Chin up buddy it’s a new year. Sometimes life throws a curveball and that’s okay. Take everything in stride, all those moments, good and bad, define you. But sometimes it’s good to know. Sort of like a warning. Not a “red flag”, but maybe a “lighthouse”. That’s enough beating about the bush, here are 5 reasons she left you. Certainly not me. I’m just an observer.
Gal*Gun is a rail shooter where every girl wants you and the only way to satiate them is by shooting them with “pheromone” darts that make them collapse in ecstasy. It’s cheeky and fun, all in good humour. But when the developer adds in a “Mama kita gamen” (literally “Mum arrived at screen”) button that changes the game into a retro-looking game, you know it’s in there for a reason.
The problem with a panic button is that it’s only as effective as the reactions of the user. And after a long, hard night of playing Gal*Gun those forearms can lock up pretty tight. Because of all the shooting. Shooting the gun. The darts, that is.
And even then there’s no way to panic button your jeans.
Okay, sure, it was kind of cute when you came home from the store with Starter Deck Yugi and Starter Deck Kaiba for the both of you. Somehow you even managed to get a game going, and, you know what? It was kind of sort of fun once you’d both worked out the overly complex rules.
But then you got into the anime, glued to Netflix as the supple tones of the 4kids dub voice actors wash over you. You start to watch it before bed, the episodes blending into one another in delightful just-under-20-minute chunks, the back and forth strategy giving your life structure, something somehow more tangible than your relationship itself.
Don’t get me started on the Exodia role-play.
It’s good to be enthusiastic about things, right? That’s why your constant clamouring for a Shemnue 3 or at the very least a Shemnue HD Collection (the sales of which would surely prove Shenmue 3 to be a viable development option) were tolerable at first.
But the stilted voice acting begins to grate when you insist on replaying the first two games again and again, though your fervour only lasts a week at best before coming back a few months later.
The nail in the coffin was the tantrum you threw in the local Sainsbury’s when she told you there wasn’t even anything at home that takes those kinds of batteries. “But I need it for the flashlight,” you shouted, over and over.
Senran Kagura Bon Appétit!
There’s a motto in my family “don’t look in a man’s pebble drawer”. It’s a little sexist, but it’s an old saying. Some people just have secrets, things they should keep to themselves and be allowed to keep to themselves. Never has this been more true — regardless of gender — than with the PlayStation Vita. Some game pebbles just aren’t meant to be seen.
I’m sorry if my skill at rhythmn games is upsetting. It’s not my fault I was then subsequently rewarded with a lewd dessert themed image.
You just couldn’t stop yourself could you? Your 10-inch tablet wasn’t enough, and the fan translations, you said to your friends on certain forums, just don’t capture the true essence of the stories. Because that’s what it’s all about isn’t it? The stories. Yes, it all makes sense now — really it would be more immoral, more lewd if you didn’t buy physical copies of the h-manga with the official translations. Reading it online would be just pornographic.
It started with joking around with your cosplay pals at conventions, daring one another to buy one from the shady stalls. But then you find somewhere in town that stocks it. They’re nice, discreet, friendly. They get you. And it’s okay but she’s the one out at work all day while you pot about the house.
But then one day she isn’t still at work when you get home. She’s in the kitchen, the sun has begun to set and the light’s not on, twilight spilling its strange way indoors, casting elongated and eerie shadows in what was once a safe haven. She’s sat with her legs crossed, just looking at the front door.
“What’s that?” she asks, barely a question, staring at the brown paper bag in your hand. Your gut flips: she has to know.
“Just… just some groceries,” you mumble.
She stands, marches over, and slaps your hand that holds the bag. Stunned, your clutch loosens.
The brown paper bag falls to the floor, echoing slightly as it crashes into the cold, unforgiving tiles of the kitchen floor.
A watermelon rolls out, before stopping in a groove between the tiles. It’s still warm. As if timed for effect two volumes of that sweet, sweet h-manga slide out of the bag behind it, their covers hinting at the forbidden pleasures that lie within.
That night you eat watermelon salad alone.