How close have you come to being an ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ loser, turning 33, alone, posting about a fictional birthday party with your only friends, Mickey Mouse and Sailor Moon? How often do you look up from your own life, thinking about how just-ok it's going, and have the same feeling you get when you realize you almost stepped off the curb in front of a bus? What happened? Could that have been you? Is that you?
Did I die and this is the afterlife? Am I GameMaster Anthony, sitting here, eyes closed, turning 33, imagining friendships and contentment built on terms other than my own? He's terrifying; a near death experience, oblivious to himself. I hate him, I want him to go away. I hate myself.

Many non-virgins don't understand the struggles of virgins. So I came up with this analogy: It's like enduring a very hot summer and being unable to eat ice-cream. The heat is unbearable. You don't need to eat ice-cream in order to survive, but having an ice-cream right now would make the heat much more bearable.

However you can't buy ice-cream or make it at home. In order to get ice-cream you must ask someone else to share it with you. But you're shy, a bit ugly and not someone people would want to give their ice-cream to. So you're stuck watching other people enjoying ice-cream, while you're melting from the heat.

Also, you've never had ice-cream before, so you can only imagine what it tastes like.

so bad at the game easy win

The days blur together now, with nothing here but the waves, the sand, and Monkey Ball. My old life, my old worries—they’ve faded, replaced by the single-minded pursuit of perfection in this game. I’m convinced I’m the best; if anyone else were here, they’d see it, too. I’ve mastered every level, every turn, until the boundaries of the game and reality start to merge. I talk to the screen like it’s listening, daring it to challenge me with something I can’t beat. The island means nothing to me anymore—only the game does. Someday, someone will find me here, a legend, the undisputed master of Monkey Ball.

I can't believe it, Monkeyball! How could a simple game about rolling monkeys in balls consume my every thought? The bright colors, the maddening levels—it's all I see, all I hear, echoing in my mind while I'm stranded here. It's driving me insane, these endless hours with nothing but the memory of that infernal game taunting me, laughing at my isolation and despair.

I really cannot wait to purchase a DMT cart. The concept of DMT shamanism is quite interesting to me. The shamanistic lifestyle in general is also intriguing, as it is a far different path than the materialist western consumer lifestyle. The thought of smoking DMT 4-5 times a day and sacrificing your consciousness to the ethereal pathways of the DMT realm and it's many inhabitants is compelling. I can imagine myself living in a house with no utilities, eating only the freshest organic vegetables and prime meats, consuming copious amounts of multivitamins a day, pursuing all knowledge and living a spiritual, minimalistic lifestyle devoid of consumerism. This lifestyle would also entail me s