1 Tilde (1/2)

Dave's internal monologue weakly protested as he walked through the supermarket aisle grabbing packets of chips and chocolate.

”I told myself to eat well for a while and get in shape so I can get a girlfriend... WTF am I doing?? Stop it!”

Cas.h.i.+er : ”That'll be $52.00 sir.”

Dave shot the cas.h.i.+er a brief look of reluctance and shame as he implored the universe and/or any nearby eavesdropping deities to decline his contactless credit card transaction.

*beep*

”Transaction Approved - The G.o.ds have abandoned me. What's new?” thought Dave as he wished the cas.h.i.+er a good day and collected his bag.

Dave walked to his car in dejection as he pictured himself eating his newly aquired junk in his darkened room surrounded by the many empty beer cans that have cohabitated with him for the past two weeks. As he drove home he suddenly had a great urge to drive into oncoming traffic but yet again, his d.a.m.n body didn't listen.

For years the feeling had gotten stronger and stronger: This disgusting feeling of being a pa.s.senger in a body beholden to a silent pilot with completely clas.h.i.+ng impulses to his own.

'Willpower?' - a laughable concept.

The only thing Dave had control over was his speech and even that was only while his blood alcohol levels were minimal.

Yet still he chose to speak, desperately trying to influence his obnoxious pilot with honeyed words about a glorious future full of possibilities.

Dave knew, however, that time was grinding him down like a millstone. Every second trapped in his body was more time for him to find himself actually enjoying the destructive behaviour of his corporal prison. Every moment he gave himself licence to immerse himself in a video game binge or begged for the sweet numbness of alcoholic stupor was another moment where he lost a little more of himself to the pilot.

What can he do about it? Nothing. His only means to enact force on the world around him was monopolised by the silent pilot. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Soon these were all Dave felt.

********

Hour 7 of a Sunday Skyrim binge:

~ 'player.additem f 999999' ~

Dave wanted to enjoy the challenge of working his way through the quests and exploring with substandard gear knowing that eventually his perseverance would be converted into elation after a hard fought victory. Unfortunately, his pilot wanted OP gear with no effort for some incomprehensible reason. Now (and for the last hour) Dave's avatar jumped around ultra modded Whiterun spamming FUS RO DAH at guards and paying them off with sp.a.w.ned gold.

”WTF!?!! Why? Why do you even have to ruin a f.u.c.king single player sandbox game??” Dave cursed his pilot knowing full well the futility of his mental shouts.