This is mostly a letter to myself, which I wouldn't write otherwise. I shame myself to you in the hope it achieves something.
Games have cost me so much sleep over the years. So much sleep in the past week, too. Games, see, invariably seem so much more interesting than sleeping, in the much the same way as continuing to drink beer seems so much more interesting than going home, and the consequence is woefully similar too. I wake up broken, head stuffed full of cotton wool and misery, and whatever had occupied me so fiercely just a few short hours ago is forgotten, replaced entirely with the question 'why?' Why did I do this to myself again? Why did I think it would somehow be different this time from the last five hundred times?
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