It’s hard to know whether or not a given blame belongs at your feet or at those of the WRITERS. Or if giving THEM any stock at all in your day to day functioning is just an excuse borne out of raw intransigence towards learning from your perceived flaws. To learn is to presume admission, after all. And to admit? Well that would necessitate responsibility. And you can’t be having any of that.
Not now. Not today.
All this to say, if even knowing yourself is already a proven nightmare, then the riddle that is deciding what percentage of every conversation the two of you have ever shared was just the MISPLACED ABYSSAL BLACK HUMOUR OF A CALIFORNIAN GAMES JOURNALIST, and what was a reflection on what he considers to be SOME APPROXIMATION OF A DISCRETE AND DISTINCT PERSONALITY is utterly unfathomable. And should either of you take things too far, you like to believe it’s a line crossed more often out of miscalculation for where these seams lie, than of any particular malice for their owners.
Just as you like to believe he feels the same.
Change is something of a thematic constant in your NARRATIVE. If reliving these seven years have taught you anything, it’s that change, even (or perhaps especially) for the better, rarely comes without cost. If the only cost you know how to pay is withstanding the ire from all the recipients of your sarcasm’s bite, then so be it. Maybe it’s a foolish idea to entertain, maybe some line of binary running deep in your CHAMPION’S HEART can’t help but make itself felt, but you reckon that, in the hands of a skilled WARRIOR, comedy has a way of bringing faults to light that all else fails to help acknowledge. Like cauterizing a wound, or plucking out an arrowhead, the time-honoured tradition of GIVING ONE A HARD TIME hurts now to permit healing later.
Still, the distinct possibility that you are JUST KIND OF AN ASSHOLE occurs to you with a frequency too frightening to be dismissed.