Potatoes kept sitting on the counter keep for a significantly long time, and have the benefit of being unable to spoil surreptitiously. Each passing day left uneaten only strengthens their resolve. A point comes where one cannot so much as pass by without sensing a prickling upon the nape, the very gaze of the starchy orbs a palpable and increasingly disconcerting force not to be ignored except at one's peril. The very air seems tinged and dulled as it by the wraiths of a thousand long-dead Irishmen, waiting eternal for the potato that never was, judging always judging you as you ignore the veritable bounty of potatoes upon your counter top. The choice is simple: eat your potatoes, or be driven mad by unbearable guilt.
Steam + PSN: PHJF