Restart? -->Yes/No

Through a lot of my life I've had to ask a third party about what I've lived; this is because I have a horrible memory. 50 First Dates resembles the somewhat daily routine of what I go through. There are a handful of theories about why I work that way; some people claim it was my early and thoroughly enjoyed alcohol use. Other blame it on one or multiple of the following:

-frequent blows to the head from fights/general clumsiness
-not finding anything outside of my interests memorable
-having the attention span of a contemporary artist in 1983 at a corporate gala
-exposure to tinfoil use outside culinary atrocities
-odd need to smell things regardless of chemical makeup
-same equally important need to touch/punch things that are kawaii/ugly regardless of weight class
-the odd hours i sleep

And for all of those gifts, I'm awarded the right to not remember your name. That's why I nickname you. I probably can't remember your real name. You're not boring or uninteresting, but you probably are honestly, its just I don't care enough. Really. It's not you, it's me. If you're angry, that's okay. Remember that you're not 23 and constantly losing arguments because you forgot what your point was.

Yesterday morning I had this brilliant idea to attempt remembering parts of my past based on the games I was playing at the time. Normally this isn't something I would be thinking about while trying to sleep, but I was shooting for falling asleep counting titles instead of sheep.
All of these should have been books, and to be frankly honest I want them to be, but I didn't have time to read a book in 1998, my live-in maid did.
She was Hispanic so it gave all the characters the best accents. Did you know Peter Rabbit and Mr. McGregor sound like Cheech & Chong? She even elaborated on them by telling me she knew a Flopsey, Mopsey, and Cotton-tail. Said they were all her husband. I didn't get it then, but these days I understand the confusion my classmates had when I tried to tell them Black Beauty was Denzel Washington.

Spyro the Dragon:  Oct 1998
Where I lived: Summerville, Georgia
Why is this game important?
Spyro is a title I tried to play by myself but couldn't manage to play correctly. Uncle Jim would play it instead on nights where it was his job to get me to sleep. This was the game we were playing when I was first introduced to my irrational fear of being struck by lightning, and how it was coincidentally explained to me that it was practically impossible. Uncle Jim taught me to count how many seconds between the flash and thunder while Spyro's dragonfly occasionally buzzed idly. To this day I still freak out during thunderstorms, but now I know how far off God's aim is.

Tarzan Action Game: 1999
Where I lived: Summerville, Georgia
Why is this game important?
This is the second most hated game I've ever owned. It was addictive in the sense that McDonald's can be, and about as good for you. Seriously, if I didn't have anxiety issues before this title, I had it afterwards. Nothing in life or made by the hand of a higher power could or want to craft such a frustrating piece of shit. Only man. Only man would do this. After Uncle Jim and I beat it, we stomped it to death. First time I raged on something.

The Sims: Feb 2000
Where I lived: Tucson, Arizona
Why is this game important?
At the time I was attending a private school that catered to children who didn't fuck around with their super powers. It was like X-Men except we couldn't fly or grow claws unless we took a leap of faith off the jungle gym or taped coffee straws to our knuckles. These were the times of plenty; when my imagination really took off and I met a little boy who altered my perception of people for the rest of my life. He played The Sims, and introduced me to the world of naming your enemies and then killing them in swimming pools very slowly. (One of the expansions for this game is called "Hot Date"; He asked me to be his girlfriend by loading a save where his avatars of him and I were in an endless "woo hoo" session.)
*these were the infamous days of "Sugar Cookies & Coke"*

Darkstone: Evil Reigns: Jan 2001
Where I lived: Tucson, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Because I never beat it. In this era I spent most of my time with a man named Cary who bought me anything under the sun as long as I wasn't mean to him. As a child, I exploited this to a ridiculous proportion and looking back I feel a little bad. He would sit next to me and do paperwork while I played, before I got smart and asked for a new console for my own house. Then he took me to Mexico after school in a convertible, teaching me how to haggle for jewelry. It was the best Tuesday of my life.

Shenmue II: 2003 
Where I lived: Casa Grande, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Shenmue II is the first game my mother ever bought me without asking for it. She went out of her way to pick something out that I would enjoy based on my interests, which was just fucking out of this world for my level of understanding back then. I never managed to beat this one outright; back then you didn't have such easy access to game guides unless you bought them and Shenmue was a pretty understated title. It played like a Chinese version of Grand Theft Auto, except all the roads were written in kanji. The idea of being able to kick the shit out of my enemies gave me a high like no other.

Dead or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball: Jan 2003
Where I lived: Casa Grande, Arizona
Why is this game important?
In the spring/summer of '03 I stayed with my childhood best-friend, Em. We attended the same school together, ignored homework together, played games together. This one was her brother's I think, and it introduced me to a whole new perspective of sexuality. Those beautiful nanas bounced with each push of a button. Where as I had completely ignored my awkward feelings towards women before, it was around this time I started really looking at the girls around me. 8th grade is interesting for a gringa who isn't shy about wanting to pick up chicks-- and by interesting, I mean I learned to fight and appreciate piano music.  

Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind: 2004
Where I lived: Phoenix, Arizona
Why is this game important?
I didn't know it yet, but this titles and it's expansions would be the ever-constant video game in my life. Anything that happened would occur while I was playing, waiting to play, or installing one of these. For this one in particular, it's a story about moving and my exploration in to exploitation. The year I played this game would be the year I learned to lie, charm, guile, and cheat my way to victory in and out of real life. Also I met a songwriter who was a senior at our high school. He really like me. I really liked his girlfriend. It got weird.

Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion: 2006
Where I lived: Key West, Florida
Why is this game important?
I'll be honest with you, the reasons this game is so integral to my life are too long to list. Like I stated above, the Elder Scrolls series has been a cornerstone since I picked it up. I have bought and sold this game a counted total of 36 times since it's release. Had I kept a singular save file it would have 61,355 hours on it, minus the hours I needed for sleep, eating, flirting and changing my shirts. That's a real number, people. Look it up. I can beat this game in less than three hours, accomplishing 100% storyline, all guilds, and 60% of the sidequests. There is nothing to show for my dedication other than the neat trick I  do where I shut my eyes and navigate out of the first dungeon without looking.

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare: 2007
Where I lived: Phoenix, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Among all of my friends I can honestly say this video game changed my life. I don't mean it as in this game is blow-your-mind-or-your-boyfriend good, but it literally altered what the rest of my years would have been like. I was in a car crash that resulted in the loss of most functions; speaking, walking, writing, etc. Over the course of 8 months this game and a headset gave me back the ability to reason, deduce, have reflexes, and process multiple bits of information at once. I couldn't just press the thumb-stick to make a soldier move, I knew where I was going. Maps were memorized. If you were to ask me about any of the maps today I could tell you anything you needed to know. Eventually I could stand up and vent my frustrations properly. Unfortunately, it left me a couple of gifts I didn't need to keep. The ability to win every hand-eye coordination game in the world, and the skill to memorize a cities road layout after riding through it once. Except Boston. Boston is fucked.

Persona 4: Dec 2008
Where I lived:  Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?

At the time Avis and I were living on the graces of a woman who let us sleep in the backroom of her trailer. It was the middle of winter and the woman didn't have anything to give us, so Avis and I cuddled under a towel we found and plugged in the Playstation 2. This is a game I bought before we lost everything and I was determined to hold on to it, but I couldn't give you a reason. We played this and Final Fantasy 10 back-to-back until my brother took us in, where we finished them both in another backroom. It's an excellent game and probably my favorite of all time; not only was it solid, but it kept our minds off the cold and hunger we felt.

Catherine: 2011
Where I lived: Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
First let me key you in; this game is about a guy who is dating a woman named Katherine, while being helplessly pursued by an extremely sexy woman also named Catherine. Throughout the game you deal with puzzles and decide which (K)Catherine you want pursue or stay with. I bought it because I like puzzles. I kept it because I was in the same situation.
Though it didn't help me out and really made me want to just be single for eternity, it does provide perspective on who you are as a general asshole.

Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim: 2011
Where I lived: Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
It didn't really change my life, but a ton of severely important things happened in my life when this game came out. I believe it ushered in a new age for both myself and the video game industry; completely reinventing what we thought were norms. it's the next installment of Elder Scrolls, so at this point I really just duck my head when Bethesda announces things. Fun fact: I saw more drama happen around this game's pause screen than I've seen in 23 years of watching Lifetime, Hallmark, and MTV combined.

Persona 4 Golden: 2012
Where I lived: Mesick, Michigan
Why is this game important? 
PS Vita came out and I bought one before my first semester of college started; I bought it for this title. A remake of the game I played when times were rough, remastered with new missions, new socials, and new bosses. It means more to me than it did originally, now that I realize the coincidence of playing the same title twice while living the same situation twice. Dr. Ashley and I would take turns between Persona and Hot Line Miami before humanities class started, and sometimes during humanities. Those cold winter days during the long trek to campus were made easier in good company with good things to talk about. Anytime it gets cold I think of the good shit that happens when this game is on.


                                                         THE GAME FROM HELL

I HATE this game. This is my #1 most hated game in the history of video games. Everyone should hate this game. Don't even play it to see. Don't give it the time. Tell everyone you know that you hate this game and that the developers should be drugged and made to strip for the money this company theoretically owes you. Monks should grow their hair back in protest against this game. Republicans and Democrats could VOTE UNANIMOUSLY  on the hatred of this game. It's scarred my curiosity towards any title with "metal" or "dungeon" in it for the rest of my life. If I ever see this game I will break it into a thousand shards and use those shards and my blood to summon satan so I can tell him to Godzilla curb stomp the creators of this game. Fuck this game. DON'T EVEN FUCK THIS GAME JUST KNOW THAT YOU HATE IT.

