You may have noticed (if you’re here, that is) that I haven’t written a stream recap in roughly a month or so. Part of it is because of how much some of the games just shred me, mentally. There are only so many ways you can say that a game is boring/lazy/uninspired. The only time I’ve ever been able to just sit down and pop one out like a slice of bread from a toaster is when I’ve had a really fun time (like the first game for The Mummy) or something of note, even catastrophe, has occurred. The rest just have me hemming and hawing at the keyboard like my brain is constipated. The motivation just isn’t there, and then the logjam of due entries grows and it just…bleh. I’ve got ten plus in the pipe that I “need” to finish, and I still can’t bring myself to say much about friggin’ Dead to Rights II that hasn’t already been said. So, for the foreseeable future, I’m going to forgo running a recap unless it’s something that, like Charles, makes sense to get out of my head.
Obviously, I’m going to continue streaming on Twitch as I’ve gotten to a point where it in of itself is a fun activity for me, so that won’t be going away. I just can’t put a gun to my head and force myself to write a thousand words, three or more times a week, for every game I pop in. Progress is being made elsewhere, additional equipment, events (God I love MUMMY WATCH 2018), and etc. As always, I have a hundred irons in the fire when what the crowd clearly asked for was balloon animals, so what I promise versus what I deliver will likely still continue to have a worse Kill/Death ratio than a COD-playing dog on Wi-Fi. Nevertheless, I promise I will never die.
I don’t know if it’s a matter of education, or some sort of misguided expectation that I should make word things just like other people make word things, but the difficulty rolls in waves. I’ve written at length in the past about my frustrating inability to express myself on command, primarily as “training” to force myself to, in italics, fucking produce something. You spit quality all day every day. There’s a weird disconnect with me, where I shed things from my mouth like heavy dandruff and it rocks in the moment, but begins to slip through my fingers and by the time I’ve run to the bathroom sink, the goldfish is dead. She’s dead, Mom, and it’s all my fault. Why did you give a child the power to control life and death? The only thing I’ve done in this sink so far is vomit, an action that those intimately familiar with my personal life will still continue to be repulsed and upset by.
So I’m going to go out and try this, eh? I’m going to try just splorting out all over the page in a desperate attempt to get something, ANYTHING posted here before the fury of my military-grade backspace can destroy it with laser-guided precision.
First off, I should start by saying that I’m not a writer. I just so happen to know a few interlocking words.
With that out of the way, I’m free to SHIT ALL OVER MY KEYBOARD.
It’s surprising how, in the blink of an eye, I can somehow accidentally ignore the internet crime base for over a month. I mean, sure, the passage of time will always seem like a massive chasm when your attention is on other things, but I coulda sworn I was writing something just last week. Nevertheless, I am here to place a tiny band-aid over our gaping head wound.