The thought of a cat playing video games crossed my mind this week.
Why? Well let me explain my train of thought:
The only thing that makes me angry is something consciously stopping my momentum. Something holding up the pendulum. Something pulling the carpet from beneath me when I’m doing something.
Anyway, my glorious return to videogaming saw the not-so-glorious return of my effing and blinding relentlessly whenever something didn’t go my way.
Yes, I rage. But no, it wasn’t COD.
I was playing final fantasy X, and when I died, I protested, I argued consciously with my ps2 explaining to it, and making a very valid argument that the circumstances surrounding my parties death weren’t at all fair.
“you never gave me the chance to save”
“But I was about to use a potion”
And the old reliable “But my finger slipped” padded it out.
Its reply was “game over” and a very unreasonable lack of regard for my comments. What a hard ass.
Needless to say I was never happy. But why did I keep insisting on playing it?
Even after my countless fifa tantrums and the fateful Tekken Tantrum of 2003 leading to my extended ban from playstation, I never stopped (bad boy mentality). Why would I continue doing something that made blood pressure rise at speed?
Enter the cat mashing a d-pad.
The myth goes that cats have 9 lives. Is it an instinctive thing, that the game so engrosses you that it makes you subconsciously take it as real? Is my reaction to my own doom anger? Would this mythical 9 lived cat be chill about losing a life in a videogame as it is used to the concept of having the constant second chance down the line?
Maybe, but if videogames manage to wear away our deep-seated fear of death, we could have a generation of kamikazes come the next war.
But I guess if christianity didn’t do it by now, I guess it’ll never happen.