Those of you who know me (very few, I would assume, at the time I write this) understand that I care for my video games like a mother. As a point of clarification, I mean from-nature style mother with all my ravenous protectiveness, as opposed to the typical human mother -- though I do leave my video games in proximity of the television for very long periods of time.

My NES cartridges are in a cool, dry space. They are in their original plastic sleeves, arranged chronologically and dusted regularly. The controllers are laid in a row, with the cords spooled tightly but not so tightly as to make the wire kink. Everything is in perfect, functioning order. It is a source of pride to know that I could be playing Excitebike in a minute if I so choose. I even have my Megaman passwords at the ready in ancient notebooks. What I am saying is I care.

I tell you that so I can tell you this: I broke a Wiimote.

It wasn't done accidentally, though it probably wouldn't have happened if I'd been using the wristband like the Wii is always suggesting. It happened in a moment of anger.

Too much has been said of blue shells on the internet, so I don't feel the need to add much more to that particular discourse. Still, for all the frustrating moments video games have given me, I have never before been brought to the point where I would lash out at the hardware.

Mariokart, you're grounded.