I loved the 90s even though I never owned a Nintendo Gameboy. My best friend did and I have some memories of a vague 8-bit version of Mario chasing after mushrooms. I dreamt in geometric Tetris blocks once in a blue moon, only in hope. You see, I was never a gamer child because my parents were against it. We didn’t even have a computer in the house until I was about 14, not that we minded much.
But now, I see the side effects to that kind of upbringing. For starters, I go gaga over any technological gadget out there. Granted, pretty much every one does, but my problem goes a step further: I obsess. As I also obsess about the fact that in an alternate universe, I might have been a gamer. So I bought myself a Wii console, because now I pretty much make up the rules of what I can and cannot buy. And just when I was about to give up on it — you can play wii resort and wii party so many times on your own, after all — I discovered Monkey Island. And World of Goo. And and and. And just when I had started to give up on my latent gamer persona theory, BAM! I am now a no-life, addicted fiend.
I’m starting to have my doubts. My parents knew something after all…