Canal Boys

Saspurilla used to go in his backyard and play with his ugly dogs. The two of them, born retarded from a breeder in Wyoming, liked to bark at the same huge tree that scarred his otherwise perfect grass patching. He grew out of playing with them around the time he realized he would have to touch their poo with his hands. It all became too real, especially the first summer.
The smaller one was named “Yogi”, after Saspurilla’s eight-year-old speech impediment couldn’t pronounce “the younger puppy”. “How do you know he’s younger?” his mother asked over her glass of gin. “Gorilla is bigger. That’s how I know.” So it was: Gorilla and his brother The Younger; “Yogi” for short. For being shorter.

Even decent names, dreams of playing fetch, or watching Old Yeller over and over wouldn’t make the two retarded runts be the dogs he wanted. He wondered if this was what it was like to have a child like Gnarly, his friend from next door with Downs Syndrome. But only briefly, as Yogi hopped away from a small pile he’d created, and Saspurilla snapped a glove on his hand.
An overcast comforter of humid clouds slugged above his head as he winced, gripping the warm pile in his palm. It squished between his fingers. He slid it in a small plastic bag and flung it to the trashcan, missing the opening with a heavy thump, opening up on his sidewalk.
“God damn it!” He put his hands on his hips and turned to walk away. He would leave it there for another, more tolerable day, when he hated the dogs less or felt more inclined to have responsibility.
“Come see what I found.”
Saspurilla pivoted on his heel and stared at Gorilla, hoping that a dog didn’t just say that, or if he had, he would do it again so the two of them could have a redeeming feature.
“What did you say to me, retard?”
“Don’t call me that.” Gnarly wiggled his shoe out of a landscape bush and wiped his face off. His shirt was dotted with crumbs from animal cookies.
“I wasn’t calling you that. I was…”
“Then who are you talking to?”
“Nothing. Nevermind. What did you find?”
Yogi bounced over to Gnarly who gave him a cookie, and knelt to scratch behind his ear. “I have to show you. I can’t tell you. The dogs will hear.” He sighed at them all.
They left the dogs to bark at his tree and made their way across an overgrown field. A few years back, it was a cement canal that drained the water from floods, but after awhile they decided too many kids were drowning and filled it in. If you didn’t watch your step, sometimes you could sink like quicksand. It had become a small right of passage to the kids in the neighborhood, but ultimately less fun to fish in.
“Gnarly, I’m not really in the mood. Can you just tell me what you’re looking for? I bet I’ve seen it already.” As lucid as Gnarly seemed for the most part, he had episodes where he would take Saspurilla on long journeys to the same boulder that separated his house and the fire station. At first it was kind of tolerable, but as he got to know him better he realized Gnarly genuinely believed it was a new, jarring pock on the landscape to investigate each time. Over the years it just appealed as stupid to walk around the block several times before “discovering” it time and time again.
Gnarly was nonplussed, “It’s not a rock; this is definitely something you’ve never seen before.”
“How did you know I thought it was a rock?”
“You always think it’s a rock.”
“…Because it is always a rock.” Saspurilla mumbled, plucking at a fray in his jeans.
They walked at a slow pace abreast the old canal, over a patchy knoll and eventually across a vibrantly green field. Gnarly picked up speed to a full jog, darting towards an off-colored patch of grass, “Here, look!”
Saspurilla shook his head, “At the grass? Are you kidding?” Storm clouds gathered over their heads, threatening like Nature can. If he got it over with and went home, he wouldn’t get wet and being under an actual roof would decrease his chances of being struck by lightning. He sighed to himself, unbelieving, as he drug his feet to where Gnarly was still actively excited.
“Look, look!”
At first glance, he supposed it was kind of odd. Where all the other grass kept a healthy green, this particular patch did not. Moisture from the morning clung to each blade in a perfect square, and you didn’t have to be too close to feel the cold stale air coming off it. The Down’s was right; Saspurilla had never seen this before.
“Is it frozen?”
“Yeah, entirely.”
Gnarly got down on his knees and picked a few clumps, tossing them aside, “It’s been real hot this week. There’s no way it could be frozen. Maybe something’s down there?”
He stopped and stood up, “We need a shovel.”
“Oh, no way. If there’s a dead guy or something, I don’t want to know.”
“Doesn’t Carlo’s family mow this?”
Saspurilla didn’t move his eyes, just shrugged. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was something ridiculous about a patch of grass being frozen during the summer. High School dictated that for the air to be colder underneath the ground while the air above was hot, it had to either be a natural cavern or an air-conditioned man-made one. Either option was creepy enough to warrant going home and never leaving his house again.
“We should ask him, I bet he’d know.”
“If he does, can we just leave it alone?”
“No.”
Both boys stood for a moment. Saspurilla's shirt pressed on his chest, compressing his lungs. He was starting to have a panic attack. He stepped away from the whole shitty situation, flipping out his phone.
“Who're you callin'?”
“Carlo? Gnarly wants you to see something.”
There was a murmur.
“It's not a rock. I'm standing in front of it.”
Another more soft murmur. Saspurilla looked at Gnarly, who had resumed digging around the patch.
“No, really. It's not. I need to bring beer. I mean, a shovel.”
He clapped it shut. He wasn't sure why he would continue with this. He wasn't sure why he would call Carlo instead of the police, or why he was half-interested.


