The Games I Bought, the Games I Lost, and the Life That Kept Charging Admission
Or: How a Sega Kid Learned That Nostalgia Doesn't Pay the Fucking Rent.
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
A Jerry's Marginalia — by Department of Petty Affairs
Once Upon a Time, There Was a Sega Kid
Before unemployment claims, rent emergencies, questionable roommates, and the financial equivalent of being repeatedly kicked down a flight of stairs, there was a kid who loved video games.
Not investments.
Not collectibles graded by some company charging $80 to put a piece of plastic inside another piece of plastic.
Video games.
The kind you plugged into a television, blew into when they didn't work (despite Nintendo explicitly telling you not to), and played until your thumbs developed the structural integrity of military-grade concrete.
He was a Sega kid.
Sonic the Hedgehog 2.
Streets of Rage 2.
The Sega Genesis.
Blast Processing, baby.
Whatever the fuck that actually meant.
The commercials said Sega did what Nintendon't, and that was good enough for a generation of children whose primary financial strategy involved begging their parents and hoping Christmas arrived before the next extinction event.
He also had Nintendo.
An NES collection that once approached sixty games. A Super Nintendo. Games like Willow, where Capcom apparently decided that a movie about a little person protecting a magical baby deserved an action RPG considerably more enjoyable than anyone had a right to expect.
There were gaming magazines.
There were television shows like Nick Arcade and Video Power.
There were dreams of standing inside a television game show and winning enough cartridges to make the neighborhood jealous.
And somewhere along the way, the boy made a terrible discovery.
Other children were fucking thieves.
Not all of them, obviously.
But enough that games started disappearing.
Cartridges went visiting and never came home.
The concept of borrowing apparently meant permanent ownership, and the local juvenile population had established an unofficial library system with precisely zero accountability.
So he started writing his name on his cartridges.
A perfectly reasonable security measure.
Unfortunately, writing your name on something doesn't prevent theft.
It merely provides the thief with a convenient reminder of whose property they're enjoying.
DPA LESSON #001: If somebody borrows your game and never returns it, congratulations. You've just sponsored their childhood.
The Genesis, the Game Boy, and the First Great Sacrifice
At some point, the Sega Genesis disappeared from his life through a trade connected to losing a friend's Game Boy.
Imagine that.
A console full of memories exchanged because another piece of hardware went missing.
No dramatic final boss.
No credits sequence.
No heroic sacrifice accompanied by orchestral music.
Just childhood consequences and the realization that possessions can vanish considerably faster than they arrive.
Eventually, the Super Nintendo entered the picture.
And life continued.
Because that's what childhood does.
You lose something, get something else, and keep moving.
You don't yet realize that adulthood is going to turn this into a recurring business model.
The House Fire: Nintendo's Extremely Unfortunate Retirement Plan
Then came the fire.
The NES and SNES were destroyed after he had entered military service.
Not traded.
Not sold.
Not donated.
Destroyed.
A childhood collection reduced to memories through circumstances that didn't give a damn how many hours had been invested in it.
And this is where the comedy temporarily takes its shoes off.
Because losing a game console isn't a tragedy on the scale of losing a human life.
Nobody sensible would claim otherwise.
But possessions carry memories.
The cartridge you played after school.
The console you shared with somebody.
The game you finally beat after spending three weekends getting your ass handed to you by programmers who apparently considered mercy a design flaw.
Those things become little containers for your personal history.
And when they're destroyed, you don't just lose plastic.
You lose the ability to hold that particular piece of your past again.
The memories remain.
The physical evidence doesn't.
DPA LESSON #002: Fire does not recognize sentimental value. It also has absolutely terrible customer service.
The Navy Years: Japan, Arcades, and the Wonderful Disease of Collecting
August 2000.
A young man enters the United States Navy.
Eventually, he finds himself in Japan, surrounded by things that would have made his younger Sega-loving self lose his entire goddamn mind.
Arcades.
Japanese game stores.
Anime.
Imported entertainment.
Shakatto Tambourine.
