AND THEN YOU MUST SLURP THE MILK.

Psychonauts keeps happening to us, every day of our lives. There are Frootloops and beer bottles everywhere. The end seems so close, so very close. We only have to drag our crippled, broken bodies across a few more yards of broken glass before we get there. When, oh when, will all this excellence hit the effing road? When will this glorious, golden ocean cruiser of a game start to haul its fat, golden ass out of our harbor? Is there enough Vaseline in the whole world to get this enormous, high-quality, blood-swollen tick out of our collective neck so that it may share what it has taken from us with the entire world?

I will eat more Frootloops. I realize now that is the problem. The game is waiting for all the Frootloops to be gone before it leaves. Why? Ours is not to question the game, but merely to do its bidding.