“P, G, 13.”
The boys paused in their respective positions and ignored Carlo, who had arrived with both a shovel and a couple six-packs. Saspurilla hated that nickname letter crap. Carlo thought he was pretty witty when he said it; sometimes he would come to one of the house parties the neighborhood slut threw and walk in saying the same thing. Some drunk, sexless guy would always ask, “What's thirteen?” and Carlo would gloat, setting down two six packs to reach in his pocket for a newly rolled joint. It was never funny. Why say "p"? Why denote "s" to the middle letter?  No one ever laughed.
He set them down next to his feet and lit the joint from the breast pocket of a second hand denim jacket. “Are we drinking here?”
Gnarly dusted his palms and ripped open one of the boxes, “Yeah. Take a look at that.” He pointed to the grass.
If you've ever felt guilty mocking someone with retardation, you should know that there's redemption in letting them mock themselves. In this case, Saspurilla loved when Gnarly started drinking. After a few beers his face looks normal to everyone and not just his mom.
“It's frozen.”
“Saspurilla wants to open it.”
He stopped guzzling a can, “No I don't. I definitely don't.”
There wasn't much of a choice really, Carlo was already pelting the grass with his shovel, working it around the patch. Something clanged.
“Oh fuck.”
“That's it. I'm going home.”
“Hijo de puta... It's just an old maintenance hatch from the canal.” He stepped on the shovel lip and worked it back and forth, with his joint still hanging from his mouth. Slowly, it started to flap up and down as he worked it, occasionally releasing freezing air in their faces.
Gnarly gripped the lip and flung it up. It was a metal hatch stamped, “Maintenance Only”. They all gave a relieving laugh.
“I told you pendejos.”


ppsdonsmokedat: R we lvd 4 dis?
argo-nuclearsoso: don't be a bitch.
MickeyWASclean: ya i'm not sure
ppsdonsmokedat: I dun wan 2 die like dis man
MickeyWASclean: you won't we're 2 good
argo-nuclearsoso: how much did this cost??
ppsdonsmokedat: like 14
argo-nuclearsoso: that's the most retarded number.
MickeyWASclean: for indie? Ya
argo-nuclearsoso: level design is solid as fuck.
Ppsdonsmokedat: load timmmmmmeee

Carlo was the first to jump down. He had found ground, or something like it, and yelled at Gnarly to toss down a flashlight. Saspurilla waited; he didn't like dark places he didn't know: a paramount to his self-induced virginity. The front of his skull felt numb and his palms were mixing seat with beads off his beer. Gnarly hopped down, a flashlight in his hand.
“Come on, Sassy.” the tips of his fingers came just above the hatch like the risen dead. This was all nightmare. Saspurilla thought he was feeling what the kids had felt before jumping in the canal. A nervous, excited, worrisome energy creeping behind his neck started to scream jump, jump, just do it, jump. But that might have been pretentious.
He sat on his but, his feet dangling in the dark pit, and slowly wiggled his way in. Carlo was swinging the flashlight everywhere like a beacon, but it shook as he laughed watching Saspurilla land on his tailbone.
“Fuck! Arrrgggghhh...”
“You aren't any kind of Indiana Jones, that's for sure.” Gnarly said, helping him up.
“Shut your retarded mouth.”
Carlo bellowed over, “Haaa see how he gets? Racist prick.”
Freezing air slapped their faces. They had gone from a humid winter to a freezing fall in a five foot drop. He's not sure how, but the beer had made it and was being passed around again. It had cooled down in the second-long decent.
“Ai dios, it's COLD, QUE FRIO!” Carlos shuddered a bit as he scanned a nearby wall. His light stopped near a small box hung by huge bolts, “I think this is a light. Hold on.” His footsteps were timid but heavy, a little spooked, but Saspurilla seemed to be only one to notice it. A sound similar to a thousand buzzing hornets signaled a blinking florescent light, and the entire room lit up and screamed like an old engine.
Gnarly noticed an exposed bulb, and couldn't stop himself. He drenched his hands in beer, reaching up.
“What the fuck are you doing!” the tow of them lunged at him, but it was too late. His body shook furiously; the smell of crisping skin lacing their air.