Silent Scope 2.
The sights and sounds of Yokosuka.
And an entertainment culture where the machines sometimes seemed to be designed by people who had consumed three energy drinks, discovered experimental jazz, and decided ordinary buttons were insufficient.
There was also anime collecting.
A six-disc Maico 2010 DVD set that cost roughly $200.
Two copies of Love Hina Volume 2 because the first was scratched.
These weren't necessarily financially brilliant decisions.
But they were understandable ones.
He was young.
He had money coming in.
He was overseas.
And he was buying things he genuinely enjoyed.
There is something special about purchasing a piece of entertainment in the country where it originated.
Something that makes the object feel connected to the experience of being there.
Unfortunately, the universe was already preparing the next installment of its critically despised franchise:
PROPERTY LOSS II: THE REPOSSESSENING.
The Great Console Disappearance Act
PlayStation.
PlayStation 2.
Sega Saturn.
Dreamcast.
Different systems. Different memories. Different purchases.
And, according to his recollections, systems that eventually disappeared through theft.
The Dreamcast was particularly memorable.
A console stolen during a break-in.
A machine that represented Sega's last magnificent attempt to remain in the hardware business, apparently removed by someone who decided Sega's exit from the console market wasn't sufficiently tragic.
Let's examine the criminal genius involved here.
Someone enters another person's space.
Sees property that doesn't belong to them.
And concludes that the appropriate course of action is to take it.
Fascinating.
An intellectual achievement comparable to a raccoon discovering an unlocked dumpster and declaring itself the legal owner of the restaurant.
The Dreamcast was already a commercial casualty.
Did it really need to become a burglary casualty too?
Apparently, yes.
Because the universe doesn't believe in moderation.
And while we cannot reconstruct every incident or assign exact dates to every missing console, the outcome was familiar.
Money spent.
Memories made.
Property gone.
DPA LESSON #003: Sega couldn't save the Dreamcast, and apparently neither could the fucking front door.
Welcome to Houston: Where Your Collection Becomes a Financial Instrument
Now we arrive at the chapter where the jokes become considerably less comfortable.
Houston.
Employment problems.
Rent.
Roommates.
Moving.
Trying to establish some semblance of stability while life repeatedly changed the terms of the agreement.
There was a period involving job loss, serious rent arrears, and eventual eviction.
A large television was sold.
The rent was approximately six months behind.
There were part-time jobs.
Lowe's.
McDonald's.
There were difficult living arrangements.
A roommate named Todd appeared in the recollections, alongside more trouble involving possessions and a PlayStation collection.
And the video games?
Well.
Those weren't just video games anymore.
They were potential rent payments.
Emergency money.
Something that could be sold when the bank account started making noises usually associated with a dying refrigerator.
And here's the particularly cruel part.
The same collection that once represented happiness now represented how long you might be able to survive financially.
That PS3 collection?
Money.
The PS4 games?
Money.
The Vita?
Money.
The Nintendo 3DS?
Money.
Imported games?
Money.
After hurricane-related financial trouble, more of the collection went out the door to help cover rent.
Not because the games suddenly became terrible.
Not because the owner stopped caring.
Because landlords generally prefer American currency to a carefully curated selection of Japanese imports.
Imagine attempting the alternative.
"Good afternoon, landlord. Unfortunately, I cannot provide this month's rent, but I have a mint-condition video game and a touching personal story about its acquisition."
"That's wonderful. You're still late."
And there it is.
The moment nostalgia meets the fucking electric bill.
You cannot feed yourself with a Sega Saturn.
You cannot pay rent with childhood memories.
And the bank will not accept an emotional attachment to Streets of Rage 2 as sufficient collateral.
He described the process as having Thanos'd his collection.
Half the games gone?
Try considerably more.
The Infinity Stones weren't necessary.
Just a lack of money and an urgent need to keep living.
DPA LESSON #004: Financial hardship is the only final boss that can defeat you without even turning on the console.
The PS5 and Xbox Series X: New Generation, Same Goddamn Problem
Years pass.
