Gold is boring.
There, I said it.
It makes a lousy metal for doing anything except looking at, and I have no need for jewelry.
Even the watch I made, which isn’t much of a watch, could probably work better in steel if I had the patience to work it.
I can’t understand how it got so valuable in the first place.
Some day someone is going to analyze this log to figure out the migration patterns of these monsters. In the meantime, the exploding giraffe-corgis are gone and the rock rats have returned.
The good thing is they’re easier to kill. The bad thing is they swarm.
I cleared the goo and in the process of shoveling it away discovered some emeralds. I have no idea what I’m going to do with emeralds in this place. They’re not handy for cutting or protection the way the diamonds are. (Assuming they are diamonds. Which I doubt.)
There’s no joy in certain kinds of work, no matter how hard I try. I don’t like shoveling goo. I don’t like feeding duckens. I don’t like cleaning, in general.
But if the universe wants to reward me with emeralds, I’m not going to argue.
I wonder what it would take to make a jewel polisher. Probably would at minimum need a flywheel, which is something I’ve never made. But I have iron (believe you me I have iron) and furnaces so I’m pretty sure I have all the raw ingredients.
I’m back in the mines, still looking for diamonds.
Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like crawling through a hole just big enough to pass through, only to find yourself face-to-face with a lime gelatin cube with an attitude problem.
Fortunately, I could duck right back into the hole and cut the thing down to size without being within contact of it.
Unfortunately, that meant when I was done I was walled in by a pile of goo.
I am not fond of piles of goo.
Idiot is still here. He refuses to leave my main chambers, even though I’m not feeding him. (I suspect he’s stealing food from my chests. But honestly if he wants some baked potato I’m willing to share. I have plenty and any animal that can subsist on baked potato alone with no salt, butter, sour cream, bacon…
I should stop, I’ll get depressed again.
Anyway: ducken. Eating potatoes. Lives in my room. Sleeps on my head.
It’s been a while since i had someone to come home to.
And I’ve already given him a name.
So I guess he’s family now.
Or as much as a ducken can be, anyway.