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"On Everything 2 the 'bless' command blah blah blah grants a user 10 xp blah blah reward for a particularly good blah blah blah chatterbox. You can check how many times you've been blessed by looking in on the Golden Trinkets document. Each 'trinket' was one blessing."

"Eh . . . I doubt I've ever been blessed. I think I would've remembered something like that . . . "

Clickity.

"Man, this connection is slow. And what's up with the nine hundred and seventy-three giant .js files that are pulled down every single time. I mean some database-driven cache-control headers that keep a single date and Etag no matter which server it comes from should fix that, and save bandwidth to boot!" Unhampered by reality, I'm a much better programmer in my head than gcc ever admits to.

Twiddly.

A single, clichéd tear predictably runs down my face. A horrifying memento mori, this awful page.

"Holly!" I cry, shuddering as I fight back the tears. "I'm going to cry!"

She claps her hands. "Oh, please do! I want to watch!"

"No. Just for that, I won't."

But somehow . . . still . . . this sorrow past all explanation echoed. My mortality is nothing compared to this. These horrible words. This horrible, horrible page.

This awful, grinning page that, smiling, says:

You are not feeling very special.

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