I am not a morning person. Morning is a world conspiracy designed to put me in a bad mood. I wish I could be one of those bouncy breakfast cereal commercial people that leap into action with a smile on their face. But I am not. I am a miserable bugger. Of course, just because I feel like thunder, doesn’t mean I have to behave that way. Normally, I try to slap on a smile and engage in conversation as I struggle to motivate myself for the journey to work.

Yesterday, however, it all went a bit pear shaped. I think it was provoked by an irritating dream that I can’t remember. Whatever it was, it was compounded by the radio alarm where an over-jovial radio presenter was sharing the latest utterances of an unpleasant American politician. Presumably he will be insisting that people of a certain religious persuasion must sew brightly coloured patches on their clothes next. I would imagine some sovereign wealth funds might be revisiting their investment decisions as I write. And that won’t be good. Count to ten…

Anyway, I managed to exit the house without upsetting anyone, but the station was another matter. Buying a ticket ought to be straight forward you would have thought. But today a dozy individual gets confused and decides to muscle in on my ticket machine. There were plenty of others free. I politely point out his error. He is embarrassed and apologises. He is not a morning person either. I feel no camaraderie with this person for he is part of the problem, not part of the solution. A problem called “missing the train if I don’t bloody hurry up”. Despite heavy non-verbal cues from myself the dullard insists on publicly discussing his ticket purchasing faux pas. Steam rises but I successfully break his interdiction bubble and dash for the train.

The rest of the day fails to improve my mood. A colleague who has turned procrastination into an art form fails to deliver. Again. Every month for fourteen months the individual gets the simple task wrong because “reasons”. Everyone else gets it right. Normally I attempt to guide the person through the now well worn process. This time I batphone the person’s boss and warp away to a safe.

“By now I really need to vent.”

By now I really need to vent. I have choices but I really don’t want to inflict the family with my issues. For one, Mrs Kong has a range of countermeasures which, while being completely unfair, are nonetheless effective and for another, by some oversight there are no domesticated animals ripe for the kicking. Rage will have to be conducted by other means…

At this point you might be thinking I am maybe suffering from a slight loss of perspective. Yeah, whatever. I’m dealing with it OK? Normally when I am a bubbling saltcano I turn to music. I make ‘music’. It is my emotional release valve. On occasions like this I grind out horrendously growling and howling dubstep bass sounds with my laptop. The laptop doesn’t seem to mind. After an hour or so the noise tends to shock me back into the real world. But this option has also been sabotaged by the world+dog. My favourite earphones have mysteriously died. Using any others is like putting your shoes on the wrong feet. Unthinkable and frankly weird. My mood reaches even greater depths. “Paint it Black” sounds like cheesy love song now.

“My Eve moment. That brief window where the planets align and I can get some quality space time.”

So I get home to the loving bosom of the family. Youths are giggling at cats on YouTube when they are not liking cats on Facebook, and Mrs Kong is nailing down some complicated deal with a far eastern supplier in a language that involves a lot of shouting. Yes, it is the sweet moment. My Eve moment. That brief window where the planets align and I can get some quality space time.

But, but, I am not really in the mood. World+dog conspiring against you is one thing. Adding a universe+fedo is not going to improve things for a filthy casual solo carebear with issues like me. I flick through hundreds of TV channels instead and that just reminds me of another song I hate. Sod it, I will log on.

The screen fires up and I am looking at my Astero. When it stops spinning I imagine it exploding. Then I imagine someone else’s Astero exploding. It gives me some unexpected satisfaction. Perhaps if I….

“But Eve is, well, violent and maybe if I did a little PVP.”

The thing is I love PvP. Anything from table football to Halo and I am up for it. Just not in Eve. The challenge in Eve for me has always been to participate in as much of the environment as possible without melting someone. Eve is a game that just about allows you to do that, give or take an alt or two. I have stuck to it too. Even when I flew a Titan and a Golden Magnate on the Solace server test I only had festival launchers fitted. Take that Barium and Snowball doomsday cocktail sucker! But Eve is, well, violent and maybe if I did a little PVP, just a little bit mind, you know, just to see what it is like then maybe it will make me feel better.

Before I realise I have made the decision I have bought myself a shiny new Dramiel. I don’t know much about a Dramiel. The first thing I understand is it is a pig to fly. I don’t really know why, but that doesn’t really matter because the second thing I know is it is drop dead gorgeous to look at. This of course overrides all other considerations. Oh, and apparently it is fast too but who cares because now I have one and it simply oozes venom. I can’t quite fly it yet as I need a few hours of Minmatar frigatry inserted into my head, but my pulse is rising and it gives me time to clean up the drool.

Now to fit the beast. I need shooty things to shoot people right? Small projectile turrets says Eve University. They sound good, I’ll have some of them. No idea what ammo to use but I can wing it. Can’t be that hard. Somehow I have the skills for them too. Probably from some abortive attempt to do PVE in my early days. I start to plan my first lowsec forray where I will doubtlessly leave a trail of destruction. Annoyingly, a friend then has the nerve to ping me. Can’t people understand I am busy!

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“Well…”. I don’t get to finish the sentence because my vision turns to sepia. A spectre looms large in my mind rattling chains.

“I am the ghost of Future Eve” says Aura convincingly. “Behold!”.

She rattles her chains some more and I start to see things. Bad things. I see a future where I have to buy a new computer because the F1 key has worn out. A future where I am endlessly ratting to pay for my next ship. A future of PAP links and grinding structures with crushing TIDI. A future where Eve can be solved with astute data analysis and clever spreadsheets. A future where Crossing Zebras takes a controlling stake in Pastebin. A future where I out-scheme Mittens, out-Grath Grath, and Sion… well even visions have their limits. OMG what a nightmare!

“Bad day?” asks my friend with a hint of concern.

“Nah, just a bad morning” I say as I snap back into reality.

“So what are you doing?”, he persists

“Nothing much, just trading faction frigates” I say misleadingly.

“Fancy checking out at a shattered wormhole for some lore stuff?”

“Absolutely” I say with growing enthusiasm for now it is evening and I am an evening person.

While the perfect breakfast munching family is descending into dysfunctional chaos, I am now at ease with myself and in Eve I can become the person I want to be and not the person the world+dog demands me to be. And with that my wallet icon starts to glow. 3 million ISK profit on a Dramiel I’ve just sold for 10 minutes game play. Not bad. But damn it looked sexy.

Another time perhaps…

Featured artwork by Rixx Javix