Looking at the hypertext narratives and the different ways they were implemeneted were fascinating to see.

keeping up appearances by Mendi Lewis Obadike was an enjoyable read where the format itself supported the themes of the story itself. It was a story about suppressing yourself, making yourself smaller and smaller out of fear and wishful thinking that nothing else will happen. You get to see the narrator's hidden thoughts through the hovertext and get a fuller story. Otherwise, you merely get the censored version and the story the narrator's trying to project.

my body by Shelley Jackson interested me in the way images were meant to be interacted with and lead to different parts of the website/story. It reminded me of Emily Carroll's Grave of the Lizard Queen on her website, where clicking different parts of the image lead to a comic depicting a story about it. I also enjoyed the writing style, the constant sense of discomfort and insecurity that permeated throughout. I also heavily related to the parts about growing breasts, I also resented having to buy a bra and having wires constantly poke me. It was an inconvenience I didn't ask for. Just like getting my period.

paths of memory and painting by Judy Malloy didn't grab my attention the way the other narratives did. It wasn't as straightforward like the others and it was like crawling through a maze and not knowing which way to go or where this will go. It was like playing Zork but even more confusing. It didn't take long for me to drop it. I just think this type of story isn't to my taste.

Depression Quest was depressingly (ha) relateable. I find myself forgetting what depression is like and just assume that it's simply a moral failing or weakness of character on my part. But then I played this and went, "Oh, right. That's why I'm like that." It was like remembering that I'm still struggling and I still have issues even though I'm much better off than I was years ago. For all my experience with depression, I still don't know how to talk about it without sounding like I'm just being difficult. And honestly, I find myself making the same mistakes the narrator's well-meaning loved ones did too when dealing with others who struggle with depression. There's something so frustrating and depowering about only being able to say, "I'm here for you" because there really isn't anything else you can do. And I know something like that isn't nothing but there's frustration of wanting to do something more. And not just that, there's also frustration towards yourself of not pushing yourself more and not being more.