What a load of crap. We all know that it’s way easier to just deal with an insecure douchebag.
Denmark [d(e)-nma-rk, den-mark] as a boy’s name. Geographical: the country I live in, in Scandinavia. Also possibly a combined name of Dennis and Mark.
Dennis: means “follower of Dionysius”, or Dionysos, or Dionysus (the Greek God of wine, ritual of madness and ecstasy)
Mark: is an Anglicised version of Marcus, which means “dedicated to Mars” (the Roman God of fertility), who became identified with Ares (the Greek God of war).
In conclusion - Denmark is all about parties, madness, sex and… war (well duh, the Vikings)… makes perfect sense to me.
Standard week in DK:
And hey, now it’s weekend…. SEE YA!
He had gazed at her for a long time now. He knew that she knew which had caused him to blush. He had fallen in love with her – at least he thought he did. He loved her so much, that the rose he had seen on the cemetery, which he thought was the most beautiful one he had ever seen, should be given to her – because she was just as beautiful.
He smiled thinking about giving it to her. He went home right away that same day. His mum had not come home yet, so she would never know that he had left for a moment. Placed gently on the rosewood table in the hallway, the rose looked curiously at him while he struggled tying his shoelaces. It was all done, he was ready, and went out the door, looked twice before he ran over the road to her place that was right beside his.
He had knocked on the door, and was answered with a beautiful smile from the young girl. He smiled again – his was a little bit more awkward. He was invited in, and had hided the rose behind his back until she sat down beside him in the expensive couch. There had been placed birthday presents in every corner in the apartment. Her parents were not home either.
He was a bit taller than her.
She began explaining why there were presents everywhere: She had just held her birthday, and she was now seven years old.
She thanked him for the rose right after he had given it to her, and he then asked her veiled in blush if she would give him a kiss because of the rose. She would – and she did. It felt nice. She was nice.
“When was your last birthday?” she then asked him. He answered that his birthday was a long time ago.
“Did you turn seven too?” she asked him again. He said no. He wasn’t seven.
Well he was, but he had had a couple of birthdays since then.
He touched his cheek, the one she had been kissing, and remembered his last birthday. He had not been given as many presents as she had, only one from his mum, but he remembered that he didn’t turn seven – but 42.
He had asked for one last kiss in the exact moment that her parents arrived with more birthday presents for their little girl. The beautiful rose from the cemetery was crushed.
- by Nicolai Uttenthal Degn