Even while playing it it felt like it couldn't possibly be an actually real existing thing

Bizarre thing that exists somewhere between parappa and baby sensory video with this weird undertone of vague hostility that makes it feel like if might pull a weapon on you

Loved it????

Why's there a full English voice acting track that all seems just slightly off and also features a guy doing a cartman voice

People just singsong cheerfully announce shit like oh her? her sons dead or what does it feel like to play god with people's emotions

The main character keeps saying 'can't touch this' but like in the wrong cadence

Men, can't live with 'em, can't shoot' em

The opening video is maybe the best thing I've ever experienced

I love Mint more than anyone alive, dead or fictional and I'm so glad she never at any point stopped sucking ass

I'm so catastrophically depressed about all the sequel hook stuff that never produces an actual sequel I need more stupid sister adventure I can't live without it

also god it looks nice everything looks like it tastes good and animates like a funny cartoon I need more models that look like this

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.