ppsdonsmokedat: lol
ppsdonsmokedat: omg
argo-nuclearsoso: are you serious?
MickeyWASclean: wow
ppsdonsmokedat: had 2 no tho
argo-nuclearsoso: don't do this right now.
argo-nuclearsoso: seriously. I swear to fuck I will block you.
ppsdonsmokedat: y u got 2 b a dick, bro
MickeyWASclean: there goes our trophy
ppsdonsmokedat: ??
MickeyWASclean: “full clear” every 1 alive
argo-nuclearsoso: fuck!
ppsdonsmokedat: we do it 1 more time
argo-nuclearsoso: no.
MickeyWASclean: nope.
ppsdonsmokedat: aight fuk u both
ppsdonsmokedat: I dnt no y u 2 mad he xtra crispy now
MickeyWASclean: lol
argo-nuclearsoso: …. god damn it.


Saspurilla broke down in a sob; Gnarly's body falling to the floor. Carlo stood at the corner stoically, unbelieving.
“Oh god, oh fuck. Why...why would he do that?” He crawled over to his best friend, lifting his head and holding it close. “Jesus fuck, why did you do that, stupid? Why.”
He gripped him close, crying in heaves he couldn't control. His stomach poured into his throat, creeping out of his mouth. It dripped down his chin and throat, leaving a warm slide of putrid lunch. He held tighter, hoping the lack of space would bring Gnarly back.
“What...the hell...” Carlo said in a wavering voice. Gnarly's body began to disappear.
Saspurilla didn't want to open his eyes, but he felt it; felt his arms coming closer to his chest until he was pressing himself. Gnarly had been erased. Disappeared. Invisible, entirely. His head wanted to explode. This wasn't normal. Nothing was alright.
“Why...did that happen?” Carlo said again, unsure of himself. The crotch of his pants turned to a puddle of urine, dripping down his thigh an in his boots. The flashlight he was using shook in small intermediate earthquakes.
They were silent in their grief for a small moment, misplaced.
A hand reached out of a previously unseen vent.
“What the fuck! Carlo, what the fuck! What's happening!!”
“I don't know! I don't know, okay?!” They both screamed an intervene. The hand snapped it's fingers. Carlo began to pray.
“I'm done! I'm done with this!” Saspurilla shot up and ran towards the vent, drop-kicking the vent, and landing on his tailbone again. Pain shot up his neck, increasing his headache. His rage went free. In several kicks he smashed the hand to a bone-broken pulp. Blood gushed from a silent arm.
“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck, fuck fuck--” his canvas show dealt blow after blow; so thin that he could feel the bones moving under the rubber sole.
“Stop it, man. Just stop....let's just get out okay? Let's get out of here.” Carlos ran to the hatch and gripped the opening.
Gnarly met him, a silhouette against a setting sun.
“What're you guys doing?”
“AHHHH!” He fell back, terrified.
Choking on tears, Saspurilla looked at the hatch, “What the fuck! Oh Jesus. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I believe. I believe in you. Just let me wake up. Please.”
Gnarly hopped down, his mouth a smile, “What's a matter with you two?”



PART II: ETA 1 WEEK

Bully Magnet

Last night, as I was reflecting on the cruel neglect the Lord has shown Nicki Manaj, we got a text from Ashley* telling us to be ready by 6pm. Good god, I said to myself, it’s already late into five; if we’re doing this, whatever the fuck it is, I have to put my good boots on. That’s one of the moots of this wondrous woodland glen; you are apt to receive any manner of demands via text message without explanation, a heritage of their ancestors no doubt practiced through history. Though I do have small difficulties picturing the facial expression of Grog when he realizes with some dismay that by the time the carrier pigeon arrived, it didn’t allow him enough time to put his good mammoth furs on before company would call. I work on trying to see his frustration in my head as I thunk the back of my heel into my Toby’s, black and reliable.

If I can say one thing for Ashley, it is that he is very sturdy; an imposing mass of a man that slumps and drags his legs, not bothering with the effort needed to lift them, leaving what I believe to be evidence of Bigfoot with each thud of his shoe meeting snow. Children have used his sweet kicks as sleds since his balls dropped at four. You can imagine the embarrassment he felt, having all your friends climb you instead of the jungle gym or having to push the rollercoaster up the track instead of riding in it with the rest of his class.  Having to be Chewy from Star Wars every single year since you could stand.

