Friday, 13 March 2015
As Venus travels across my astral passage I become gifted with the foresight to identify my future performance over the next 7 rounds of WM/H. My vision is somewhat hazy, but I will consult with the stars to divine the next day's worth of games.
My first round 1 fills me with a feeling of dread. A feeling reminiscent of a post-three-piece quarter pack from KFC with an extra pack of wicked wings. Wait wait, yes yes it is Peter Hunter. Hmmm I run head first into the eGaspy butt fuck again, finishing with regret at bad decisions and a chicken hang over.
The second round is filled with hope. Oh sweet sweet hope. This time I draw against a new player fresh off the blocks, bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to have his hand at this game we've all gathered to play. The excitement! The camaraderie! The bottom of two assassination! I get a brief glimpse that I might be good at this game, and my opponent leaves with my apologies for a short game and early lunch.
hhmmmm...This third round feels foreign. It has a southern taste to it, and the sounds of bristling mustache hairs. Oh fuck, its Hooch. I get promptly roflstomped by whatever Legion crap he's concocted.
Shit. This fourth round is looking bleak. Long and tedious. Its like I'm playing a game of 40K. YUCK. Oh it's a troll opponent. Double Warders. Dear god WHY.