Ask Massively, sitting on the patio of Shawn Schuster's Minnesotan lakehouse. It was twilight, the last rays of sun filtering through tumblers filled with pinot noir, the haze of extravagance and of gaming fading gently into the background. Shawn idly strummed a few bars of a melody on his '54 Stratocaster, then he looked at me and he asked me if I was ready.
Of course I was ready. I had always been ready.
He gave me a curio then, a keepsake. As his ancestors had handed it down through the generations, so it would now be passed to me, a talisman to remind me of the importance of writing.
Later that day, I tripped and splashed mud on the pants I was wearing, which I had been planning on returning.
(Today's edition is about peripherals, by the by. But I felt like a Seinfeld homage.)