Envelopes.
My life is envelopes. Are you an envelope? I can't see through my folded paper eyes any more. But I can smell them now. I can taste them.
I'm on to you.
Envelope.
Today I packed and sealed one thousand, four hundred and fifty eight envelopes. In a row. I tried to eat my lunch, and between each granary roll lay an envelope covered in a thin layer of mayonnaise. It was rough, and it dried my mouth to eat them, but I did, choked down each cheerily designed slice of tender paper. Opening my fizzy drink, the fsssssst of the surging bubbles took me by surprise and droplets of water spat from the lid and fluttered and floated down toward the ground, landing as little rectangles of paper. Bending down to inspect them closer, I saw.
Envelopes.
After work, I handed my temporary worker's envelope to the kind woman behind the reception counter. She fluttered at me, her wide and gaping mouth spewing forth an invoice for £3.63. I exited the building and walked across the car park, stifling hot in my too-small shirt. I unbutton it- agh, paper cut. Getting into the car, the music that issued from my speakers was a, a rustling, and brown windowed squares flew from the air vents.
I drive, harrowed, my mind filled with a papery voice, offering a 31 day payment plan. Final notice, it said. The sun, a huge white rectangle looming on the horizon, was setting onto the brown fields. I pulled up to my envelope, and opened the flap.
I fell inside. I sit here now, on the TOTAL TO PAY line, gazing up at NEVER-END PENCILS x 15 £51.99, and I type, my fingers rutted and bleeding from each razor-sharp key press.
Tonight I will wrap myself up, and fold over the covers, my face pressed against the thin clear window. Did someone lick the adhesive glue? I see the flap close, slowly, slowly. I panic, mind filled with strange noises and the skchcreeeee of jamming franking machines.
My fear peaks; I am unable to move.
I am an invoice for eight thousand CARD- PINK units priced at £4.37 each.
The envelope closes.
Thursday, 15 March 2012
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Rizla's and Supermarket Brand Lager
I've come to understand that my life is actually quite boring.
I know, I know, you must have spat your brandy all over the monitor at this ridiculous statement, but it's true. Since moving back to Bath and not being at work all day has meant that I have been spending a lot of time just sat about, and no amount of cycling through some very pleasant countryside each day will stop me resembling a steak that's been boiled for four hours and is now just a grey, sweating lump of gristle.
"Wonderful" I figured to myself at first, smiling coyly; this will give me plenty more time to write and generally be a better human being, get all my paperwork in order and after several weeks, will emerge with eighteen best-selling novels, each one a scathing indictment of the various nuances of the Latvian eel trade. As I step into the street, my chiselled abs and 'glutes' (?) will glisten in the spring sun and a helicopter will arrive, and who should step from it? Mr. President! Why yes, it would be wonderful, but I can't become president now, there are too many lives to save. I would jump onto my chrome-plated Honda Goldwing, whack a bit of Journey on and speed away. I will then proceed to do not one, but two back flips.
Instead, a small trench has formed in the carpet, with coincides precisely the track to the fridge I take to cram something else down my face. I will open up some Documents, and look at them. Maybe for about twenty minutes or so. I will then open Firefox. I will then admonish myself for doing so, and close it again. Repeat until 5pm.
Unemployment, I have decided, is not for me. There is only so many times I can look at the front page of DeviantArt and be mildly disgusted with what I find there (Having just done so, I have seen three pictures, each one the rendition of a cartoon pony getting railed by something else. Hmm.).
This, now, has got me thinking about the art world. If I were in a position of responsibility, certain pictures you see on that website will cause me to frown, and find this persons address. Maybe check the shed, maybe the basement.
For torsos.
Time for some world class art and scathing political commentary go:
Note to any prospective news publications: I have a million of these, just email me. I've got it covered.
I know, I know, you must have spat your brandy all over the monitor at this ridiculous statement, but it's true. Since moving back to Bath and not being at work all day has meant that I have been spending a lot of time just sat about, and no amount of cycling through some very pleasant countryside each day will stop me resembling a steak that's been boiled for four hours and is now just a grey, sweating lump of gristle.
