A day hasn’t passed this year where I haven’t thought about Balatro. It has me stricken like a sickly Victorian child, sitting up in my bed at night, going over that last run in my head, trying to tell myself there was no way I could have salvaged it. It’s a disease, I’m sure of it. A wonderful, addictive, maddening disease that still has me in its grip. In fact, I can’t wait to stop typing this so I can go back and try to carve out that perfect run.

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