Late-Nite Zuma Session

I don't know what came over me last night--I had arrived back from a great evening of hanging out with old friends, watching stupid TV shows, and eating vanilla Frosties. But for whatever reason, despite being very tired, I couldn't just turn in for bed. Something came over me, an uncontrollable urge to seek justice and accomplishment: I had to play Zuma.

Now, I have been known in the past for really getting into to my Zuma-sessions (and God help anyone who ruins one with a heaping of jibber jabber). I am overcome by this immovable sense of duty, of responsibility. Because if I don't stop this onslaught of rolling, multi-colored, bowling balls who will? This game has so much more importance and excitement than something like Insaniquarium, Pizza Frenzy or Chuzzle. Those are mere kid-play. This was serious.

Even more interesting was my choice of war music: that angsty British forty-something, Morrissey. Only his anti-American suave could power my manly aura of determination. His new CD is twice as good as his previous one, but I wasn't discriminating. I let them both play, leading me into the dark of night.

My frog was spinning around, vomiting colored duck-pin balls at this rolling snake intruder, racking up points and combos by the second--I had entered into this Zuma-Zen that propelled me through level after level. I couldn't stop! I needed to sleep, but I couldn't. I wasn't going to throw the match, the Aztec gods were depending on me. Besides, I had gotten farther than ever before!

After one o'clock rolled around, my feeble body began to give out. My reaction time was slowing down. Morrissey was starting to dip back into The Smiths. I wasn't going to give up, but I felt the natural tug of defeat.

My Zuma session would be over...