"Wonderful" I figured to myself at first, smiling coyly; this will give me plenty more time to write and generally be a better human being, get all my paperwork in order and after several weeks, will emerge with eighteen best-selling novels, each one a scathing indictment of the various nuances of the Latvian eel trade. As I step into the street, my chiselled abs and 'glutes' (?) will glisten in the spring sun and a helicopter will arrive, and who should step from it? Mr. President! Why yes, it would be wonderful, but I can't become president now, there are too many lives to save. I would jump onto my chrome-plated Honda Goldwing, whack a bit of Journey on and speed away. I will then proceed to do not one, but two back flips.
Instead, a small trench has formed in the carpet, with coincides precisely the track to the fridge I take to cram something else down my face. I will open up some Documents, and look at them. Maybe for about twenty minutes or so. I will then open Firefox. I will then admonish myself for doing so, and close it again. Repeat until 5pm.
Unemployment, I have decided, is not for me. There is only so many times I can look at the front page of DeviantArt and be mildly disgusted with what I find there (Having just done so, I have seen three pictures, each one the rendition of a cartoon pony getting railed by something else. Hmm.).
This, now, has got me thinking about the art world. If I were in a position of responsibility, certain pictures you see on that website will cause me to frown, and find this persons address. Maybe check the shed, maybe the basement.
For torsos.
Time for some world class art and scathing political commentary go:
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Let us never be that way again.
I am writing this at 07:30 hours on a Thursday morning from work. It is grey outside.
Trying to get to sleep last night resulted in my mapping in great detail what my ceiling looks like. Like a certain other act that will not be mentioned here I spent an hour preparing, getting keyed up for getting into bed and after all that, all that work, nothing happened. I spent six hours being increasingly frustrated with myself, angrily checking my clock, daring it to be later than I wanted it to be, and I managed to get to sleep about three hours ago.
I do not enjoy the company of my brain anymore. We have stopped talking and are avoiding one another in the house, it childishly huffing its way out of the kitchen when I walk in there etc. Grow up. It knows it’s in the wrong here but just won’t admit it, and it’s pathetic to watch. I’m going to suggest we start seeing other people.
A little while I got it into my head to watch all those films that people keep talking about, so I resolved to spend an evening drinking and have my world rocked and I finally got around to watching Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind, which is the best film I have seen in a very long time; I gasped, I laughed and I had something in my eye in the- yes, that bit. After this, having fortified myself with classy cider that comes in glass bottles I watched the Expendables.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen or imagined someone on the motorway in the fast lane, sailing happily by you with a smug grin on his face, watching him shift down, only for him to accidentally shift into second instead of fourth and watching the vehicle spin away from the road with an expensive tinkling sound, his limp body flying into the grass verge, head striking rocks and twigs, surely dead?
My brain. That was my brain.
The change in tempo was polar; things exploded. A gun fired bullets that exploded, that hit something else, which then exploded, and then got punched in the face. And then someone had a knife thrown at them, and then he fell back onto something and then exploded.
There was a word I saw, I think it was Kris Straub who said it: it was an extravaganzmurder.
I’m looking forward to seeing the sequel.
Anyway, my shift starts in ten minutes and I need eighteen hundred cups of coffee to quell the shakes, and to prevent me from sitting on the nose of a plane, covering the dock in petrol after strafing it with cannon fire, firing a pistol back at the petrol covered pier and blowing it to smithereens. That was the best bit.
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Don't Tread On Me
I had only been awake for forty five minutes before it happened. Allow me to explain.
My early shifts start at 08:00 most days, and so when I wake up, I need to get to my place of work and use the showers there to make myself not smell like a long-dead yak. I have usually been pretty good at the whole waking up thing, getting into the changing rooms and having a long luxuriant shower for about forty five minutes, until I resemble a pink strip of wet jerky. Yes, it is more horrible than you can imagine.
I was running late today, and so got into work about half an hour later than usual.
And then it happened.
Imagine the scene: silence, apart from the sound of running water and a poor, reedy English version of 'Diamonds and Guns' coming from the cubicle. No change there, and though I was wary due to the time, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as the last of the suds spiralled away. Shutting off the water and stepping out of the stall, I reached to shut the cubicle door behind me-
The click of the door handle leading to the changing rooms. The opener must have felt the same way as me; the creeeeeeeak of the door slow was and hesitant; the same way a young deer approaches a quiet clearing with an inexplicable pile of nourishing leaves in the middle.
Though I am not ashamed of my grotesque, corpulent body; having long stopped caring about my 'lats' and my 'delts', I am just not that interested in putting it on show for a total stranger. Well, if it was five years ago, sure: I was young and I needed the money, but now? Not on my watch, bub.
