the espydon chronicles volume 1 - how to fail at life

Today, I bring you a tale of unconditioned failure which breaches the bounds of human stupidity, giving birth to new, profound levels of deficiency in standardised conduct; an extravagant story of mental ineptness and the shortcomings which compliment the use of such behaviour. This is an extract from my life.

As much as I’d love to have a limit imposed on how much suck one person can possibly possess, it is unfortunately a fruitless dream that shall never see the light of day. Should the primordial nature of humanity be that of suck—and that aspect be emphasised for utmost importance—then naturally I shall be the epitomised shining example of mankind, given that I possess a considerable amount of aptitude for sucking. I finally realised that the amount of suck present in me was so suckingly suck that I had no choice but to concede with the fact that I was full of suck. Have you ever made a mistake so suckingly suckful that you wish you could traverse the passage of the 4th dimension and go back in time to prevent the suck from taking place in such a suckful manner? Be advised that the following story contains an abundance of suck; it’s safe the assume that the suck present is probably more suckingly suckful than you could ever hope to suck for, because quite frankly, I suck.

I really screwed up this time, and no excuse could possibly hope to annul the compromising of my intellect, which I feel is sorely lacking in integrity. In order to properly insinuate the moral of the story by subtly weaving it with my own stupidity to form an intertwined mass of fail, I’d like to stress the importance of safekeeping any important details and making them readily accessible at any given time that you should possibly require them. It may require some forethought and a little lack of laziness, but it does harbour the potential of saving you a considerable amount of hassle in the near future, because you should never discount the possibility that the passage of time will strip you of your knowledge; it’s far from an extraneous act, and it should always be prioritised. I shall make this clear once, and once again at the end so that the cause reinforces itself as to firmly embed itself in your memory. You’d be well advised to not make the same mistake as I did, unless you enjoy feeling cursed like an incompetent fool lacking in basic cognitive abilities. The mind is a repository for various information, and making sure that the vital stuff stays intact is of paramount importance. I’m usually fairly cautious about this stuff, but my capricious nature often causes some unwanted problems, because I’m inconsistent with my sense of protocol. Now, let’s begin…

I made a trip to a local PC store to pick up a copy of Orange Box (mind you, I would have preferred to purchase it off Steam had I not been plagued by a monthly download cap). It was simple: I paid $80 AUD and waltzed out, and back on my merry way to the sanctuary which I’ve befittingly nicknamed as “my room”; no problems so far, correct? So, right now the story seems fairly ordinary; a typical string of systematical events for carrying out this simple task.

I arrive home, shake the mouse a bit to wake my computer up from standby, pop the DVD in and follow the on-screen instructions. Now the following is common knowledge, but it’s absolutely vital that you comprehend the significance of this next step, so I’ll reinstate the procedure for installation: Valve utilises a particular web-based application named Steam which acts as a safeguard against piracy—though its other primary function is the delivery of content online—by directly linking all games (via their unique serial key) associated with this service with an account, and as such, users are expected to follow suite in order to install the software. To simplify it, you need an Internet connection to proceed with the installation, and a Steam account which can be created for free. Throughout the procedure, users will be prompted to enter in their unique serial key to be permanently linked with their account - this is a one-time course of action, and each key can only be activated once. Therefore, you must be able to have access to the account to play the games.

Before we continue, be wary that I’ve absolutely loathed Steam’s service since its inception during Counter-Strike, which subsequently became a requirement for updating to 1.6 if I recall correctly. It’s detrimental to the accessibility and convenience of a game, because quite frankly I’d prefer the faster and more streamlined approach in which the method of utilising a gateway program is avoided, so it’s to no surprise that I approve of its rather downtrodden reputation. Of course, I understand their motives, but at the same time it’s a real pain. To provide some slight remedy, I always have my Steam client set to auto-login; big mistake if you hardly ever use it anymore, and especially if you made a new account. Do you see where this is going now?

Now you see, I had a foreboding presentiment that something like the following was going to happen, and I’d have to address the issues immediately to spare my sanity, but I was being disregardful. Carelessly and without much concern, I activated my serial key. Now, had I not been so recklessly stupid, or at the time possessed some form of precognition, this problem could have been avoided completely, along with the subsequent feelings of stress and anger, but because I’m an idiot, I was plunged into a universally-acknowledged act of stupidity. I decided to go ahead and clock Portal while the rest of the games updated themselves in the background; however, upon completion I logged off to see if I could remember my password. Yes, that’s right; I logged off to see if I could remember my password.

I could not remember my password.

Oh, I was angry; not at Valve—well, partially for their implementation of such an annoying yet compulsory disservice)—not at the Internet, not at the store I bought it from, not at anyone, but one person: myself. I think it served as a pretty hard-hitting reminder that I should not be so thoughtless in regards to my own actions, and before you ask, I’ll say that I could not retrieve the password because I forgot my secret answer. I don’t particularly fancy the disclosure of the details behind my stupidity, but this one just takes the cake for mental retardation, and to anybody who could possibly be reading this: hopefully you gained something from it. Do I regret it? Regret is pointless; humans are imperfect and thus, prone to making mistakes. What matters is that you acknowledge the problem as your own and attempt to learn from it as to spare yourself from a whirlpool of repetition.

In spite of all of this, it may be a revelation to announce the fact that I did finally manage to regain control of my account, but that’s not the point. I also apologise for the lack of anime-related posts; I’m currently experiencing some difficulty writing about the subject. Also:

Anzu with her hair down is so friggin’ cute, and I would totally wuggle her

~ by Espydon on 26 April, 2008.