Mayhem, Bullets, and the Black Arts

There are not enough words in the world to describe how much I love having a regularly scheduled tabletop game that I am a part of.

I love having people over on a regular basis; it makes our house feel more like a home. I love the chance to see my friends at least once every couple of weeks. I love cooking for people, and the excuse to make large or complicated recipes that it just doesn't make sense to put together for just umbran and myself.

And I love the game itself. I love the drama and the excitement, and the way that just dealing out cards sometimes can become a moment of triumph. And I love the dorky stick-figure drawings and baroque-to-the-point-of-ridiculous plans and the way we sometimes wind up laughing hard enough to completely derail the plot for a few minutes. I love the running gags that develop, and the obscure language of references and in-jokes, and the stories that we build with the world and each other.

And, you know, sometimes after a day of typing records, turfing phone calls, and cleaning up after mistakes untrained staff make, I just love being a badass gun-toting voodoo priestess in the quasi-lawless wild west.

There are worse things in the world than refusing to be too old to play make-believe.