Confessions of an addict.

It’s taken me a long time to reach this point. You’ll have to bear with me, because I’m going to be baring the deepest, darkest parts of my filthy soul.

Alright, here goes.

I… am a fantasy addict.

I’ve been feeding my habit for years. Oh, it started small. I picked up The Hobbit, and eagerly digested the contents of Tolkein’s hairy footed adventure. I read Roald Dahl’s BFG and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and in my childhood innocence I didn’t realise that these were gateway books, books designed to get unfortunate souls like me hooked.

I managed to control my addiction for a few years, but then… I discovered the Belgariad. In that five book series, I found myself wallowing in a mud-pond of fantasy, a debaucherous realm of dragons, sword fights and sorcery.

I tried to hide it from my family. I snuck copies of The Lord of The Rings into my room, hidden inside book covers from the bible. I pretended to be reading Hamlet, when instead of that tale of ghostly visitations and patricide, I was in fact devouring Melanie Rawn’s Dragon Prince.

I thought I had it under control. I thought I was managing my habit, but then came the Harry Potter series. With it’s slightly quirky take on British culture and it’s magical setting, I thought I would be okay, but it sent me on a downward spiral from which I’ve never recovered.

I’ve done things that no-one should have to do to feed my addiction. I’ve snorted ground up copies of The Silmarillion. I’ve injected copies of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books directly into my veins.

(This approach is easier if you take out the staples, just FYI.)

Eventually, I succumbed to the ultimate degradation. I bought RPG Manuals. They’re sitting on my bookshelves now, calling to me, daring me to feel that rush of a perfect diceroll once more. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to resist it’s sirens call.

Don’t let your children be like me.

Keep them away from any books that might stimulate their imagination. Only allow them to do maths puzzles. Make sure they only read the classics, like Romeo and Juliet with it’s wholesome story of marrying someone on a whim and double teen suicides, or Macbeth, with its story of murdering authority figures to gain power. That’s the sort of fine story we should be letting our children delve into.

Fantasy is evil. Don’t let it destroy you, as it has destroyed me.

(Sarcastically written in response to some of the stupid shit in this article.)

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