Final Fantasy XII has Ruined My Life
Predator Press
[LOBO]
At the paltry price of a few days of my life, I have achieved an average level of 67 before leaving the city of Archades. Zodiac Spear in hand, I defeated the Hell Worm before even possessing the 'Arise' spell in a pitched, white knuckle 5-hour battle.
But I summon the mighty wrath of Gods upon my deserved enemies at a great price: the defense against the inevitable encroach of the lawn outside. I can almost feel the throb of continuously renewed, teeming life through the hot walls. Though it sickens me, I must endure.
I rationalize it.
My yard has become a real-life Salikawood tribute.
Even my woeful neighbors have stopped complaining as the City Zoning Commission has long since forgotten my dwelling even exists; only the pizza guy knows for sure, and he is well-paid for his tight-lipped secrecy.
Elaborate algebraic flow charts litter the floor in a visual effort to discern what effects Ether will have when under a "Reverse" spell while wearing the treasured and hard-won Pheasant Netsuke.
I think I need an 'Intervention' spell ... or rehab or something. I'm like that monkey from those cocaine commercials back in the 1980s. Remember? "He gave up food, sex, et cetera?" 'Cept rather than giving up the food, I've developed a rather kickass ensemble of sweatpants. And is it really fair to say that I "gave up sex" when my complexion has gone a pasty translucent hue from a lack of exposure to natural light? On the bright side, never again shall I require an X-Ray; if I drink cherry Kool-Aid, I can readily see any organ I choose under the mere flickering of the pale blue television light. And to ward off bedsores, I have an alarm clock that goes off every six hours signaling the time to switch sides on the couch.
Oh curse ye, Square Enix; thy hooks are deep.
[LOBO]
At the paltry price of a few days of my life, I have achieved an average level of 67 before leaving the city of Archades. Zodiac Spear in hand, I defeated the Hell Worm before even possessing the 'Arise' spell in a pitched, white knuckle 5-hour battle.
But I summon the mighty wrath of Gods upon my deserved enemies at a great price: the defense against the inevitable encroach of the lawn outside. I can almost feel the throb of continuously renewed, teeming life through the hot walls. Though it sickens me, I must endure.
I rationalize it.
My yard has become a real-life Salikawood tribute.
Even my woeful neighbors have stopped complaining as the City Zoning Commission has long since forgotten my dwelling even exists; only the pizza guy knows for sure, and he is well-paid for his tight-lipped secrecy.
Elaborate algebraic flow charts litter the floor in a visual effort to discern what effects Ether will have when under a "Reverse" spell while wearing the treasured and hard-won Pheasant Netsuke.
I think I need an 'Intervention' spell ... or rehab or something. I'm like that monkey from those cocaine commercials back in the 1980s. Remember? "He gave up food, sex, et cetera?" 'Cept rather than giving up the food, I've developed a rather kickass ensemble of sweatpants. And is it really fair to say that I "gave up sex" when my complexion has gone a pasty translucent hue from a lack of exposure to natural light? On the bright side, never again shall I require an X-Ray; if I drink cherry Kool-Aid, I can readily see any organ I choose under the mere flickering of the pale blue television light. And to ward off bedsores, I have an alarm clock that goes off every six hours signaling the time to switch sides on the couch.
Oh curse ye, Square Enix; thy hooks are deep.
Comments
none-the-less I do empathize with the pasty-colored addict... I have found a much-less-meaningful addiction to second life and recently caught my next of kin planning an intervention... meh I say.