A midnight launch was not attended, let’s get that out of the way. I have every faith that I would turn into a pumpkin, just like in the old story, where a man is too old and tries to hang with feral-ass youths. How real do you motherfuckers wanna get? I’m typing this post on my phone in the parking lot of Best Buy. Mr. Gribs got up at fuck o’clock and has hardware in his possession; everywhere I’ve been has only power supplies and grey Joy-Cons, storm-toss’d flotsam in the ravenous wake of the Switch.
I am so excited that my jaw seems to be locked in the down position, so good thing I’m a writer. Now a man has come out, he is distributing fliers that signify whether you can have one. He had eleven; I am number 10.
Lidija passed me the merch banner for PAX East for Global Distribution, and I’m prepared to distribute it globally:
Something else is also real. This year is going to see a ton of fairly sophisticated initiatives related to merchandise, pursuant to our role as a cultural foundry. This is another way of saying that Lidija wants more space in the warehouse. So! Several shirts and an older hoodie have all been slashed price-wise, you know, as opposed to regular-wise. The garments are all completely intact. They aren’t less expensive because they have been, for example, shredded. They are not casualties of a Tee-Shirt Cannon. They’re good shirts, Brent. And after this sale, they’re not coming back. See if any of it is something you’d equip in your chest slot.