Why do we remain mad, when we can see our madness?
I finished Hell a couple of days ago. I definitely recommend this book, especially to anyone who listens to Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness and thinks he would know how to draw the songs if someone ever asked him to.
Yesterday, I tried pachinko for the first time. It had never seemed any more appealing than any other activity involving strangers, bright lights, loud noise, and no drugs, and OH MY GOSH was I correct.
I never really figured out how to play any of the games, which was fine because it turned out that on our floor you couldn't win anything except more tokens, which weren't redeemable for shit. Not even a semi-functional Hello Kitty flashlight. All you could win (not that I ever did win) was the opportunity to play more pachinko. Howdy!
As I mentioned, I never won myself, but one of my companions hit a winning streak that was entirely epic. She must have won more than 500 tokens. After about an hour of that, she was drowning in such an obvious sea of self-loathing for prolonging the "action" that nobody could be mad at her. We just shoved our hands wrist deep into the well of gleaming namco coins and resigned ourselves to more pachinko. By the end of the night, I was using my forehead to tap the knobs on my slot machine.
Blood trickled from my hairline down to the empty container where my winnings would have fallen, had I met with any measure of success. It was like performance art, but more disappointing.
Yesterday, I tried pachinko for the first time. It had never seemed any more appealing than any other activity involving strangers, bright lights, loud noise, and no drugs, and OH MY GOSH was I correct.
I never really figured out how to play any of the games, which was fine because it turned out that on our floor you couldn't win anything except more tokens, which weren't redeemable for shit. Not even a semi-functional Hello Kitty flashlight. All you could win (not that I ever did win) was the opportunity to play more pachinko. Howdy!
As I mentioned, I never won myself, but one of my companions hit a winning streak that was entirely epic. She must have won more than 500 tokens. After about an hour of that, she was drowning in such an obvious sea of self-loathing for prolonging the "action" that nobody could be mad at her. We just shoved our hands wrist deep into the well of gleaming namco coins and resigned ourselves to more pachinko. By the end of the night, I was using my forehead to tap the knobs on my slot machine.
Blood trickled from my hairline down to the empty container where my winnings would have fallen, had I met with any measure of success. It was like performance art, but more disappointing.