Drunkish. /should be asleep but have fantastic tales to regale all and sundry with. Well, not really. As far as it gets are tales about the unattended female orgasm relayed by Chrissy (who will regret them in the morning) and pooh-poohed by Kieron (who shall dine out on them for days to come, if you pardon the impression.)

Am left with niggling, relentless feeling I should be doing something with my life. Have feeling that games writing is not for me, is only a stop-gap wherein something is caught, and I am entangled; it should be a hobby for me, nothing more. But where does one who believes in nothing lay his working head? The place that produces the most eudaimonia, the msot lifelong benefit. I feel that this place is not for me, is not the place where I could find that. Perversely, here people are too keen, too enthusiastic about video games, as an art-form, as a subject worthy for academia (nothing IMO is worthy for academia except vapid forms that provoke deep thought; games, currently, are not this and nor do I think they should be.

Enough babble – to bed.

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