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My Dearest Clyde,
I lay pen to pixelated paper on day 487,000 of this desolate bloodshed.
Every treacherous battle is the same.
My brethren and I continue to tirelessly struggle to avoid Him.
Our men, however, bump into walls over again as we encounter identical twists and turns.
His mouth remains constantly agape so that He may gobble the pills as quickly as possible.
His jaundiced face haunts our nightmares.
Were certain He is addicted to painkillers.
Upon his approach, the monster turned and viciously devoured sweet Blinky.
What kind of twisted alternate dimension are we trapped in?
Everything we know about our very existence is constantly thrown into turmoil.
We all just want to go home.
Pinky has a wife and kids.
She has written for IGN, Live Wire, thePortland Mercury, and the Huffington Post.
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