No one reads reviews. Usually, no one reads my reviews. I write them anyway. It’s the closest thing I have anymore to agency, to draft up an often overwrought and rambling review about whatever is on my mind after finishing something. My reviews are more like journals, small snapshots into my life that I will soon forget. Much of my life I’ve wanted to be forgotten, to become less than a memory to those I once might have meant something to. Here I allow myself to be a footnote rather than be completely inconsequential. I’ve had one or two reviews pop off, and of those maybe I influenced the flow of human history by a pubes worth of hair. This is all I allow myself. I don’t leave my apartment save to take out trash, and when I venture further I ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ beg whatever cursed beings that exist to allow me the simple pleasure of not being recognized by someone. In the rare moments I am the one to try and socialize, I am oft reminded of my hatred of others as much as my fear of them. I fear connections both positive and negative because either would mean that I matter and that is the last thing I could ever want.


My life is a quiet one. It will be a short one, but it hasn’t been all together terrible. Sometimes I even like it. But other times, for long stretches of time, I feel like milk outside a bag of milk outside a bag of milk. I feel cold and foul. I think of what I used to be and look at the happiness that was there, and I remember none of it. In the scheme of things, I’ve never done anything bad. By all accounts of those I’ve spoken to, I’m a “great guy who’s just had a run of bad luck.” That run of bad luck has been running for nearly ten years. I’ve lost everything too often, and now I cling to what little I have as if its all that keeps me afloat. The last few years robbed me of the few good things that made life bearable, and the only friend I ever really had finally getting sick of me and cutting me out. I don’t blame them, as I let my insecurities set a prophecy in motion that all but ensured this result. I hope they’re well.


There are those who check in on me, but like in the void of space they only drift further away with time, in both an allegorical and physical sense. There is no one save my parents left within a reasonable driving distance, and at best I have a real human interaction with someone once a month. I’ve come to prefer the isolation, where at one point it drove me nearly mad. I had a nice beard once, but I picked holes in it and the hair wont grow back. My face sometimes becomes itchy and weird welts appear, in the same spots. I fought it for years, tried every cream imaginable, and nothing worked. But when I stopped going out, when I stopped interacting with people, my skin cleared up. I’ve determined I’m allergic to people.


What I’m trying to say is I am not saying anything of value of all. I dedicate this review to me, for making it this far and experiencing this experience. It is a game that might mean nothing to you, but it might mean something too. I’ve thought about it a lot. For a moment, it made me feel a little less alone. For a moment, it made me feel like things could be worse. Things can always get worse. Play the game.