Sometimes a chair is just a chair…


And sometimes, IT’S NOT.

Though this will appear to be my veryveryfirst post on this shiny new blog–it’s not.

The first was a reaction to What Remains of Edith Finch (highly recommended, BTDubs, seriously excellent experience) that got so dark, so fast, that I ran screaming into the night. (Or, in normal-person parlance, it went into the Drafts of Doom and has yet to see the light of day. It might still be revealed, once I come to terms with the ridiculously self-aware — which is to say only partially delusional — depths that were uncovered in the process.)

The second post was an overreaction to the first, and ended up being so banal that I wanted to throw up and then punch myself in the face, a la Tyler Durden (something that I have actually done… with a can of soup… but that’s a story for another day.)

This post, however… as far as I’m concerned, the blame for it can be firmly and fairly laid at the feet of the supremely self-consciously cultured.

See, I have this co-worker. There’s a rockier past there than is ever acknowledged openly; suffice it to say that if life were akin to Game of Thrones, we would be the frenemies who would eventually end up in a duel to the death. (It may still happen, metaphorically speaking…. events unfold apace.) She hosts wine tastings, which I dutifully attend. I also spend entirely too much money in the process, because a) I’m over 40, b) I’m loyal to extremes (by which I mean that I regularly cut off my nose to spite my face, all in the name of standing by the few people that I care about), and c) I’m seriously, chronically, tragically bored. As a result, I occasionally get slightly more drunk than is wise of a Friday night. (Like now. Definitely like now.)

And then I have not-so-bright ideas. In the past, those not-so-bright ideas have resulted in kinda-really-bad scenarios which only those of similarly drunken Scots-Irish origins would probably understand, in some twisted fashion (or, fuck, I dunno… maybe, these days, we all get it.)

Recently, the reigning kinda-bad scenario was to a) get drunk, and then b) play Prey for the first time.

And HoLY cRAP is that a bad idea. Not recommended. Seriously. Fifteen minutes in (or five, or maybe an hour), life was a series of, “AHHHGH, A CHAIR!!! *thwack* Whew. Ok, just a chair. AHHHHGH, A CHAIR!!! *thwack* Ok, ‘nother chair…”

Prey managed to tweak every paranoiac nerve that I possess so quickly that I found myself talking to myself out loud as I tried to navigate through the (largely safe) initial rooms. “That is messssssed up… no, you don’t… ok, I am SOOOOO not going there… what the heeeeeellllll…”

I’m far from being able to give a comprehensive review of the game, but for the moment, my review is five “What the helllll!?!?”sss out of five based on crazy-making paranoia alone.

I really need a new hobby.

Shit… wait… I think blogging IS my new hobby.

More on that later…

In the meantime, remember:

  1. You have to lose everything before you can do anything,
  2. The cake is a lie.
  3. Appearances not only can be deceiving, they usually are.

I’d say, “Peace out!”, but peace is a lie… there is only passion. (Yay, Sith! Ok, where’s my glass?)

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