GameFly, GameFly.  Wherefore art thou GameFly?

In the fucking mail, apparently.

As a newly fashioned (Raffman hates the word “fashioned,” so it’s always fun to use it) website, Glitchoris has been humming and buzzing, both from enthusiasm and Lake Front Brewery Stein Beer.  Both contributers have been working on this part-time over the past ten months.  Although part-time does not begin to describe the grinding hours we have both put in, I cannot in good faith say full-time.  Raffman is a Marine, and I work for state government.  We spend energy and crush hours into the early morning on most nights writing, scripting, and designing.

GameFly is quickly becoming, as eloquently stated by Mitch Hedberg, the girl that’s not my girlfriend, but the girl I know who would be really upset to hear me say that.  We have a solid first three weeks of the relationship.  I subscribe, I get the game, I play the game, then I return the game.  I’m playing this one by the book; I’m not ad-libbing to be funny or stylish.

Then when I expect the returned communication, the box on the note to be checked saying, “I do like you Tebo!” I hear nothing.  Not a peep.  Well actually she texted me saying she shipped the next game.  But I don’t have the game, and that was five days ago.  Here is the translation.

Me: I’m glad you called back.  I can’t wait to see you.

GF: I’m glad you answered! (the smiley face is my invention)

Me: You free anytime over the next couple days?  I have some time I freed up; I’d love to buy you a drink or grab some food.  You know, get to flirt with you a little bit.

GF: Of course!  Two to three days sounds nice.  I don’t have an exact timeframe, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.

Me: Excellent.

*Five days pass with not so much as a text.*

Me: I guess I’ll go call that chick I fooled around with back in ’94.

Yeah.  Nineteen-ninety-fucking-four.  That’s right.  I had to boot up Super Metroid for the SNES just to keep a controller in my hand.  Gentlemen, be cautious around this Maneater.  As Hall and Oates sang to us, Ohhh here she comes.  Watch out boy; she’ll chew you up!