Parents, they have a considerable amount to answer for; from the dubiously administered names some of us have reluctantly accepted as our own, to those sensitive and largely embarrassing images taken at young age for prosperity that depict you in the less than desirable ensemble, cradling a stuffed penguin in one hand and nursing a slowly disintegrating ice cream in the other, often used as incentive to restrict your behaviour as you mature, though readily distributed to potential partners just to lament their superiority over your existence. My narcissistic tendencies and often verbally contemptible conduct is a direct result of my parents copulating symbiosis. I have meticulously discovered that discriminative jeering is an inclusive peripheral and an indicative pursuit of a modern-day gamer. As your console expels its fan assisted desolations, so too must we secrete our own tremulous, exacerbated ferocity with modulated derivatives and articulated sophistry to anyone who demonstrates an incredulous resentment for your ability, by sparring with you with irritating precision and advanced tenacity.
Just a few of the embittered declarations that are regularly consumed by my respective opposition, as well a variation of excuses for my susceptible propensities include; “Why won’t you die you irritating dastard!” “Stupid internet, why do you persist in freezing!” “How can you still be alive, I shot you like a million times you ruddy mother!” These are just a few of my exasperated admissions uttered with increasing regularity, some of which have to be fastidiously reconstructed due to the rage that has bolstered these remarks, that were seemingly indistinguishable dialects. Sure such plentiful expressions or impassioned mockery may not be conducive to sustaining tempered faculties, insuring a healthy relationship with your adjoining neighbours, or indeed demonstrating your advancing maturity, but the aberrant of irritability are additional obstacles that exert you to an eventual decrease from regularity of your failings. The congested aggravations that we all experience need a suitable outlet and considering the immoral as well the validity implications of a more physical relinquishment of malignant rage, such as fracturing every bone in your hand after impetuously punching a wall, or repeatedly punching a stray kitten. The decorative profanities so splendidly exulted with indiscriminate conformity is a necessary release.
Sure it’s not most savoury or even ardent of responses, and perhaps the more commendable reprisals to such emotionally emancipating circumstances is to promptly place your controller down, with diligent and restrained tolerance, ignoring the abusive taunts and provocative digressions from some foreign speaking adolescent, and retort with relaxed, quietly deliberated musings, with responsive, sharp deftness that alluded your previous encounter. Or alternatively you could be begin by erratically jumping like a frog whose inadvertently sat on a pin, reacting to your demise with contemptuous petulance, before cradling a pillow–that in your ruptured mind–currently manifests in this instance as your own dissatisfaction. Battering its quilted silk with all the tame barbarity of 3 harnessed Pomeranians, and smothering your controller for its inept responsiveness of my clearly incisive actions. Hurling vile profanities at your character, who stands to attention with attentive vigilance, impervious to your procrastinating violations, merely awaiting your manipulating commands. Of course I could just abstain from any physical intimacy with my PS3, but then who would I verbally profane? We all deserve a John Cleese moment of defiant, though energetic puerile actions, battering a mini cooper with the most ineffective of tree branches. Though some more than others.
Do you let your emotions get the better of you? And when was the last time a game utterly infuriated you? Let me know. Cheers.