8 November 2022
Tuesday. I have read every review. Aloud. To the shovel.
Five stars. Five stars. Five stars. The host was lovely. The host was hilarious. The host gave us the perfect hint at the perfect moment. The host, I should explain, is the gamesmaster. Not me. Never me.
One reviewer wrote that my coffins were “terrifying in the best way”, which I have cut out and pinned above the desk. Another said the puzzles “flowed really well”. Flowed! I did not design them to flow. I designed them to loom.
I have begun to suspect that the guests are enjoying themselves, which was never the intention, and that the enjoyment is somehow my fault.
There is a number, apparently, for how many groups get out. The gamesmasters keep it on a screen and look at it the way other people look at the weather. When it goes down, I am quietly delighted. When it goes up, I write a stern note to the puzzles.
Resolution: become more frightening, and also more likeable, so the reviews mention me. These may be incompatible.
— U.