It doesn’t bother him much outwardly; what he lacks in physical speed and agility he makes up for with his quick tongue and lack of giving many fucks. Which I guess develops pre-t quick when your name is synonymous with comfortable furniture but your physical appearance denotes to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  

~~This is my friend cuddly wumpkins, fluffy ambassador of plushy sunshine candy happiness. He likes bunnies, hugs, the color pink, and microwaving hamsters. (>^o^)> UffuuuuUfuuuuu~~

He showed up a few seconds after I got my other boot on. I snorted. Maybe it wasn’t the loyalty of carrier pigeons after all. He bowed as low as he could to make it through our bedroom door, and fell back with an alarming amount of trust on the edge of our bed. The room groaned.

“So where do you guys…want to go?”

King fluttered around, presumably cementing the supports back into the foundation.

“You um, did you have something in mind?”

“Not really.”

“Want to go to the bar?”

“Nah.”

“Whelp,” I said standing to my feet. “I’m out of ideas.” And I was. Normally that idea is only shot down if the bar explodes or I’m dead. I had drank fifteen beers before he arrived.

King wrapped a scarf around her neck, “Let’s go eat.”

This is a fantastic revelation according to Ashley, who musters the strength to stand up without a word and punch his pocket for keys.

For some reason I started to reflect on my life during the 45minute drive to town. Anytime I get in a car I reflect on my life. It’s my only indication that I’m not dead.

I tried to count my friends, got to three and told myself to stop lying.

Ashley reminds me of Nardo in some way. That is to say, they are nothing alike and aside from gender there is no reason I should have related them in my head at all. But I did, and it got me reminiscing on the things I’ve done to him since the day we met.

----------------------

#1: I Spartan kicked him down a flight of stairs.

“Hey. Give me the mace.”

“What?”

“Mace.”

“Uh, sure here.”

-kick-

“OH SHIKSDJFSKFKJSDGJFGLKJDGDKLSGD!!!”

(=_=) “Mace.”

We bought these really awesome Nerf weapons for bashing purposes, and I had drank my weight in whiskey. The ending of this story is me punching him in the back of the head repeating the word “mace” like the fucking Rainman.

#2: I told Facebook he was gay; nobody doubted it.

The way he found out was several phone calls from family members; half congratulating him, half asking if it was true. I found out that he found out by listening to the softness of his sob through his bedroom door. It was the second most hilarious shed of tears since I realized tapestry isn't the name of a country.

#3: I punched him thirty-seven times in the gut and told him he was a champion.

Technically, I told him that he could be famous if he could take more punches than the founder of PUNCHY, a faction of fisticuffs brawlers that doesn’t exist. I said this periodically though the night in convincing and frequent bursts until he agreed to let me punch him. I told him it would be filmed, reviewed by a board, and if he took enough punches, he would be considered Champion of PUNCHY. I stuck my fist into his gut thirty-seven times until I “missed” and socked him in the rib. It was a mercy snap. He didn’t know what was good for him.

#4: I told him to pursue a woman he didn’t know was an unshakable lesbian.

Nothing gives me more joy that creating social unrest. Since they pulled all the decent trash TV, I’ve been having to get wildly inebriated and talk to myself in the mirror for effect.  

Me: We should hook Nardo up with uh…

Myself: Her.

Me: Thas’ a good idea.

Myself: Thank you.

Me: No thank you.

I sent a text to her explaining that Nardo was new to dating, and it would be super nice if she could help me out by rating his ability to flirt.

“Out of ten.”

Before she came over one day I told Nardo that he had to use all of his charms. To which he nodded solemnly and dried the sweat off his hands. He studied what I told him for hours. Absorbing his life’s worth in droves of secret female knowledge.

For the rest of the night it was an awesome mix of the worst possible pick up lines and random outbursts of the number two.

#5: I slipped him a special cookie; told him he got high off canned peaches.

Hopefully this story will go down in my friendship with Nardo as one of the best things I’ve done for personal hahas. I’m chuckling an evil chuckle as I remember this story next to Ashley and King, who have no idea why I’m laughing.

One of the major things about Nardo is that he’s bottomless. He can eat a ton of food, and sometimes, he can even eat things people shouldn’t eat. To put that in perspective, he once made mashed potatoes in a pot that had grown mold in the bottom. He ate the mashed potatoes without noticing, and puked for a mere hour when the rest of humanity would have been either dead or dying. Nothing phases this guy. And since nothing can touch him, Nardo will often pick at food he sees on cutting boards or stovetops, regardless of whether or not something is questionable. He just doesn’t have that thing that most people do that says, “Negative Ghostrider. Mouth is full.” Or  “Looks dangerous. Let’s not.”  

In this case, I brought a cookie that had tons of marijuana baked into it back from a trip. As soon as I got home, I split the thing in quarters and put an entire half on the cutting board in anticipation for him to come in looking for a snack. After a couple of hours, he raided the cabinets. He must have eaten several things that had expired, but he stopped when he saw the cookie.

“Whose is this?”

“No ones.”

“Oh.”

