As an American child of the '80s and early-'90s -- a period so culturally rich that its aftershocks are still being felt today to the chagrin of a lot of people on both sides -- I was tongue-kissed by the angels along with a little over-the-pants action and given access to the finest technological advances in history and also pogs. Because of this, my battlefield existed in two dimensions on a Nintendo Entertainment System where no blood was shed but many scars were left. By Captain Skyhawk. By Battletoads. By Punch-Out.

Back then, I spent hours and days trying to best those games, but I never could, and I often quit a session quickly out of frustration. A not uncommon trait, but one that I suppose I should push past if I'm going to be replaced by this better version of myself in the near future.

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Ever-haunting disappointment be damned.

It seems like a worthy endeavor, a good way to discover my malfunctions, and not at all something that would act as one last fun and worthless day-waster. No, sir; Peter Pan is dead. This is a research mission. So I put on my lab goggles, blew into the cartridge, and fired up my first game ...

To fight off these Communists (to honor the era, all villains in this article will be referred to as Communists and all heroes will be called Patrick Swayze) you are given a seemingly endless supply of sky bullets and a powerful cache of rockets. In my first flight in over 20 years, I lean heavily on my rockets before I hear the voice of my 10-year-old self warning me that the rockets will run out and that I might need them later.

I trust him as my invisible co-pilot. He's like Jesus or Obi-Wan, but he knows all of my secrets and he has both a vested interest in my victory and surprisingly strong memories of this game.

At the end of the first level, there is an enemy base with four connected orbs and a central hub. It looks like Hungry Hungry Hippos. Both Captain Skyhawk and Hungry Hungry Hippos are Milton Bradley products. Insidious.

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This one's for all the marbles. I refuse to apologize for that joke.

When I blow up the enemy base, a multicolored celebration is unleashed and the reason for epilepsy warnings on video games is made obvious.

The second level is completely different from the first. I have moved to the blue sky, and I am now tasked with shooting down enemy fighter jets as they fly by. Because they are flying in the same direction as I am, though, it sort of feels like I have been asked to take down a bunch of Swayze jets; you would think that the Communists would be coming from the opposite direction. It seems best to leave complex moral questions to the side, though.

I am admittedly not great at shooting down Communists, but I advance in my first try. I can't help but think that this is a social promotion, but I'm not going to quibble because I know what's next, and I know that I'll need all the lives that I can get to make it to the other side.

We all have those levels from our past: the nightmare makers. For me, with Captain Skyhawk, it is the third level, with its simple-seeming demand that I dock with a space station as it hurtles through space, spinning round and round with a rectangular port that is never where I need it to be. Notice the lack of a "nighttime lover" joke here. #PersonalGrowth

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The level that would have made Freud's head explode.

As a child, I was never able to get past this level. As an adult, I try an aggressive approach at first, firing off my missiles in a vain hope that I can stop the turning port, but it just puts me off course, and when I inevitably press the B button to head in for a landing, I am punished for my insolence with a horrific crash.

These deaths happen over and over until, eventually, I die my final death and sit on my floor, eyes gazing up at a screen that tells me that my effort has earned me sixth place on the leaderboard. I pushed Carole off the screen. "Everything is a lie," I say to myself before joylessly typing in my name. There is no glory here. I am being patronized by something that was made to mildly challenge children almost 25 years ago.

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Damn you, Carole, and your will to try.

Though I could go back for more, it feels right to go only until I naturally run out of lives. #Metaphors

The Golden Robot's legs can be used to beat the ever-loving shit out of the pigs. I learned that from the voice of 10-year-old me. He's dope. We high-five. No one knows how.

Unrelated to anything: the pause music in Battletoads is amazing. This is what I'd choose to dance to if I was ever on Soul Train. How has no one sampled this yet? Waka Flocka, hear my call!

Back to the game. At the end of Ragnarok's Canyon, there is a monstrous robot that fires lasers and the orb-shaped elements of its own destruction at me.

Or breakfast cereal. Don't put anything past Battletoads.

Clearly, the big-assed robot wants to die, so I hurdle the orbs at its RoboCop-esque HUD and crack its glass, freeing it from the surly bonds of this world and bringing the first level to a close. This is a mercy killing; I am not a murderer.

