1993 is the deranged and abusive ex girlfriend of video games, a cheap, cheating, bastard harlot who no wrongdoer, murderer, nor witch could deserve the inconvenience of meeting, and one who's mere mention of name will ensue with voracious residual trauma.
1993 changed me. Changed who I am as a person. Annihilated, are the vestiges of equanimity. How can I consider myself among them? One who cannot love, or ever be loved? Does life require, on a fundamental basis, a sense of clarity? I no longer know these words, or their nondescript implication.
No, this game has released levels of enveloping rage within me that I never before believed possible to express as an emotion. Thoughtless, is such pure, unforgiving torment that any a single one of my bitter tears could bring apocalypse to this Earth and life as we know it.
1993 isn't hard. It isn't just unforgiving. It is an amalgamation of the intimately infuriating. An irrevocable depravity, vilified by even the strongest sense of masochism, and delineated to every alteration in detail to that self-inflicted depiction and infinitely more. If I were to attempt to play this game, it absolutely shall encourage me to ingest bottles of burning bleach filled to the brim with thousands of live, venomous, and angrier spiders than I myself, if nothing but to subside the suffering. To be such a horrible experience, that I would rather the most sensitive areas of my body be doused in gasoline and impaled with a recalescent sword, accompanied with salted nails shoved into my corneas, deep by my smouldering iris, than to have this game bleed savory misery in my mouth for three wretched hours straight.