To game, or not to game, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind of a gamer
The buttons and joysticks of outrageous fortune,
Or to take the controller against a sea of gamers
And by opposing end them. To game—to sleep,
No more; and before a nap to say we game
The head-ache and the thousand eye floaters
The gfuel is heir to: 'tis a gamers eyesight
Devoutly to be gam'd. To game, to sleep;
To game again, perchance to dream of gaming—ay, there's the disk:
For in that game of CS what toxicity may come,
When we have gamed off this toxic coil,
Must give us pause—but it's online mom.
That makes calamity of not being able to pause.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of being late to dinner,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud gamers risk,
The spanks of dispriz'd love, the gamers delay,
"One more minute!", and the long minutes after
That patient merit of a gamers parent takes,
When the gamer himself might his quietus make
With a bare controller? Who would gamers bear,
To swear and sweat from the palms,
But that the dread of something after death in game,
The undiscovere'd maps, from whose easter eggs,
No gamer returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the bad eyesight we will have
Than explore other maps we know not of?
Thus conscience does make toxic gamers of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution 1920x1080
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of toxic thought,
And enterprises of great movement and aim
With this regard their games turn awry
And lose the name of gamer.