God, what a shitty day Week, month, year, lifetime.
I would say today had enough bullshit to fertilize the Sinai.
I know what’s going on in the world around me. I’ve got my opinions like anyone else, but this isn’t the platform for political rants. There are more than enough people shouting their takes from every corner of the country. All I’ll say is what Rodney King once said: “Can’t we all just get along?” Out of context or not, it’s a damn good sentiment. Maybe this country could learn to play nice for a change.
And people wonder why I like the Wasteland so much. Sure, there’s PvP, though not nearly as much as when Fallout 76 first launched. Back then, “Nuclear Winter” gave the bloodthirsty a whole playground to nuke each other silly. It was chaotic, sometimes absurd, but at least it had structure.
The truth is, we can learn a lot from the Wasteland. Most of us who live there play to help each other. Yes, we still nuke people’s camps for fun and do all kinds of juvenile shenanigans, but when it matters—when the chips are really down—we’ve got each other’s backs. That’s why I’m content to spend so much of my time in that digital wasteland. Escaping into it feels safer, sometimes saner, than dealing with the divided, messed-up country we actually live in.
New Rant: September Is a Bitch
I hate September. Like most people with PTSD, I’ve got anniversaries of trauma that stalk me like shadows. Some of them are subtle—you don’t even see them coming until the day hits and your whole body remembers what your brain worked hard to forget. Other times, it’s front and center, and I wake up irritable, defensive, and ready to bite the head off anyone in reach.
This month brings a big one. I’ve been unpleasant, short-tempered, and withdrawn. My cocoon is safer than the real world right now. At least in the Wasteland, the worst I’ll run into is a Scorchbeast.
Two of my heaviest traumas happened within a couple of weeks of each other. First, a sexual assault during deployment—ugly, scarring, and something I’d rather not dredge up again. Then, less than two weeks later, I watched a border crosser get shot in the face by the local patrol in a faraway land. My naïve Midwestern self had no clue that kind of brutality existed, and seeing it firsthand etched itself deep.
What makes it worse? My buddies from that time will tell me stories about both events—things that happened right around me that I have no memory of at all. And honestly? I don’t want to remember. Like anyone else carrying PTSD, I just want these anniversaries to pass with the least amount of collateral damage.
September doesn’t let up, though. She’s an evil bitch, and this year she’s already doing her work.
So, if you need me, I’ll be holed up in my little Fallout camp outside the White Spring. In real life, it’s called the Greenbrier. Pull up pictures of the two side by side sometime—it’s uncanny how close they look.
At least my dog is here, curled at my side. At least I know my mom’s with me in spirit. At least I know the Wasteland will let me breathe when the world won’t