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We sat, and drank, and talked.
You told of the great final battle when you were a hero;
when Shamus destroyed Gondorf
or something, I don’t know.
Foreign names from foreign places.
Each of you was there, those many separate times.
“It was awesome” you all said.
I smiled and nodded, and echoed “awesome.”
It’s all Italian to me.
Your princess is in another country. I was never there.
I want to speak out, admit, I—no.
I stamp the desire underfoot like a mushroom,
ashamed of my ignorance.
No more.
I do not know your Marios,
your Zeldas or Arans. These are false gods.
I will be true, and a heretic.
This is no shame.
I worship other heroes,
Threepwoods, Dentons, Garretts.
I told their stories, and in telling became them.
I journeyed through Angband, Daventry, and the planets of Vorticon.
I stole the Amulet of Chaos from the temple.
I saved the wumpus from Jasper Slake.
I destroyed the three Shadowlords.
These are my victories, my memories, and I will not disown them.
They made me what I am.
A PC gamer.
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