Accio Oreos. Dammit, why are the Oreos still sitting in the cabinet? Why are they not soaring into my hand at this very moment? Do you mean to tell me that snapping a branch off the tree outside most similar-looking to the Whomping Willow is not how wands are made these days? Since Ollivander’s shop has now been closed down for a lengthy time period, and Voldemort took it upon himself to murder Gregorovich (wow, thanks so much for killing the only other wandmaker I know), I assumed that creating my own wand was basically the only way to go. I even took the extra initiative to borrow my neighbor’s gun and attempt to shoot a phoenix out of the sky so that I might have its tail feather to add to my wand. Instead, I’m still sitting here perplexed, with a stick of wood with a parakeet tailfeather (I figured my pet parakeet Pigwidgeon wouldn’t mind me jacking a feather or two "for the greater good" as Dumbledore and Grindelwald would say) glued to it lying next to me and no Oreos in my hand. What a shitty situation.
Unfortunately, I am forced to deal with such shitty situations on a daily basis because as much as it pains me to admit, I am a muggle. Well, since I simply cannot stand having that much common ground with the Dursleys, I like to consider myself a more of a squib actually. Even though squib is a derogatory term in the Wizarding World, I much prefer it to muggle because at least squib implies that I’m in on the secret, on what’s really going down in the world. Because shit is definitely going down. Harry Potter is definitely in the process of defeating Lord Voldemort as I type these very words, but since I’m just a pitiful little squib, I can be of no assistance to him.
If I could just locate the whereabouts of the Ministry of Magic, I’m sure we could work out some sort of deal where I could borrow an inept witch or wizard’s wand for a while so that I could take my place in the Order of the Phoenix. Unfortunately, my search is not lending me many results. The last place I went to investigate turned out to genuinely be an empty warehouse and not a clever guise put in place by Kingsley Shacklebolt to keep muggles away. The owl hooting loudly in the warehouse was in fact not delivering me The Daily Prophet but was in all actuality merely looking for prey. I learned this the hard way when Hedwig’s evil twin elected to swoop down on my head as I walked around the warehouse, flicking my flashlight on and off , casually whispering Lumos and Nox each time I did so, desperately searching for clues of that bullshit Dumbledore says about how "magic always leaves traces." I left the place with a bruised ego and a talon-scraped scalp. Well, on a more optimistic note, at least I didn’t have to give up any Knuts to that stupid bird for a newspaper I don’t even get that much pleasure out of reading anyway. The liberal bias of it kills me (the moving pictures are nice to look at, though, I confess).
Other attempts at finding the M.O.M. as I like to endearingly refer to it since it is comparable to a close family member in my heart have turned up equally empty. I can’t even count the number of phone booths I’ve walked into, punched in the code, and then walked out of with disappointment upon merely hearing some stupid robotic voice tell me to insert dimes to place a call rather than having the floor sink inward and turn into an elevator into the Ministry. Um, yes, I’d like to place a call to the phone company and inform them that normal people pay in Sickles, not dimes.
Bus drivers are starting to get offended that I call them all Stan Shunpike; I mean, what do they expect? I stuck out my fucking wand arm, so I assumed that when the bus pulled up it would be Stan…is that really too much to ask for? Even taxi drivers, who are supposed to be the most easy going people around, are starting to get pissed off at me. The last cab I hailed, when the cab driver asked where I was going, I replied perfectly rationally, "the Leaky Cauldron, that’s in London." He then had the nerve to look at me like I was insane when he was clearly the crazy one for not knowing the location of such a popular pub. The balls on some people! It astounds me!
Attempting to bribe government officials (I figure some of them are secretly Ministry officials) with Galleons in exchange for telling me the location of the Ministry is proving to be an ineffective method as well. Some jack wagon actually had the nerve to say to me, "That’s only good at Chuck E. Cheese, you know, right?" Um, no, I don’t fucking know, right, sir, I just fucking know that you’re in on the damn secret and are hiding behind a smug expression and that you possess a creepily accurate knowledge of what Chuck E. Cheese tokens look like (Hmmm do we have a Jerry Sandusky on our hands perhaps?). Even when I whipped my wand out of my pocket and shouted Crucio at the man (Unforgivable, I know, but sometimes necessary), all that occurred was the man rolling his eyes and walking away and Pigwidgeon’s bright blue feather falling off and floating away with all the drama and heartbreak of that feather scene in Forrest Gump. If I’d been able to simply Accio some fucking super glue, that never would have happened just like how if Forrest had been able to Accio the heroin away from Jenny’s whore ass, she never would have gotten AIDS and died.
I get the feeling that people are really starting to judge me. At first I took the hushed whispers of those around me as a sign that they were magical people who sensed I was one of them, but after borrowing a pair of Extendable Ears off a bloke at a gas station, I came to the conclusion that the whispers were actually about my lack of sanity. Oh helllllll, no. That is not even close to the truth. Just because I have sprinted head-on into the brick wall at Platform Nine and Three Quarters a few too many times doesn’t mean that I have no brain cells remaining. I know the real story, and I'm fucking sick of being a muggle.
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