This left myself and my mystery opponent at a stalemate, the door was half open and my shame on display, an agonising and compromising reach away from the towel rack.
I was not brought up through school to be comfortable stripping naked in front of my friends; so this scenario was unfamiliar. I had to pull it together: the guy on the other side of the door was rapidly approaching the limit in which you can hesitate in situations like this and within seconds his hand would be forced. The door opened outward.
Time slowed to a crawl; it was so bright, everything in stark detail. The tiny mountain ranges that spread out icy and mysterious across the polystyrene ceiling tiles, and the slick grey metal of the lockers, reflections of my face distorted on its surface, wavering as if through a sheen of tears.
I dug deep. Why should I feel put out? He's the invader here, how dare he! No more: a stand has to be taken, not just for me, but for naked men everywhere, in every public shower block in the universe. They cry out for a saviour, a martyr to this age-old conflict.
They were not found wanting this day.
I stood my ground, shaking with furious defiance. He entered, a curt nod at a point about a foot to the left of my head as he scuttled, head down to the coat hooks. Through one gesture the see-saw of shame fell his way, and he was caught unawares suffering a double dose of mute embarrassment. Inside I let forth a bestial roar that shook the very heavens and outside my actions pumped with victory as I pulled on my boxers, eyes shining with a primal glow.
For this day, I had won.
My early shifts start at 08:00 most days, and so when I wake up, I need to get to my place of work and use the showers there to make myself not smell like a long-dead yak. I have usually been pretty good at the whole waking up thing, getting into the changing rooms and having a long luxuriant shower for about forty five minutes, until I resemble a pink strip of wet jerky. Yes, it is more horrible than you can imagine.
I was running late today, and so got into work about half an hour later than usual.
And then it happened.
Imagine the scene: silence, apart from the sound of running water and a poor, reedy English version of 'Diamonds and Guns' coming from the cubicle. No change there, and though I was wary due to the time, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as the last of the suds spiralled away. Shutting off the water and stepping out of the stall, I reached to shut the cubicle door behind me-
The click of the door handle leading to the changing rooms. The opener must have felt the same way as me; the creeeeeeeak of the door slow was and hesitant; the same way a young deer approaches a quiet clearing with an inexplicable pile of nourishing leaves in the middle.
Though I am not ashamed of my grotesque, corpulent body; having long stopped caring about my 'lats' and my 'delts', I am just not that interested in putting it on show for a total stranger. Well, if it was five years ago, sure: I was young and I needed the money, but now? Not on my watch, bub.
This left myself and my mystery opponent at a stalemate, the door was half open and my shame on display, an agonising and compromising reach away from the towel rack.
I was not brought up through school to be comfortable stripping naked in front of my friends; so this scenario was unfamiliar. I had to pull it together: the guy on the other side of the door was rapidly approaching the limit in which you can hesitate in situations like this and within seconds his hand would be forced. The door opened outward.
Time slowed to a crawl; it was so bright, everything in stark detail. The tiny mountain ranges that spread out icy and mysterious across the polystyrene ceiling tiles, and the slick grey metal of the lockers, reflections of my face distorted on its surface, wavering as if through a sheen of tears.
I dug deep. Why should I feel put out? He's the invader here, how dare he! No more: a stand has to be taken, not just for me, but for naked men everywhere, in every public shower block in the universe. They cry out for a saviour, a martyr to this age-old conflict.
They were not found wanting this day.
I stood my ground, shaking with furious defiance. He entered, a curt nod at a point about a foot to the left of my head as he scuttled, head down to the coat hooks. Through one gesture the see-saw of shame fell his way, and he was caught unawares suffering a double dose of mute embarrassment. Inside I let forth a bestial roar that shook the very heavens and outside my actions pumped with victory as I pulled on my boxers, eyes shining with a primal glow.
For this day, I had won.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Blog posts are hard!
I have just typed out and then deleted four different sentences, and as a result have put four times more effort into doing nothing than if I had just kept them.
Damn it, I did it again. I am tired, and have a scratchy throat that isn't enough to even mildly inconvenience an average human being, but I am not an average human being. The constant low flame sat behind my tonsils is all I can think about at the moment and I am waiting for it to pass, which with any luck should be within the next four hundred and twenty eight years; and whilst that's on everything in my field of vision is just a garish and over-bright monster stabbing my bloodshot eyes.
