After the wildly successful release of Harvest Booze, I found myself drowning in a heady cocktail of fame, drugs, and obscene wealth. I was a crack-addled Scrooge McDuck and the fans just couldn't get enough ... yet a man has only so much to give. Less than a year after release, I could feel myself breaking down, my spirit caged and my body in shambles; I had lost my way. I had lost the way. I gazed down to my hands; whose hands were these?
I began a rigorous program of self-rehabilitation, which involved getting drunk and watching Quantum Leap starring Scott Bakula, until finally I found myself deposited into a parallel universe in which I had abandoned development of Harvest Booze long before it could inflict its wretched torment upon me. I booted my old development computer, sweat cold on my brow, and raced through the labyrinthine file hierarchy to find it, that incubating darkness, harbinger of the fall. I hovered my cursor over the folder, my finger over the delete key. I looked into its eyes; my monster, my folly ... my child.
I knew I must, yet I could not. And I wept. For I was home.
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