How Do I Fix JoyCon Drift Permanently?

My wife, Nova Quill, has grown addicted to the thrill and the fresh excitement of immersive horror games. She spends almost all of her time in the gaming room fighting with the game's boss every day. Sometimes, she even screams things like, "No!" and "Come at me if you dare!". Every time she's done playing, she'll slump on the couch with flushed cheeks, looking very exhausted. But Nova has crossed a line by skipping out on my birthday banquet just so she can fight the boss. Unable to take it anymore, I bring up divorce in front of her. Nova thinks I'm just making a molehill out of a tiny thing. "I'm helping you test out a project that your company has invested in! You should be elated that the game is super fun!" I just sneer at her in return. "Who knows if you love the game or the boss himself? Anyway, I'm definitely divorcing you, no questions asked!"

For three years in college, I was basically the dorms’ unpaid tech support. I was always on call, never charging for dust cleaning, thermal paste replacement, and operating system installations. Then senior year started, and Mickey, a freshman, called me out in the dorm group chat. “You know thermal paste only costs a few bucks a tube, right? Yet, he’s seriously charging you guys two cans of energy drinks for the job.” Mickey added smugly. “My family runs a computer store. Come to me instead. I’ll charge you a can for the service, and I can guarantee authentic parts.” The group chat blew up. “The kid’s legit!” “Well, Axis isn't getting any more energy drinks from me.” I read the messages and quietly packed away my tools in the cabinet. They had no idea the thermal paste I used cost nearly forty bucks a tube. The dust cleaning was done with professional-grade equipment. Little did they know, the so-called genuine parts sold on the market were mostly refurbished parts with a fresh coat of paint. I got into bed and pulled a sleep mask over my eyes. Honestly, this couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. I’d been wondering when these days of doing free repairs at my expense would finally end. Well, there's my ticket out.

Yuna Cooper was left mentally impaired after saving my life, so I gave up my chance to return home and remained in the mission world to care for her. But in my third year there, she suddenly ran me down with her car. Then, taking Joshua Cook’s hand, she told me, “I’ve finally waited for this day. Once you’re dead, Joshua and I can take your place as the one chosen by the system and live forever.” Only then did I realize she had been pretending all along, plotting to steal the system from me. What she did not know was that I had been enduring the system’s punishments this entire time. I said to the system, “There are two new hosts willing to take my place. Can I leave now?”

On our son Benjamin White’s sixth birthday, my husband, Finnian White, stayed out all night taking care of his sister-in-law, Violet Soar. His reason was that she had called because she sprained her ankle. I called him dozens of times, but all my calls were declined. Then, I saw Violet post on her social media feed with the caption: [Finnian is such a good brother-in-law! He came right over when I called!] The attached photo showed Finnian holding her slender ankle. Heartbroken, I confronted him and asked what he had done with Violet that night. He looked at me coldly and said, “Why does your mind always go straight to the gutter? All you know how to do is throw a tantrum at me!” Even Benjamin looked confused and said, “Dad just took care of Aunt Violet for one night, Mom. Why are you acting like a shrew?” Their cold attitude hurt me. This was not the first time. I finally decided to give up, activate the system, and leave this world.

I was nine months pregnant and days away from my due date when my husband vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but a handwritten note. 'Babe, there's a planetary alignment that only happens once every 77 years, and I just got pulled through a time portal. Don't miss me. See you when I see you.' In our three years of marriage, he had made a habit of inventing some absurd excuse just to take Fiona Crest on another vacation. That same night, the rage and heartbreak sent me into premature labor. My water broke, and I was rushed to the hospital. While I was suffering through contractions so brutal that I wanted to die, he was in Nordvalen watching the aurora with Fiona. While I hemorrhaged on the delivery table and barely clung to life, he was riding a hot air balloon with Fiona above the clouds. While I fought my way back from the edge of death to bring our son into the world, he was kissing Fiona under a cascade of fireworks at the foot of the Aurelian Tower. A few days before the baby turned a month old, he sauntered back carrying a two-dollar bootleg action figure and announced, "Babe, I'm back! Look what I brought our son. We're all going to be so happy together." I finally saw through every last lie, and whatever hope I had left died on the spot. On the day of the celebration, I vanished too, leaving behind a single note of my own. 'The Gamma homeworld has summoned me back to my planet. I'm taking the kid and ditching the dad. Don't miss me. Don't wait up.'

I booked a consultation with a renowned traditional medicine practitioner six months in advance to treat my surgeon wife's arousal disorder over the holidays. However, on the appointment date, Wendy did not show up. Just as I was about to call to question her, I noticed a photo her male friend had posted on social media. In the photo, my usually aloof wife was hugging the guy with a radiant smile. The caption read: [Only I can cure your problem.] But what caught my attention was my wife's flushed face in the photo, clearly displaying signs of arousal. With a cold smirk, I immediately liked and commented: [You must have magic fingers that work wonders!] The comment section exploded, with everyone speculating whether I would tear my wife's lover apart. What awaited my wife was our official divorce after the cooling-off period ended.