The second level is called Wookie Hole. Uh oh! I think George Lucas is gonna su- you've heard the joke.

I never beat this level as a child. I don't know if it was the electrified cameras that burst out of the walls like a Kool-Aid Man paparazzo with a taser (feasible!) or the countless birds that try to snip at my line as I repel down toward the third level. Whatever it was, though, it no longer slows me down once I get my bearings and begin ramming the birds and swiping at their falling carcasses with one of the severed beaks that I took from another one of the birds in an exercise that would make for a horrifying and disgusting visual if it wasn't limited by 8-bit technology.

Now we're just straight-up taunting Freud.

After reading all of this, I know that you're pulling for me to tell you that I continued my march toward Valhalla (or wherever), but that would be a lie. Instead, I merely reached the third part of the first level, which, incidentally, looks like the surface of a brain that was infiltrated by rats.

The rats were not the cause of my death in Battletoads, though. I literally hit a wall. Several times while attempting to make an intricate set of jumps on a motorcycle. Why did I hit the wall? Good question. I DIDN'T HAVE A FUCKING CHOICE! That motorcycle path and those jumps require fast twitch muscles and reflexes that do not exist naturally in humans. I didn't lose; I simply met the fated result. At least I got further along this time than I did before.

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Also known as the "Explain to Mom Why the TV Is Broken" level.

Before the Internet, the Game Genie stood tall as the drug of choice for all gamers seeking a little bit of performance enhancement. I myself dabbled with both the Genie and, later, the Shark. I know now that all of my past successes meant nothing because of those things, and I have vowed to be clean from here on out.

Because of this, in a way, I'm playing Mike Tyson's Punch-Out for the first time.

Never mind "true victory" -- this is a story of redemption. Redemption for me and Lil Mac Swayze, and all I want to do is knock Glass Joe the Communist on his ass so I can claim one real win in this somewhat embarrassing collection of experiences.

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Yes, that Glass Joe. Shut up.

Unfortunately, it takes me five losses to get to a point where I feel like that might happen, and even then the odds seem slim.

Through two rounds, we trade hard shots to the jaw and the body. Joe the Communist is frazzled and Lil Mac Swayze has turned a shade of magenta. The knockdowns have been piling up, and at the bell their eyes are swollen shut (I'm taking some artistic license here) and desperately in need of the merciful scalpel. When the bell rings, though, I'm almost sure that Lil Mac Swayze lets out a "Pain don't hurt."

I badly want to give Joe the sweet reward of death, retirement, or whatever that he's been waiting for, but I don't know that I can. Before I try, though, I look to the crowd and see peach tones and dots symbolizing eyes and mouths. Those mouths are chanting, "Little Mac, Boom-Ba-Yay!" I swear it. I am charged with righteous purpose and God-like power. Thunder is waiting for my command, lightning has its back, and so I tap tap tap the D-pad to advance, and I send Glass Joe to the mat.

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I have so many conflicting emotions about this victory.

He won't get up. The crowd won't sit down.

There is another fight after this, with Von Kaiser, a Germanic beast with tight brown pants and both a mustache and a camel toe that give purpose to the life of the word "prodigious."

"Your punch is soft, just like your heart," says Von Kaiser, a man broken by his past who doubtlessly can't see our human bond and the capable softness of all our hearts. He wins, but I'm not sure that I lost.

When it comes to present-day games, I mostly just amble around in the hyper-realistic and vast open-world atmospheres of Grand Theft Auto and Fallout. It's amazing, but after a while, you start to get tired of coming up with new adventures and pretending to be something that you're not.

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And some things that you are.

The term "hyper-realistic" doesn't really apply to something like Battletoads, and the story follows a linear path, save for the occasional pop-up wall. You can't go back in that game, and you can't move forward unless you conquer the challenge that is in front of you. It's incredibly annoying, but when you think about it, it kinda sounds like a great way to limp through life. Maybe, from here on out, I'll just play the game until I run out of lives and not worry so much about what level I make it to.

For more ridiculously hard games, check out The 6 Most Absurdly Difficult Video Game Puzzles. And then check out If Video Games Were Realistic.