Technology advances.
Consoles become more powerful.
Games become larger.
Controllers acquire enough features to require their own engineering departments.
Enter the PlayStation 5 and Xbox Series X.
A fresh generation.
A fresh opportunity.
Maybe this time the consoles would stay.
Maybe this time the collection wouldn't disappear.
Maybe this time life would stop treating entertainment hardware like an emergency savings account.
HAHAHAHAHAHA.
No.
He recalled spending roughly $2,000 in connection with acquiring the systems.
And eventually, after another employment loss, they were sold.
Again.
Not necessarily at a catastrophic resale price.
But that's not really the point.
The point is that the cycle had returned.
Buy something.
Enjoy it.
Encounter financial trouble.
Sell it.
Survive.
Repeat.
At some point, a person begins to wonder whether they're collecting video games or merely renting happiness from the universe until the next invoice arrives.
And that is an exhausting way to live.
DPA LESSON #005: New Game Plus should not mean experiencing the same financial emergency with better graphics.
The Roommates, the Moving, and the Things That Never Made It Home
One thing deserves particular attention.
The moving.
Not moving because you found a beautiful new apartment.
Not moving because you wanted a different view.
Moving because circumstances demanded it.
From one place to another.
And another.
And another.
Trying to survive.
Trying to find work.
Trying to make enough money.
Trying to keep your possessions together while your living situation refused to cooperate.
Every move introduces another opportunity for something to break, disappear, be abandoned, or become too expensive to transport.
And every difficult roommate adds another variable to an already miserable equation.
There's a particular kind of fatigue that comes from never feeling completely settled.
You stop thinking about where to display your collection.
You start thinking about whether you'll still have somewhere to sleep next month.
That's not an enjoyable transition.
That's survival mode.
And survival mode doesn't care about your collector's edition.
It cares about tomorrow morning.
The Collector Finally Says: Fuck This
Eventually, something changed.
Not the love of gaming.
The desire to collect.
By 2025, he was saying something that would have horrified his younger self.
He didn't particularly want physical collections anymore.
Emulation?
Absolutely.
A powerful computer?
Sure.
Massive hard drives?
Now we're talking.
An original console and fifty cartridges that could disappear during the next financial catastrophe?
Nah. Fuck that.
And honestly, who could blame him?
How many times does someone have to rebuild a collection before deciding that the rebuilding itself has become the problem?
There is a point where collecting stops being enjoyable and becomes a monument to everything you previously lost.
You remember what you owned.
You remember what it cost.
You remember who took it.
You remember what you sold it for.
And you remember why you had to sell it.
That's a lot of emotional baggage to attach to a plastic cartridge.
Of course, Sega remained special.
Because some childhood loyalties are apparently immune to bankruptcy, natural disasters, burglary, and common sense.
But the philosophy had changed.
Play the games. Enjoy the games. Stop treating ownership as a requirement for happiness.
Meanwhile, at the Arcade, an Angry Little Man Refuses to Die
And now comes my favorite part.
Because despite all of this bullshit, the gamer never actually disappeared.
Fast-forward to 2026.
He's still playing.
Still revisiting the classics.
Still enjoying Sega.
Still remembering obscure games that modern audiences might mistake for archaeological discoveries.
Black Tiger.
Rastan.
Ghosts 'n Goblins.
Ghouls 'n Ghosts.
Super Contra.
And, of course, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Turtles in Time.
He doesn't need to own a warehouse full of cartridges.
He doesn't need an entire room dedicated to shrink-wrapped collectibles.
He doesn't need a glass cabinet containing a $900 game that he's terrified to remove from its packaging.
He just wants to play.
Beat the game.
Get pissed off when the game cheats.
Come back and beat the bastard anyway.
And occasionally scream at a 1980s arcade developer who apparently believed three lives and no continues constituted a reasonable entertainment experience.
This is where the whole story changes.
Because for years, the physical collections came and went.
But the enthusiasm survived.
The games still mattered.
The memories still mattered.
And the enjoyment didn't require a receipt.
