A younger, slimmer, slightly-more-fearless ChefShwasty would tell you that this was solely out of boredom. The actual truth being is that at the age of 23, I discovered dark rums, and for a period of time, it made me fearless like a pirate. I felt like the world was at my fingertips. The only thing to stop me was my limited attention span. And after three rum-drinks, that span was very limited.
I don’t remember exactly what made me pick Greenland. It must’ve had something to do with the globe that sat next to my mini-bar. Something inside me lusted for land to call my own, and never one to limit myself, I assumed that more land would be better! However, my job put me right around the poverty line, so purchasing any large plot of land would be vastly unreasonable. That left precious few options. It would take decades to amass a fortune vast enough to acquire the satiable about of land I craved, and being in the mindset I was, if it wasn’t going to happen in the next few hours, it wasn’t worth it. Rum, man. It’s a hell of a thing.
Enter, Greenland. A large, juicy fruit hanging from the top of the world, ripe for the plucking. All that land! And it could be mine! Were it not for the fact that it was inhabited and thriving under the Danish empire, that is. No matter, though. After a brief couple reconnaissance searches, rum-brain decided that this gigantic island wasn’t profitable enough for Denmark, and thought that it would be polite, nay, GRACIOUS of me to take it off their hands. I mean, one less thing to worry about for them, right?
And here we have the first email. Full disclosure, this was probably closer to 4-5 rum drinks, hence the scattered trains of thought (like transitioning from letting a country borrow my copies of Rolling Stone magazine to swapping Xbox games). The only reason why there weren’t any typing mistakes was due to a very zealous spell-check; I was writing to a country, dammit. I was very adamant on not making any clerical errors.
After hitting send, I must’ve fallen immediately asleep. And being 23, I woke up early in the morning without a trace of a hangover and went about my business. It wasn’t until I checked my email days later that I even remembered my diplomatic conquering endeavor. The memory-jog came in the form of a reply.
I was immediately terrified; had I broken laws? What law did I break? What was Denmark-jail like? Did they serve those pastries (Danishes) in Danish-jail? Am I too pretty for jail?
I calmed down after actually reading the email, in which they politely denied my request, and then said: “but thank you for asking.” Seriously, Denmark? How cool are you to thank me for asking if I can have one of your territories?
In it, they said that I “dream big,” and gave me a soft job-offer to teach English. I printed out the two correspondences and showed them to my mom, who had raised me to have such an off-balance sense of humor. This was apparently too good for the fridge, and now, several years later, both emails are now framed and hanging in the guest bathroom.
I think, at some point, everyone reflects back on mistakes that they’ve made with a pinch of regret. Did I regret emailing Denmark? Not even a little. Do I regret having never played Titanfall? Given my dislike of online-shooters, not so much.
But I do regret not applying for that job. Are you listening, Denmark? I’m available.