But I have gotten better and sorting myself out when I'm ill. I am not a hero who declines pain relief, as my belief is that anything that stops you from feeling bloody awful is better than the slightly confused looks you receive when you say "No thanks, I don't believe in making it easy for myself."
That's what the future and, you know, medicine is for.
If I lived in the dark ages, maybe I would decline pain relief, but only because pain relief was achieved by simply cutting you open and burning you as a witch; but nowadays? I can walk into a shop and buy pain relief for 45 pence (that's around eighteen American dollars) and the biggest thing I have to worry about is if I accidentally take a million of 'em one go and become so pain free I burst out of the other end of the pain spectrum and my body crumples in on itself like a can in vacuum.
That being said, the average throat lozenge is a tricky bugger, as I have found out today. Having bought myself eight hundred Strepsils (because all sore throats last a minimum of two years so they don't sell smaller boxes) I started popping those things 'as needed' as they used to be. Only taking a cursory glance at the box as the seventh-lozenge-in-fifteen-minutes slid down did I see the warning that I should only take one every three hours.
What the eff, Strepsils? You used to be cool. And now the walls are melting because of you, and I am probably going to die in a few minutes.
Thanks a lot.
Damn it, I did it again. I am tired, and have a scratchy throat that isn't enough to even mildly inconvenience an average human being, but I am not an average human being. The constant low flame sat behind my tonsils is all I can think about at the moment and I am waiting for it to pass, which with any luck should be within the next four hundred and twenty eight years; and whilst that's on everything in my field of vision is just a garish and over-bright monster stabbing my bloodshot eyes.
But I have gotten better and sorting myself out when I'm ill. I am not a hero who declines pain relief, as my belief is that anything that stops you from feeling bloody awful is better than the slightly confused looks you receive when you say "No thanks, I don't believe in making it easy for myself."
That's what the future and, you know, medicine is for.
If I lived in the dark ages, maybe I would decline pain relief, but only because pain relief was achieved by simply cutting you open and burning you as a witch; but nowadays? I can walk into a shop and buy pain relief for 45 pence (that's around eighteen American dollars) and the biggest thing I have to worry about is if I accidentally take a million of 'em one go and become so pain free I burst out of the other end of the pain spectrum and my body crumples in on itself like a can in vacuum.
That being said, the average throat lozenge is a tricky bugger, as I have found out today. Having bought myself eight hundred Strepsils (because all sore throats last a minimum of two years so they don't sell smaller boxes) I started popping those things 'as needed' as they used to be. Only taking a cursory glance at the box as the seventh-lozenge-in-fifteen-minutes slid down did I see the warning that I should only take one every three hours.
What the eff, Strepsils? You used to be cool. And now the walls are melting because of you, and I am probably going to die in a few minutes.
Thanks a lot.
Thursday, 26 January 2012
I'm callin' it early
Look at this stupid thing I wrote that will be understood, if not liked very much, by Warcraft players:
http://fidgetstherapy.blogspot.com/
Oof, back in a sec.
Been drinking lots of water recently. Good for the skin I'm told. Not much to say at the moment really, been working some, writing some, eating some and drinking lots, and in my mind if I just keep thrashing pathetically at the keyboard something will come out of it and someone will then hand me a cheque for ten million pounds. By next year I will be riding a jetski over a sea of money, with my private island in the distance, its volcano crator firing cantaloupe sized nuggets of gold and diamonds hundreds of feet into the air. Yes.
In a desperate bid to be remotely amusing, I shall flip through my mental cue cards of lame primetime comedy topics. And go:
I have a slight complaint with regards to people who drive near me in their cars, I have found. I have never been a happy driver at the best of times, though loving my little car dearly and talking to it like it's 'people', anyone not playing by the invisible set of road rules in my head will be the subject of my futile, spittle-flecked wrath. Going too fast past me on the motorway? So what that it's a seventy limit and I'm doing fifty-eight to save fuel, and by extension, the planet* (Yes I am one of those). Didn't signal quickly enough or, God forbid, at all? Oh no, no you di'ent. You'll be punished by me making a snarky comment to myself in the safety of my car, and nearly crashing as a result of me being too busy trying to hate you to death.
