As I recline into the consolidating embrace of a stain resistant sofa that is seemingly laced with as much protective veneer as Twitch’s security and an upholstery preservative that is as effective as spraying concentrated honey repellent onto a flower to deter bees, I wave gestural salutations to the kindred remittance of work, declaring its association severed for another week. I solemnly curse the arduous persistence of verticality that ironically lulls me into meditative convalescence. Tilting my head passively to my right I peer curiously out of the window observing the fluttering breeze gently caressing the growing foliage in a thereby elm tree that endeavours to reach the turquoise canopy that envelopes us all, draped in the celestial virility of its autumnal surroundings. I begin musing the sophistry of life’s incessant purgatory. Why are we here? Why does mankind possess such malevolent discrimination? Why do little balls of fluff continue to gather in the crevice of my belly button? Then I remember that this article is supposed to consist of gaming substance, so I instead berate everyone that has purchased “BloodBorne”. I hate you all, I truly do!
“Oh wow. This is the greatest game ever!” “You won’t play a better game this year.” ” I haven’t masturbated over anything this much since I downloaded those suggestive pictures of Jennifer Lawrence!” Shut up! I can now verify a theoretical observance that has long been considered flippant conjecture and I certainly intend to submit a dissertation to the appropriate academic evaluators for official confirmation. You see there is a composite link between my prophesied ordinances and a games quality. I don’t own BloodBorne, but I know its good. How do I know this? Because I didn’t pre-order it! Do you know what games I’ve pre-ordered over the past 12 months? Watchdogs. Destiny. The Order: 1886. Yeah, I know. Great right? One of my favourite games of last year “Shadow of Mordor” I had dismissed offhand as being some generic cash in and as such didn’t pre-order, but it wasn’t. Perhaps its simply a coincidental infirmary, just a terrible case of bad luck. But now BloodBorne has confirmed my suspicions; that any game I don’t pre-order will be great. I’m not happy with its success, I’m spiteful of its emulating critical prominence. Between the economical commerce and decrepitude of available quality afforded by the industries myopic tendency for distributing proverbial feast or famine, there is a smattering of essential titles scattered in between. And rest assured that I will be the individual that purchases the wrong title. In this instance, straddling the commendation for a game that doesn’t coddle the player with narrated credulity that is the antithetical contrast for most contemporary games has been wholly justified. But the first time I ignore the hyperbolic approbation that ushers it in to commercial mainstream, it actually does deserves it.
I’m angry. When I’m angry I sulk. When I sulk, I eat chocolate. But that isn’t any of your concern, but my doctors when I slip into a diabetic coma and he has to amputate my foot! And it won’t be my errancy that’s to blame. No, its your fault for buying BloodBorne. Damn you all!