Sometimes the game stops being fun, but I can't stop playing it. I just don't know what else to do.
Sometimes it's more than mere indignation twisting my gut. It runs deeper, darker, like an underground cavern far from the sun.
Sometimes, when I raise my hand to strike, I long to follow through with all my strength.
Sometimes I fear myself.
I can keep it in check for days, even weeks at a time. I distance myself from the moment, go through the motions, convince you that all is well.
But I can't contain it forever.
When it all becomes too real, I need to make it artificial. I need to compartmentalize, break it down, make it plastic and perfect.
I need to be able to say, "We'll try to destroy each other til three o'clock, then have coffee together." I need rigid, unnatural boundaries. I need someone to love and loathe in equal measure with no consequences.
I need to throw myself against an unyielding wall until I can't feel anything—no rage, no pain, no hatred.
That's why I go to Seattle, Perry the Platypus. I purge the poison from my heart in staged conflict with Peter the Panda so I can come home clean. He's black and white in every way. He's a practice dummy. He's fake.
I just can't take that risk with you.
You see, Perry the Platypus... you are real.