The fantasy of playing Final Fantasy
You are a negro bunny bound for greatness in the New World, as if the old were simply a mistake. You can't stop thinking about Sylvia Wynter and something like New World natives; you stall, with everyone else, rather than negotiate a true critique of the present, rather than pause Final Fantasy XIV as ordered by necessity and place your twin boys in the bath.
No, the little fuckers berate each other and bash plastic dinosaurs against wood drawers, the floor, and on too many occasions, each other's faces; a waterlogged mosasaur with a missing fin lay wrecked beside the tub. You understand that, unlike NPCs, the children will die if left unattended, which you've had waking dreams about since the moment they were born, boring ones mostly, for seven years now. Some nights they're burning up in a windowless room and you simply can't break in to get them out, your family dog (also already dead from heatstroke, oh how she loved to run with you all summer) crying just outside the door.
Instead, you get bodied in a dungeon called Alzadaal's Legacy on your way to potential riches, the rewards of narrative forestalled by an octo-jelly hybrid named Ambujam slamming big waves and needling …