And he plucked the whole thing up, swallowing it whole. I had been advised when I took the cookie not to eat more than a quarter at a time, so I was beside myself with giddy, waiting for him to notice.

Minutes passed. Nothing.

He clears a bowl of cereal and talks incessantly.

Nothing.

He eats some bread, talking fast and excitedly. 

Nothing.

Just as he’s halfway through a can of peaches, he stops.

“Guys?”

“…What?” try not to look excited.

“I don’t feel right.”

“Well you ate a ton, so…” I’m going to fucking lose it.

“No. I don’t feel right.”

“How?”

“I don’t feel right. Do I look okay? I don’t feel right.”

“You look fine.”

“DO I LOOK OKAY? ARE YOU SURE? IM FUCKING FREAKING OUT.”

“Calm down. What’s the matter?” ohgodohgodohgod.

“IT FEELS LIKE I’M IN MY BED BUT I’M NOT. I’M FREAKING OUT. DUDE. SHOULD WE CALL SOMEONE? WHATS GOING ON?!”

“You’re okay. What’s the matter?”

“I’M…I JUST…I CAN’T FEEL ANYTHING. AM I OKAY?”

“The…did you eat those peaches?”

“WHAT?!”

“DID YOU EAT THOSE FUCKING PEACHES?”

“YEAH WHY?”

“THEY WERE BAD. THE PEACHES WERE BAD. OH GOD.” I’m a monster, oh my god.

“OH GOD.”

“YOU’RE…OH… oh…okay. Calm down. Let me get rid of the peaches. Go lay down.”

“I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS.”

“I’ll help you. IT’LL BE OKAY.”

I helped him to his room, explaining to him how the peaches were bad and how it was making him feel numb. He started talking about time and focus. I had to laughed into a pillow for an hour why he intermittently yelled nonsense to himself for an hour.

The next day, Nardo went through our entire food stock and threw out every single can that had expired.

It was glorious in a we-won’t-survive-a-food-shortage-now-but-that-shit-was-jokes kind of way.

-------------------

Back in the truck, Ashley and King decided on Olive Garden.

We took bets on the tranny sitting next to us, drank a bottle of wine, and tipped the server in precious uncut sapphires. Something cold. Bitter. Betting tables. Blackjack. Cash winnings, $.40 slip. I woke up nested in the depression Ashley had made when he sat on the edge of the bed. They aren’t the same in any way. But according to the hole I woke up in, they aren’t imaginary either. 

The Sims VS Skyrim

One of the most prominent things I hear as a female gamer is that I’m a slut. The second most repeated and agreed upon thing is that The Sims is not for gamers.

A few friends of mine were sitting at the round table and started a discussion on Achievements and Trophies, where the topics went to what games we were recently playing. Some said they were working through Skyrim, and I answered that The Sims was sucking life from my corpse.

The look in their eyes was half disappointment, and half they were fashioning napkins into a noose. I quickly picked up the ball and said that I had already beat Skyrim, and that I would play it again once the expansions came out. Now wait a minute, most of these people play on the PC, so they wouldn’t understand, right?

Not exactly. PC gamers are among the bad-asses of gaming culture. They receive total satisfaction from playing through a game without a childish reward program rubbing their back. But pre-2005 PC gamers were the most rewarded for their time spent fingering a Dorito bag and showing off nude MODS in the back of the school library. They wouldn’t even need to be mentioned because before 2005, there was NO ACHIEVMENT/TROPHY system. There was nothing to compare dick size, except for your character buffs.

In 2006-08, the Xbox 360 busted out of it’s factory line and kicked you right in the teeth. It introduced a loving, smooth, addicting “bloop” sound that would remind you of your futile success. With each “bloop” sound, a gamerpoint cluster would be given to you. They come in 5G, 10G, 15G, 20G, 30G, 40G, 50G, 100G, depending on how cruel of a game it is in difficulty. Each game offered about 1000G to collect, which would be added to your overall gamer score. It systematically created a mold for which your massive danglers would fill.

Once the PlayStation 3 came out, it introduced the “ding” and the PS3 specific “platinum”. Sony kept it simple, you’re sorry ass could only choose from an array of “Bronze” (grieve), “Silver” (oh boy), “Gold”, and once all the other trophies were obtained, “Platinum”. Later on they introduced a level-up system to show other PS3 gamers how awesome you were at wasting your life navigating digital hatred; essentially the equivalent to a gamer score. Not as satisfying.

I digress.

The Sims and it’s expansions on console release are a harder, more in-depth, and longer games to beat than Skyrim, and Oblivion combined. I hear my deathbells ringing doo-dee-doo-dee-doh. I’m going to turn a corner into an angry mob who’ll Fus Ro Dah my ovaries off a cliff. River dancing on my spleen. But you know, I’m not speaking blindly. I have back up. And by back up, I mean people who won’t kill me first and sift through my bloody mush for answers later. And by people, I mean I have Wikipedia. WHICH IS LEGIT.

