Fuck I quit.

How many Oreos do I need to eat to stop feeling my feelings?

Last night my brain decided that someone needs to write the story of Sodom and Gamera.

French Toast Sunday! *clapclapclapclapclap* (With plates for the haters)

For (not even close to) the last f*cking time: It’s not a f*cking booth for you to ‘showcase’ your game. It’s a playtesting space.

(Closest substitute for) French Toast Sunday! *clap*clap*clapclapclap* Hopefully Matt Riddle is accepting.

French Toast Sunday *clap*clap*clapclapclap*

I have finalized my Winter Solstice Adjacent Holiday Gift Giving Time wishlist for you to put on your fridges Reminder I need yours by 5pm Thursday.

Gonna smother some mashed potatoes in cheese and gravy and then take a nap. Big things happening at the FatKid house.

French Toast Sunday! *clap*clap*clapclapclap*

I got throttled and now I’m in a holding pattern.

It seems that if you send 2000 Blessed Responses during the Super Bowl someone might accuse you of spamming.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever been kicked off a social media platform for spam cuz you were celebrating with your team’s fans in your own nonsense way.

I’d love to go to the parade on Friday but I don’t think I would be able to stand for that long without sitting down. The walking no problem, just keep moving. The standing still would kill my back and knees.

It’s been a while since I reminded everyone to take some time to hone the f*ck out of their craft. I need to take my own advice.

I’ve decided that my game about hashbrowns and the proletariat will be a ‘Roll or Right’ game. You either roll the dice and do what they say or move one space to the right. It’s a can’t miss design.

At least I’m pretty good at being useless so I’ve got that going for me.

Am I done? I might be.

I think I lost my joy or it’s super broken.

Did you know I’m a pretty poor fake ass leader who’s somehow fooled people?