I have come to the conclusion that I would like to do kung fu at you, in the right circumstances. Sure you're a little bigger than I am and you've probably at least done some exercise, but if you direct a very slow and deliberate punch at my midsection I shall deliver a series of squeals as your calloused fist bruises my ribs. I mean I will retaliate.
By calling the police on you.
*my money
http://fidgetstherapy.blogspot.com/
Oof, back in a sec.
Been drinking lots of water recently. Good for the skin I'm told. Not much to say at the moment really, been working some, writing some, eating some and drinking lots, and in my mind if I just keep thrashing pathetically at the keyboard something will come out of it and someone will then hand me a cheque for ten million pounds. By next year I will be riding a jetski over a sea of money, with my private island in the distance, its volcano crator firing cantaloupe sized nuggets of gold and diamonds hundreds of feet into the air. Yes.
In a desperate bid to be remotely amusing, I shall flip through my mental cue cards of lame primetime comedy topics. And go:
I have a slight complaint with regards to people who drive near me in their cars, I have found. I have never been a happy driver at the best of times, though loving my little car dearly and talking to it like it's 'people', anyone not playing by the invisible set of road rules in my head will be the subject of my futile, spittle-flecked wrath. Going too fast past me on the motorway? So what that it's a seventy limit and I'm doing fifty-eight to save fuel, and by extension, the planet* (Yes I am one of those). Didn't signal quickly enough or, God forbid, at all? Oh no, no you di'ent. You'll be punished by me making a snarky comment to myself in the safety of my car, and nearly crashing as a result of me being too busy trying to hate you to death.
I have come to the conclusion that I would like to do kung fu at you, in the right circumstances. Sure you're a little bigger than I am and you've probably at least done some exercise, but if you direct a very slow and deliberate punch at my midsection I shall deliver a series of squeals as your calloused fist bruises my ribs. I mean I will retaliate.
By calling the police on you.
*my money
Saturday, 14 January 2012
The calls are coming from INSIDE the house.
I've had the laziest day of all time today, and tucking into a couple of crispy Magners I felt a blog coming on.
I had an excellent curry at the Hook Tandoori last night with a few good mates, where we ate and talked about past exploits and it was all rater splendid. My colleague's husband is a paramedic practitioner and had some amazing stories, especially as your knife parts pieces of tender spiced lamb. If there's an upshot to working in one of the services is that you get some hilarious things happen to you; remember that time when that man's limbs flew off? Outrageous. I thought I'd die.
As I have only six weeks left in the south east I shall have to go there again, and invite some people, I guess. There's something about the place that tickles our respective giblets, and it would be a shame to pass out of its life without waving to it from the train window, watching as it runs along the platform then coming up short at the end of the station, a spotted hanky waving in the heavy summer air as steam obscures it in the distance. I bite the knuckle of my index finger; was it a mistake to leave? I adjust the tie that completes my zoot-suit. No, it was not the good thing or the bad thing I did, I will think with a tender tear in my eye:
It was the right thing.
Fade to black, roll credits.
As I've slumped in my World of Warcrafting and and Star Warsing I had a swift browse of Steam to see what's what. Dead Space 1 and 2 was on there for a few quid, so I gave it a shot.
Modern horror means that things with spikes instead of hands will leap out of windows at you. When I'm watching horror movies, anyone who has watched one with me will attest to the fact that I am masterful at recognising a potentially scary moment and will perform either of the following:
Phew, that was close. Obviously, now the cider is exposed to the air it's only a matter of time before it reaches critical mass, so it must be doused in stomach acid to avoid catastrophic combustion. Don't think of me as a hero. Just a man, trying to make a difference.
Anyway.
On lazy Sunday afternoons when I were a lad, my folks would put on the Sunday Film From Blockbuster and being a trendy pre-teen spending time with my parents was just wrong, so they would pick the film and I would look at rental SNES games and wonder why they tried to port DOOM the SNES (I did this every week, because I was (am) quite a sad person). After this we would come home, a Sunday roast would be eaten and the meantime between bread and cheese and the Antiques Roadshow would be Film Time. I would pass through the living room and whilst deliberately not looking at my parents I would assess the situation and wonder whether or not a film would be worth watching. Explosions = definite watch, Courtroom = Potential watch, could be a precursor to someone getting shot, Anything with a gun/sword/angry man getting shot = definite watch. A woman in a huge Victorian dress looking pensive = Defin- would not watch.
