You can play Medal of Honor 20 hours straight, subsisting off of Ritz crackers, Jello pudding, and Arizona iced tea. Anyone who comes near your sniper scope is getting their head blown off. You called your dad “asshole” since you were 9 and never looked back. You chase female family members around with found roadkill. Inside your hoodie, you feel like a personal secret, some rogue human that would do better in a video game. Your Ritalin enabled deft fingers click unconsciously almost, as if your neurons were wired in. You never got that good at skateboarding, but the punkish abrasive attitude fit. Last time you tried to snowboard, you rolled down the hill like a Sisyphusian nightmare.