A day in the life of an Xbox controller

What with the recent release of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3, my brethren and I have found a renewed sense of employment; a new relationship with our owners. However, this relationship is, for me and for others, an abusive one.
Of the 6.5 million release-day purchasers, I would assume approximately 6.4 million to be of thirteen years of age and a painfully angry disposition. Statistics would suggest, then, that a child such as this would own me, or, more accurately, keep me prisoner. Statistics are right.
Each day, after he finishes his homework (that is, if he doesn't lie to his parents and just do it the following day in school), he rushes downstairs. Taking me into his hands, he starts the console and Modern Warfare 3. I serve for hours as the link between him and his character; he is the soldier and I am the gun.
Things start off smoothly; he unlocks the P90, and with that, earns a few wins marked by a 1.2 K/D. However, his performance wanes as the night goes on. As does his sanity. One game he suffers from a quickscoper, which, as I have come to find out, peeves him like none other. In the next, his team camps in the spawn, with nary an objective in their minds. And in the following, which would turn out to be the last, he is plagued by lag spikes and poor hit detection, against a clan, no less. Just as he captures the sole flag for his useless team, the screen turns black, and his jaw drops. "You have been disconnected from Xbox Live," the screen reads.
The horror as I soar through the air and create yet another hole in the already polka-dotted wall! He runs back upstairs, his fury exhausting him, leaving me on the floor, covered in palm sweat and drywall dust. I lie there in a combination of agonizing fear and jaded acceptance, knowing that tomorrow will be the same.