There’s Thousands Of People Out There Right Now Crying About A Dog That Was Sent To Space. I’m One

almost started crying at work the other day because we were hooking motors up to a truss and i overheard one of my coworkers telling the story of the trojan war to his friend and i was so tired and my feet were so sore beneath me i started to imagine i was a sailor on a merchant vessel centuries ago overhearing that very conversation and i thought about how some stories are so human they outlast all of us and i almost couldn't stand it

i love cold room and lots of blanket

Dropping this here for anyone who may not already know about it. paywallreader.com

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.

Altogether, I really like the way americans say "can I help you?" as a polite general one-size-fits-all stand-in for "who the fuck are you/what the fuck are you doing here/how the fuck did you get in here/what the fuck are you staring at/what is your fucking problem." Such a polite way of going "bitch what the fuck."

Here's something that's a good source on Hermes, if you're not really sure what he's like as a god and a person.