[ EU ] World of Warcraft finally ends and shuts down all servers . All the WoW addicts have to fill the hole left in their life .

Another day, another sixteen hours of agony, a phantom itch that could not be scratched. Like an amputee, I suffered through a pain that could not be seen. My frustration only grew as my muscle memory refused to evaporate. I needed a shower, but the thought of the sterile, white subway tile reminded me of a hospital. Some deodorant would have to do. I brushed the white residue that had collected in the cap off of my shirt but could not bring myself to sit back down. A reflexive glance at my computer screen was impossible to avoid, but it brought back the same twinge of self-loathing that had become the norm for me. A motivational desktop image, feeding me some tripe about my own willpower. I snorted at the ease with which I lied to myself. I knew that opening my web browser would do no good, either. In a fit of busy-bodied procrastination, I ’ d filled my bookmarks with resume builders, Craigslist ads, advice columns, self-help articles. The cluttered bookmark section contrasted a sparse taskbar, about which I had forbidden myself from thinking. I threw on the cleanest shirt in the hamper and stepped out of my apartment. 
 
 Blinding light. Heat. And those kids wouldn ’ t shut up. If not for my restlessness, I scarcely would have found myself outside at all, let alone at this elementary school playground. I ’ d long since gotten over any awkwardness I might have felt. I used to get accusing glares from the parents, but I devised a solution. I noticed that when I was at the playground with my nephew, smiling and talking to him, with us at ease and calling each other by name, I blended right in. I couldn ’ t do that now, but as long as I brought along a magazine, or maybe a cell phone, and worriedly glanced around the park every now and then, the others were none the wiser. Of course, this meant I had to pay some attention to the children playing. When I was once pulled aside by a passing officer, I wanted to laugh in his face at the insinuation that I might give some of the parents the wrong impression, that I might have something on my mind. Don ’ t get me wrong, I tried to say, I would be the worst rapist on earth. See that one there? She keeps falling off the same part of the jungle gym, and every time, she calls to mom and dad like it ’ s some tragedy, some breaking news. The whole lot of them: selfish, stupid, and boring. They ’ re too short-sighted to learn from their mistakes, to maybe skip the jungle gym this time. And that one? He ’ s some kind of sociopath. He may be burning ants now, but then he graduates to killing pets, and then…well, then we ’ ll see who the rapist is! 
 
 But instead, I said yes, sir and left. My niece walked home a few hours later. 
 
 I was no masochist; I sat through the domestic carnival for a purpose. I was there for the swings. When I was alone and the park was sufficiently empty, I knew it was time. I even had my own technique. I would sit down, motionless and breathing deeply, as if I were merely an exhausted jogger, with nowhere else to rest. Indiscernibly, I would begin to flex my diaphragm, nod my head, stretch my toes. There ’ s a passage in The Tell-Tale Heart where the narrator is entering the bed room of his victim, and he stands all but motionless, moving his hand at the speed of the clock ’ s hour hand. But there is movement, and there is being moved, and I was the latter. The swinging started organically, by the gentle encouragement of the wind and the yawning of tectonic plates. As my speed increased, I was reclined, and I took in the swinging canopy and sky beyond it. Soon, I would grow nauseous, but I embraced it. This was the feeling I was searching for. That weakness, on the breaking point of comfort and despair, when I could feel the pain of my existence yet fool myself into thinking it ’ s all in my head. 

