Imagine going on a date with your typical crush-type.  Whether it’s the tall blonde, the tanned brunette, or the see-through albino redhead, your pre-set moves and past dating accomplishments propel you two right into your living room for a night cap.  You bust out the scotch for yourself, the red wine for the lady, and you get close.  Right after she brushes up into you and drops the stress-releasing whimper, you softly touch the small of her back and place your drink on the table.  She looks into your eyes as if removing the walls from her defense mechanisms.  At this moment, you’re in control.  You’ve played the game.  You’ve won.

This makes sense.  You’ve seen the pattern before; you’ll see it again (shortly).

This is not Final Fantasy XIII.  You do not have control.  In fact, you’re so out of control just moving your prosthetic fucking character around the map that you cannot even simply avoid a gelatinous ooze.  Really.  Ooze > You.

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