43 games. It's a number that may not mean much to you, but I've been dreading it for weeks. Maybe even months.  
 
It was Bayonetta that did me in. I couldn't resist her lustful curves and provocative poses. Or perhaps it was the way those sinful eyelashes fluttered as she blew a kiss. Maybe it was the exhilarating combat. Combat so invigorating that my heart is still pumping with it's deliciously savage beats. It's a way I haven't felt like since the first time I laid my hands on the original Devil May Cry (may the franchise RIP -- fuck you Capcom!).
 
Whatever it was, I had to have it, which is why I find myself in this particular predicament. 43 games. Who knew that I would ever reach such a number!  Had you said this to me a few years ago, I would have called you crazy and probably thrown an insult or two at your mother. And yet I am here, now, staring at my empty wall. 

You see, I am a tidy person. Everything I own has it's purpose, has it's place. My bookshelf has such a purpose -- 42 spots for 42 games. Lined in alphabetical order, they stand together like a family, gently supporting each other. And then came the 43rd...
 
No longer is there any order. No longer is there any understanding. There is only chaos. Brother pushing brother, sister squeezing sister. There is no room, and all fight for the last spot. None wants to be left on the side, forgotten. Alone.
 
But worst of all, my shelf groans faintly from the strain. Her time has come. We both know it. She has served me well these past 5 years, but it's not going to work out. I need my space and she simply can't bear it anymore. Heh, it's the story of my life. 
 
Now my wall is bare. There's only 2 little holes, 2 little scars. A reminder of what once was. The games are sitting snugly in a box. It will have to do while I look for a replacement shelf. May it be the last.