If I believed what was on to be worthy of my adolescent attention I would slouch and talk like a moron throughout the rest of it, annoying the hell out of my parents. I bet they were glad. I believe it was during these times my fear of horror movies manifested, as coming in on a film where a women is walking very carefully through a silent, dark house only meant one thing for me. Getting a drink from the kitchen for fifteen minutes, peeping around the door frame.
But playing horror games, well, eh. You have control over what is happening and as with Dead Space, though being very good, just isn't frightening. Ooh, something fell out of a vent at me. Something fell out of a window at me. Something that was lying very still isn't ACTUALLY DEAD AND IT'S COMING RIGHT FOR ME. Again.
If you find me and your question is 'Hey jackass, want to watch the latest <insert horror genre film here> with me?' The answer will most likely be yes, but make sure you like drinking tea beforehand.
I had an excellent curry at the Hook Tandoori last night with a few good mates, where we ate and talked about past exploits and it was all rater splendid. My colleague's husband is a paramedic practitioner and had some amazing stories, especially as your knife parts pieces of tender spiced lamb. If there's an upshot to working in one of the services is that you get some hilarious things happen to you; remember that time when that man's limbs flew off? Outrageous. I thought I'd die.
As I have only six weeks left in the south east I shall have to go there again, and invite some people, I guess. There's something about the place that tickles our respective giblets, and it would be a shame to pass out of its life without waving to it from the train window, watching as it runs along the platform then coming up short at the end of the station, a spotted hanky waving in the heavy summer air as steam obscures it in the distance. I bite the knuckle of my index finger; was it a mistake to leave? I adjust the tie that completes my zoot-suit. No, it was not the good thing or the bad thing I did, I will think with a tender tear in my eye:
It was the right thing.
Fade to black, roll credits.
As I've slumped in my World of Warcrafting and and Star Warsing I had a swift browse of Steam to see what's what. Dead Space 1 and 2 was on there for a few quid, so I gave it a shot.
Modern horror means that things with spikes instead of hands will leap out of windows at you. When I'm watching horror movies, anyone who has watched one with me will attest to the fact that I am masterful at recognising a potentially scary moment and will perform either of the following:
- Offer anyone a cup of tea and go to the kitchen. "No, don't pause it, it's okay, I don't want you to be interrupted on my part."
- Scratch the back of my head, feigning being tired and slightly bored by what's happening, and rub my eyes theatrically for as long as needed for the scare to pass.
Phew, that was close. Obviously, now the cider is exposed to the air it's only a matter of time before it reaches critical mass, so it must be doused in stomach acid to avoid catastrophic combustion. Don't think of me as a hero. Just a man, trying to make a difference.
Anyway.
On lazy Sunday afternoons when I were a lad, my folks would put on the Sunday Film From Blockbuster and being a trendy pre-teen spending time with my parents was just wrong, so they would pick the film and I would look at rental SNES games and wonder why they tried to port DOOM the SNES (I did this every week, because I was (am) quite a sad person). After this we would come home, a Sunday roast would be eaten and the meantime between bread and cheese and the Antiques Roadshow would be Film Time. I would pass through the living room and whilst deliberately not looking at my parents I would assess the situation and wonder whether or not a film would be worth watching. Explosions = definite watch, Courtroom = Potential watch, could be a precursor to someone getting shot, Anything with a gun/sword/angry man getting shot = definite watch. A woman in a huge Victorian dress looking pensive = Defin- would not watch.
If I believed what was on to be worthy of my adolescent attention I would slouch and talk like a moron throughout the rest of it, annoying the hell out of my parents. I bet they were glad. I believe it was during these times my fear of horror movies manifested, as coming in on a film where a women is walking very carefully through a silent, dark house only meant one thing for me. Getting a drink from the kitchen for fifteen minutes, peeping around the door frame.
But playing horror games, well, eh. You have control over what is happening and as with Dead Space, though being very good, just isn't frightening. Ooh, something fell out of a vent at me. Something fell out of a window at me. Something that was lying very still isn't ACTUALLY DEAD AND IT'S COMING RIGHT FOR ME. Again.
If you find me and your question is 'Hey jackass, want to watch the latest <insert horror genre film here> with me?' The answer will most likely be yes, but make sure you like drinking tea beforehand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)