A Week (Or So) In Comments

Except that, in a histrionic cosmos (fiction, theater, film), the world exists in bedlam. Sexual jealousy, erotomania and the obscene suffering of a thousand Pietas are the stuff that arrest our passions. Videogames do not exist in order to ‘present ideas’ or conjure archetypes. They exist in order to satisfy a universal will-to-nullification. Where else can the bureaucrat, these days, violate Paradise? Workers, especially in a democracy, always have fascist dreams: everyone wants to ejaculate death. Who the hell looks for moral realism in a videogame? Character, in videogames, is defined by exaggeration: the princess who pleads, the plumber who saves her and the Tyrant who grotesquely mirrors the hero (The ‘dark double’ is videogaming’s immortal cliche. Mario = sexless longing. Wario = Coprophilia). The ethos, usually, is ‘Murder Death Kill.’

So, why the fuck does this gesticulating dandy pretend that he will find a glorious image of Empathy within the gutter? Martin Buber never went to Sodom.

Leave us workers our pyromania.

So after spending the day making snow angels in the backyard

I found out my neighbour has really really bad dandruff.

Ew.

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