The following is the fourth in a series of journal entries chronicling the author’s descent into next-gen gaming degeneracy — from getting his first television in years to trying to figure out why the @$@”$)@ you need two goddamn directional pads just to walk down a fucking hallway.
Kids these days:
When I was your age, I was perfectly happy to jump around on two-dimensional platforms, smash bricks with my head and save helpless princesses in 8-bit universes that were as harmless as they were fun. I couldn’t carjack flatbed trucks and tear through the (awesomely realistic) boroughs of New York City, listening to foul-mouthed, bile-spewing talk radio while rolling over pedestrians and engaging in furious, high-speed chases with police cars, only to leap from damaged vehicles as their engines explode into deadly fireballs.
I grew up in much simpler times.