Pixelation: Uh, Super Mario, Sonic Hedgey Hog, Polygons
[pixelation | weekly gaming column every wednesday or uh thursday]
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Sometimes, and this is the truth, the words don’t come. Sometimes, and if you’ll believe me that’d be fantastic, the brain dries up. No matter how many cans of Diet Mountain Dew, no matter how much news has me excited, nothing arises. And like a clenched fist, friends!, the fruits drip, slosh, fall out faster the more I struggle.
Sometimes, god dammit, I just don’t want to write.
A video game column. How fucking hard is it to channel, conjure, find something in the infinite abyss of newsmediasprawl to write about!
I haven’t played video games in a week, and to an extent, I don’t miss them. Sometimes, playing video games is daunting. Sometimes, the cliche that don’t mix work and pleasure makes sense to me. To cast aside a controller or to take my feet out of the pool really means that I have nothing to write about.
To churn, vomit, gag on words.
To puke, shit, scat my way through a column.
I got nothin’, ya’ll.
Sometimes the world doesn’t revolve around blast processing, and magic whistles, and sometimes it does. That’s what I’m finding.
Deadlines for various academic sources have me churning words not into Word Press, but Microsoft Word. Are you interested in theoretical lesson plans for a college class I’ll never teach? Do you want nine-hundred words on the subversive nature of the graphic novel used as a medium for ethnic expression?
Kid, I got you.
Kid! I promise. I got you.
Sometimes, it seems, a labor of love, becomes a labor of labor.
I ain’t whining though. Or maybe I am. Cock, fart, ejaculate. Just filling the quota, guys. Can’t go a sentence without a swear. My tombstone shall read “Fuck shit ass cunt.” A derivative of a derivative.
Cracking the spine of a book these days is more rewarding than cracking the spine of some douchebag super mutant in Fallout 3. The bile that rockets up an esophagus at that notion doesn’t belong to me. Even for a free-loading dickbag like myself there’s only so many hours in the day. And perhaps the pitfalls of my perpetual passions is that I love too much shit all too much. A stack of comic books to read, a pile of books I haven’t ingested. And then there’s the video games staring me in the face.
What I need is a fucking time shed. Where I can abscond for a week, where time passes but I can re-enter reality and only an hour has passed. Covered in my own filth and detritus I would re-emerge having felled the various arts that accumulate increasingly.
And I could grow a dope beard in what appears to be no time.
Righteous.
Ballin’.
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When a labor of love becomes a labor of labor, the only natural refuge is the omnipresent masturbation.