Dostoyevsky would pawn his wedding ring again to buy Balatro.
Balatro reviews are basically a trauma-dumping fanfics where authors aren’t xQc or ohnePixel, they're jokes — except crime there isn’t selling me fent, it’s convincing yourself “this next markiplier will fix my life.” It won't. I cried.
The further I descend, the more I realize: Balatro is not about having fun. It is about the necessity of killing time. Yess brothther in Chrisst. It's like unc Buddha told us. Find time - kill time. Find Jimbo - kill Jimbo. Find Neco Arc horny mod pack - yeah, I did. Also, RNG in exe unlike ex can be fixed.
Every victory feels like a funeral where the corpse gets up mid-service and asks for another blind. Every loss feels like sex, and I don't lose.
Every day I'm shufflin'. Can't quit. Fingers betrayed. The cards breathe. One of them coughs blood on my face. Liquid corrodes flesh. Dopamine receptors whisper: “Red sealed yo a*s”- I laugh. My laugh sounds like my grandfather passing in one's chips in the basement. He is also an obscene metaphysical clown.
The jokers leer at me from the screen with dead eyes. One of them is my father. One of them is my unborn son. One of them is my therapy session disguised as a slot machine, and every one of them is a new DSM diagnosis. One of them is me - except happier, because he actually hit the straight's flush. It's not g*y, if ya have 3 socks on one's head, it's ante.
By the end, you aren't “Aced it”, you’re trauma-dumping into tumours sprouting in the void, promising salvation through mathematics while dragging you into a swamp of ecstatic ruin. It won’t. It never does.