The bottom of my computer desk feels like braille to the finger. A cave ceiling, stalactites and such, but all boogers. I stick em there while waiting for maps to load and while watching cutscenes so blame the game, not the player. I swish my legs through Taco Bell wrappers, leg high, and some stick to my soles like toilet tissue on a shoe. I suppose I have myself to blame for that. However, hygiene's never been my strong suit.
There's not a dish in sight, though, and that being because while I can ratatou a ratatouille and souffle a souffle like nobody's business, all with limp-wristed wiimote gestures, I can't actually cook. I take out and order in, damn it. I need a USB-powered hot pocket heater. /pizza ain't a punchline, it's a lifeline.
Throw me a chicken bone here, as long as there's meat left on it. And don't go feedin' 'em to the dog; they splinter and the sharp ends hurt somethin fierce on the outbound, and damn it, I don't need the howlin' in the background as I talk to my buddies in TeamSpeak.
In the future, scientists will prove my Z-board made me 16.2% faster. It's luxury, it's lightning, it's been signed by Fatal1ty and pizza grease, no less. Problem is, it's a Guild Wars brand Z-board, so when I press the "cast spell" key, I throw a grenade, or hit a hand brake, or throw a hail-mary pass, or make some other hot-shit move that isn't castin' a spell.
And I type on it; I'm typin' this on it. And I know that when I press "items," then "minimap," then "skills," it comes out "FTW," and that way the message board champions know I'm a message board champion too. I strip whole words to single keystrokes. I hit "call target" and it comes out "confirm." And with those four keys alone, I can pretty much contribute to any conversation you could have. That is, unless you're a lady.
And if your FPS screen name is PrincessPMS, you better believe I'm asking "a/s/l?" No hotkey makes me hotter. And I might not know you, but I already love you. Let me buy you Nachos Bell Grande, baby. Or better yet, a seven-layer Crunchwrap Supreme and Baja Blast. We'll attack it from either end until our mouthes meet in the middle like Lady and the Tramp, only remade for today's brandscape. Livin' the good life with El Presidente. Make it mild or hot or make it fire; no matter to me. We'll lay in the wrappers and make snow angels, maybe. Just don't look up at the bottom of my computer desk.
(I like to keep this handy, for close encounters <img src="imageURLhere">)