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Don't Fret, My Dear

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My left hand is become an orb of pure, immobile agony. The digits move only in short, tortured lurches, as if gasping for the last gulps of life. My right hand no longer obeys the commands of my mind, but moves only in vaguely rhythmic vertical twitchings.

I am occasionally seized by an uncontrollable urge to wail on a whammy bar.

Sight, a companion since birth, has betrayed me. In place of the world around me, my eyes perceive only a stream of endless colored spheres, arranged in a pattern that might possibly encode some form of music.

My arms are permanently crimped at an odd angle, and a disturbingly large portion of my very brain refuses to do anything but intone "Whoo, yeah! Fuckin' hardcore, baby!" Every knob, dial, and switch within my grasp has been obsessively switched to "11."

I am told that these are the symptoms of playing too much Guitar Hero.

This is, of course, pure heresy; a very affront to the gods, and the essence of life and reality itself. Only the most vile and soulless of beings - I cannot even call them persons - would utter such blasphemous atrocity.

Because we all know there's no such thing as "too much Guitar Hero."
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