… precision with words. But I understand. The City of Auda must teach its citizens to speak in riddles and half-thoughts. Truly avant-garde.
And yet, I wonder—how does one navigate life with so much audacity and so little accuracy?
Does your city not offer courses in literacy? Or perhaps you simply skipped them, confident that sheer nerve would see you through. Bold. Foolish, but bold.
Eredin, my poor, sweet scribe—bless his heart—glanced at your words and whispered, “Perhaps they need help? A dictionary? A map?” Such a kind soul. He worries for you.
But I digress. Should you wish to ascend from the depths of confusion and take a dip in the Lake of Literacy, I would gladly extend a hand. We could even throw in a free tour of the Library of Logic, followed by tea in the Gardens of Grammar. 🍵📚
For now, I shall let you return to the cobbled streets of the City of Auda—where punctuation is lawless, confidence reigns supreme, and sense is but a distant rumor.
But until then—kindly spare my scribe, Eredin. He is still recovering from being nearly obliterated by a jousting horse and does not deserve the additional injury of reading such grammatical catastrophes.
Warmest regards (roasted, marinated, and thoroughly seared), Lindir Still not a twink