To say that the game has devoured me is only half true. Having played before I knew going into it that I’d be presented with the intense feedback I so desperately crave from things I purportedly refer to as “fun”.
Not only am I concerned with what percent of the song I complete without error, but I can also dig deep into the song itself and find out exactly which subsection of which chorus gave me the most trouble, and with a brain wired like mine is, that can be equally enthralling and terrifying.
Every song that starts with a 50 note streak is the potential for my first perfect score. Every 100 note streak brings me closer still. 200 note streaks pretty much make me wet my pants with unbridled glee coupled with a snarling shred-face with prominent lip-curl. Like Elvis on meth. Then I try to successfully execute a coupling of the power of the stars with the terrestrial burdens of the ever-moving conveyor belt of notes and either screw up profoundly or initiate star power successfully, only to be so excited that I did it successfully that I fail to pay attention and again miss notes.
So, as you can see, not only has the game devoured me, but I have devoured the game as well, like some sort of recursive double Ouroboros, both of us deadlocked in a battle of wills to see who will blink first.
All the while Sherlock sits in the corner thinking, “Jesus fucking Christ is this magnificent douchebag ever going to play with me again? I’m over here, up to my hairballs in toys and that gigantic cock doesn’t even notice. Well fuck that.”
And with that Sherlock climbed into the massive (and embarrassing) basket we have that is full of “cat toys” with “cat toys” being anything we think they might have fun with and/or have already played with and shown some level of amusement. For example, some of the “toys” that you might be surprised to see are an old hat, the cardboard structural center from an old roll of duct tape, Happy Meal toys from McDonald’s, as well as any number of assorted toys that jingle, blink, have feathers, or simply have their various crevices crammed with catnip.
Last night, in the middle of trying to duel the end boss, Sherlock went to the basket, got a jingle ball out all by himself, and started playing with it right in front of me as if to say, “You see that you douchebag? Huh? Do you see it? You’ve ignored me so much that I have to play by myself. You are a bad cat owner, and I hate you, even if you do feed me.”
Seeing him half-heartedly scramble around on the floor with a toy he had picked out by himself so he could play by himself kind of broke my heart a little bit, so I turned off the Wii and played with my cat.
As soon as I finished the song.
