Those who say that fear is the mind killer are wrong my friends. It’s age. Age, which is relentless as a foul tempered badger and more tenacious than Elliot Ness holding an envelope of bank receipts with ‘Money Al Capone Laundered’ written in the margins. Age which makes the language of young people, apparently cobbled together from JayZ, reality TV and marathon sessions of huffing aerosol cans, seem like a puzzle of poorly phrased phonemes missing all the edge pieces.
Age which cripples my already inconsiderable dexterity, and age which makes me vaguely excited that Matchbox Twenty has new songs coming out and completely incapable of flying a Warhawk.
I realize that my description of aging might suggest that I’m some kind of infirmed septuagenarian with bad taste and mild dementia, but subtle evidence suggests that the wiring between my brain and hands apparently now bears some comparison to corroded spark plugs on an early seventies Dodge Dart. When playing Warhawk and games of its ilk I’m increasingly surprised no one’s put me on blocks in front of some ramshackle Appalachian home with a poorly written For Sale By Owner tag permanently duct-taped to my nose.
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