Before and after, though, not so much.
Last Humble Monthly gave me Vermintide which I’m feeling iffy about, but no other games that are really gripping me, and I was on the verge of cancelling, but the teaser game is XCOM 2. While I’m not super enthusiastic about XCOM2, a friend of mine is, and if I regard half the monthly fee as that and the other half as a fairly safe gamble, it would be worth the price.
I could have sworn that I could enter the license code into Steam’s activate-a-game tree and get the option to put it into my inventory, rather than my game library. From there, I’d have sent it directly to a friend’s Steam account, and all would be well.
Except it went straight to my library.
So I figured I’d contact Steam Support and have them make an adjustment. Except there is no way to contact a Steam Support technician — that is a human being — anymore. Instead they have trees to lead to solutions to specific problems, none of which match this one. There’s no other option. There’s no contact a human being option.
Well, there sort of is. I could go onto the gethuman.com Steam page which offers a phone number. I don’t know if it’s valid. I could also attempt to harass the Valve Corporate Office to tell them that I have no way to get Steam Support for my specific problem. I don’t expect that would go well, or endear me to Valve.
So I did what the Steam Support suggested — against all my better judgement — I posted the tech request on the Steam Forums.
It went about as well as I could expect. A lot of non-Valve personnel are telling me that it can’t be fixed, that I’m a fool for thinking otherwise, that it’s my fault for making mistakes. I do not do well with customer service. I do less well with the public telling me to go fuck myself. Some are saying that what I’ve said so far should warrant Steam account getting banned. (I’ve heard of such things for Origin or Uplay. Not with Steam.)
But this is the problem with depression. Because dealings like this will change how I see reality. The Trump-era continues to loom in my subconscious as a confirmation of my family’s ideology that the natural order (that is frontier justice) should prevail over community or collaboration, that people like me who are not able to sustain ourselves, and resort to violence in order to do so, should be left to wither and die. I think it’s the same ideology by which our GOP led legislature is trying to repeal the Affordable Care Act, because fuck the poor.
And today I got a whole big dose of fuck-the-guy-who-needs-a-thing-if-he-can’t-take-it-by-force. And it reminds me that the only reason my family doesn’t wish me dead is because I’m family. Because other than our common DNA, they would despise every bit of who I am. That’s really creepy to me.
There was a whole forum full of guys who felt I should suck it in for not fitting in with the system. I didn’t read things right, so I fucked up so I should GFY. And I’m lucky if I don’t get banned. That’s really creepy to me too.
And to me this day has been a big reminder of how much I do not fit.
Compassion is for the meek. And ours is a state that doesn’t tolerate the meek anymore.
It’s been a big reminder that I’m doing a disservice to the world and everyone around me just by being alive.
That which I consume and disrupt is probably more valuable than the good I create.
And I probably shouldn’t publish stuff, especially on days like today. Especially when I’m I’m sad and hurt and wrecked and just want to blow my own brains out. Wouldn’t I be doing the world a favor? Wouldn’t my relatives be so proud?
Maybe the secret police should hurry up and execute me for sedition.
Seriously, customer service situations destroy me. I shouldn’t be let anywhere near them. And yet, things break. I make mistakes. Thinks show up new in package, yet nonfunctional.
And according to everyone in the world, it’s my fault. My mistake. I broke that thing. I fucked up. Heck. Maybe I did and remember it wrong.
Maybe I’m supposed to steal someone else’s thing. Maybe I’m supposed to be a police officer and just seize replacements. If anyone gets in my way, I’m supposed to murder them. And eat them for lunch.
It’s a world for the vicious. But I’m not willing to become vicious to survive.