I would like to preface this post by pointing out the fact that many of us are desperate. We are but human, and we are but flesh, and flesh is mutable. We are desperate for FFXIV's timely fix, for certain, and some of us are more desperate than others. This, of course, owes itself to no inherent fault of the individual – the gods of science or the gods above predispose each to their own – so please withhold your judgment, muffle your scorn, oh readers.
It was a rainy October evening; I was feeling particularly desperate. The four-dollar box of wine, unopened at sunset, sat empty on the floor of my furniture-barren basement by midnight. The incessant patter of the rain on the foggy panes resounded like a blast in my head. I saw on my old laptop before me an open “Special Task Force” submission form – how did it get there, I wondered, but not exhaustively. I was in a swoon; no doubt I myself had opened it some time during my depraved melancholy.
And I did not close it right away. I stared at it; perhaps I was desperate. Certainly, I was desperate.
Oh reader, please understand! Please stay your dogs of slander, please dry your oceans of scorn! For I assure you, nothing can be done to me now that I have not already brought upon myself; neither punishment nor salvation is of any further use to us now. But if you can bear my tale yet a little longer, read on.
I fail to recollect everything; indeed, I seem to have blocked most of it from my now sullen, fragile brain. But I told him things, I gave assent. I strayed from the passages of reason, I withdrew from the narrow road, and I gave assent! **** it all, but I assented! I told Sundi that I would do... certain things – dishonourable things – for him, on the condition that the next update arrived quickly and was delivered effectively. I told him that I expected not a panacea, but an elixir – just something to stop the metaphorical bleeding. Oh, reader, judge me not! I was simply being a realist – a realist! Or perhaps I was desperate...
Yesterday I received a parcel by mail. It was covered with strange characters and I was afraid to open it. Its crinkled wrapping and thick, vein-like parcel-strings exuded an air of foreboding like the fabled Necronomicon, or an old work by the doleful Cornelius Agrippa. But I, a modern Doctor Faustus, opened it anyway.
A pair of felt moogle ears; a large, bouncy pom-pom on the end of a thin spring; a can of red paint. I didn't know what to make of them. Perplexed, I read the label on the sordid can, “Ferrari Red,” and I knew. This was from Sage Sundi, and I had made a deal. The contract is signed with pixellated blood and the GM Mephistopheles comes at last – are my twenty-fours years up already!?
I was desperate, and now the fatal hour draws nigh.