DPA LESSON #006: You can lose the cartridge without losing the reason you loved the game.
But What About the Money?
Ah.
The uncomfortable question.
Would life have been different if he'd never collected?
Maybe.
Would there have been more savings?
Possibly.
Would some financial emergencies have been easier to manage?
Perhaps.
We cannot calculate the answer from memories alone.
And pretending every dollar spent on entertainment would otherwise have remained untouched in a savings account would be dishonest.
Life is considerably messier than that.
But there's nothing wrong with looking backward and admitting:
"Man, I wish I'd made some different decisions."
That's not self-hatred.
That's perspective.
The young man buying anime DVDs in Japan didn't know everything the older man would eventually experience.
The kid playing Genesis couldn't predict the house fire.
The person purchasing a Dreamcast didn't anticipate a burglary.
And the person buying a PS5 probably wasn't expecting to sell it after losing employment.
We make decisions using the information and circumstances available to us.
Sometimes those decisions work.
Sometimes they don't.
And sometimes life arrives with a folding chair and demonstrates that planning is apparently optional.
But the lesson isn't that enjoying things was wrong.
The lesson is that financial stability and personal enjoyment have to coexist, and when they cannot, difficult choices follow.
You can regret a purchase without regretting every happy moment it gave you.
You can wish you'd saved more without declaring your entire younger life a mistake.
And you can stop collecting without surrendering the hobby itself.
The Department of Petty Affairs Issues Its Final Ruling
After reviewing the evidence, including approximately one metric fuckton of missing consoles, stolen cartridges, destroyed hardware, emergency sales, questionable roommates, and recurring financial catastrophes, this department has reached its conclusion.
The defendant is guilty of loving video games.
An offense committed by millions.
The defendant is also guilty of occasionally making purchases that, in retrospect, may not have been the wisest.
A condition commonly known as being a human being.
However, the department finds insufficient evidence that enjoying video games was the fundamental problem.
The greater problem was an unstable world in which possessions repeatedly became casualties of circumstances.
Some were stolen.
Some were destroyed.
Some were sold.
Some were simply left behind by the relentless forward movement of life.
And yes, some decisions could have been better.
But here's the important part.
The man sitting here in October 2026 isn't the same kid who wanted every cartridge he could get his hands on.
He's older.
He's experienced.
He's tired of financial uncertainty.
He's learned that collecting and enjoying are two different things.
And he's learned that sometimes the greatest luxury isn't owning something expensive.
It's having enough stability that you don't have to worry about selling it tomorrow.
Epilogue: Player One Continues
Somewhere out there are the games he once owned.
Perhaps sitting on somebody else's shelf.
Perhaps buried in a landfill.
Perhaps still working perfectly, completely unaware of the person who once loved them.
The Dreamcast doesn't remember being stolen.
The NES doesn't remember the fire.
The PS5 doesn't remember being sold.
Objects don't remember their owners.
But people remember their objects.
They remember the excitement of opening the box.
They remember the first game they played.
They remember the friends, the music, the frustration, and the victories.
They remember the time and place.
And sometimes they remember the loss.
That's life.
Not every story gets a happy ending.
Not every collection survives.
Not every dollar returns.
But every experience leaves something behind.
Sometimes wisdom.
Sometimes regret.
Sometimes a hilarious story about getting your ass kicked by an arcade game older than half the people currently arguing about graphics on the internet.
And sometimes a simple realization:
I don't have to own everything I love.
The Sega kid grew up.
The collector eventually stepped away.
The gamer remained.
And somewhere, in the Department of Petty Affairs, a feral raccoon stamps the final document:
CASE CLOSED.
COLLECTION LOST.
EXPERIENCE GAINED.
PLAYER ONE CONTINUES.
Because the games may have disappeared.
The money may have disappeared.
And the consoles may have changed hands more often than a cursed artifact in a fantasy RPG.
But the memories?
Those are still his.
And for once, the universe can kindly fuck off.
It doesn't get to charge admission for those.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
https://theglitch.bearblog.dev/