One of my players made me a dice necklace out of the dice he’s been using for months, as a thank you for putting up with him all these years, and I don’t have the heart to remind him that those were dice I loaned him that I kind of wanted back.
On one hand, it’s pretty cool, but on the other hand, *Borat voice* My Dice.
Everyone’s like, “Oh, they’re just cheap Chessex dice, dude. Calm down,” but you don’t understand. I have to buy like three fucking sets of dice a month because these little shitheads keep losing theirs and no way in hell am I trusting them with my Good Dice. I have a fanny pack full of dice that I wear to sessions because these fools suck so bad. I honestly think they’re eating them. I think they’re skipping them across lakes. I think they’re fucking tossing them at windows in the pouring rain to get their unrequited lover’s attention. I give these motherfuckers so many of my dice that they could hike the Appalachian Trail and leave dice behind like breadcrumbs. They probably pour buckets of my fucking dice under their tires like kitty litter to gain traction when they’re stuck in the snow. And I know they aren’t just keeping them because they’ll literally lose them mid-session. Like there’s a black hole under the coffee table. It’s an X-File at this point. It’s beyond an X-File. My dice are probably in The Black Lodge. My dice are in The goddamn Upside Down. They’re in The Uknown. They’re in the Additional Paranormal Pop Culture Reference, y’all.
