All my life, I believed in a simple biological truth. My right hand was the chosen one. The hero. The enabler of all private joys and questionable late-night decisions. If evolution had a favourite child, it was clearly the right hand. Left hand existed only for balance. Moral support. Holding the plate while the right hand did the real work.

Then life broke my left arm. And with it, my delusions.

Because what did I lose? Writing? Annoying but manageable. Eating? Fine, I adapted like a raccoon. Brushing teeth? Awkward but survivable. What I truly lost was dignity in digital warfare. WASD. The holy quadrilateral. The left hand’s Magna Carta. The one thing that separates a civilized gamer from a man watching cutscenes like a Victorian child at a magic lantern show.

I am bedridden. Courts are closed. Justice itself is on winter vacation. And there I am, staring at the screen, knowing that Arthur Morgan is out there with a horse that needs riding, a gang that needs saving, and a world that needs morally ambiguous decisions. But no. Arthur waits. Arthur stares into the digital sunset because my left arm is wrapped like a shawarma and refuses to cooperate.

Helplessness hits you in waves. First denial. Then anger. Then bargaining. I tried remapping keys. I tried playing one-handed like a philosophical monk who has renounced violence but still owns a Gaming Laptop. Nothing works. The universe has rules, and WASD is non-negotiable.

Yes, I will binge-watch the second part of the last season of Stranger Things. I will pretend I am enjoying passive entertainment. But deep inside, there is a scream. Because I don’t want to just watch heroes. I want to be one. I want to jump off cliffs, raid tombs, and roll dramatically away from danger as Lara Croft does, while I sit here rolling from one side of the bed to the other like a disgruntled potato.

Adding to this tragedy is a cranky toddler. A tiny human with zero sympathy and infinite energy. He looks at my cast not as an injury, but as a challenge. A drum. A chew toy. A handle. He climbs on me like I am downloadable content. He demands stories, snacks, songs, and emotional availability, all while I am mourning my lost joystick autonomy.

He does not understand grief. He understands only chaos.

So here I am. A man who once thought his right hand ran the world, now discovering that the left hand was the real protagonist all along. The silent hero. The unsung legend. The hand that made digital worlds move.

Recover soon, left arm. The West needs saving. Tombs need raiding. And I cannot keep explaining to a toddler why Paapi is lying down like an injured NPC with no side quests available.

Later.

Jd