I’m going to get this out of the way and say that I love the Elder Scrolls Series. The entire get-up. From Arena to Skyrim. Dungeon delving and random killing sprees (the ability to arrow someone in the back of the head never gets old) are my brand of t-bagging. I will always, and forever put the Elder Scrolls Series before anything I’m fucking, eating, sleeping on, or donating to charity. They will be the games I play when I’m so old I’m shitting in a bowl for measurement.

I digress. Again.

One of the more fluid arguments I hear for Skyrim is how amazing the graphics are. There are a couple of logical explanations for this. One is, of course, that a league of hard-working assholes spent hours upon hours tufting the hairs on that bear you just killed with a toothpick. The other is that they are using the same mechanics, textures, and color palettes you see in the Fallout series. They added a few mountains, and drastically used the color palette in large areas to define the rocks, trees, bodies of water, and grasses. So it’s a REALLY pretty game. IF you’ve never played the Fallout series before. Now they fixed all that bland bitchy blah blah from the Capital Wasteland, and gave you MORE things to sit and stare at for awhile. But it doesn’t change that the speech pathways, character expressions, and even some of the sounds come from another popular Bethesda title.

But Bethesda shouldn’t get an earful for it; if you having something that works, either knock it up or slip it into whatever you do. There’s a game title that’s had the same formula for twelve years, and they aren’t stopping.

The only thing I ever hear about The Sims is that it’s a game for children and stay-at-home women. I don’t say “moms” because out there in the great divides there are simply fat women who claim disability for something ridiculous like Fibromyalgia, and they play religiously. Then there are little teens who wank it when they WooHoo with their high school fantasy cheerleader. Girl turn you down? Drown her in a pool, or set her skank ass on FIRE. But how does The Sims measure in terms to a gamer’s game?

What defines a gamer’s game? A compelling story, easy-feed/easily understandable HUD/GUI, replay value, and graphics, and in some cases, lineage. Both The Sims and Skyrim share these values. You can’t find humans with that line-up. If you did, they’re dead.

The Sims and Skyrim share similar elements beyond the above listed; the ability to customize your character is one. In Skyrim you can choose skin color, race, and build all the way down to facial scars, hair color, and iris shade. You can do the same in The Sims. There are highly paid scientists that jut barely hit that point with embryos. What the fuck are we spending taxes on.

In both games you can also set traits, or skills. The difference being that in The Sims, you set things to help life (i.e., fishing, cooking, logic, fitness, writing, gardening) and in Skyrim, you can customize how to deal death like doom-mounted unicorn from hell (marksman, blade, destruction, alteration, lock-picking, wood elf tossing).

If you’ve played either of these games, you’ve realized this shit already. Aside from the other similarities like, custom characters, set traits, random events, sandbox map, families, AI response to choices made by player, moral customization, expansive storyline, altering the world around you, choosing jobs, followers/pets, recurring families, music, made up languages, long history of devoted gamers, presence of ghosts/ancestors, impending threat of death, blah blah blah I can go on. But what integrally makes one game unique to the other? They’re practically twins.

Skyrim takes the mold of dungeon delving and damsel in distress and smashes it like a million dollar painting. Skyrim does not give two fucks how you live, where you shit, and how many people you woohoo with unprotected. The only pet you’ll own in Skyrim will call you “my thane”, or “master” and will do so while stroking your gigantic DRAGON SMASHING yogurt cannon bulging from under your armor. When the nameless angry beasts of the land come to ruin your rather gay frolic through a field, you’re there to answer with your entire arsenal of fuck you. You can serve the Gods, or Deadra, at your will, depending entirely on your mood, and they bend to you. Because you’re not the one stuck to a pedestal on a snow capped mountain with drooling social pariahs swearing featly to you over and over.

If the human-like and/or cat/lizard like figure gets boring, there are diseases to contract that change how people view you, how you hold yourself, and who you fuck with. Vampirism can give you a stealthy edge, but nothing beats tearing through the wilderness as a werewolf. There is never going to be a more efficient way to capture a bunny.

Of course, in the event you didn’t catch the bunny, and you’re depressed about it, there are plenty of in-game narcotics to reach for. If you’re a pussy there is always ale, but nothing caches your priorities more than zooming around the city streets strung out on Skooma. Naked. With your wedding ring fastened securely to your scrotum.

And lastly, you’re character is gifted with the Thu’um; the ability to speak dragontongue that will cast out different spells the louder or longer you shout them. Hold the phone, knock-knock, whose there? DOVAHKIIN. In your face, off a cliff, frozen in ice, stop the clock, abandon hope all ye who enter HERE, teeth-clenching, nut-dropping, instantaneous beard growth. There is nothing not cool about being the best at what you do.

The Sims in retrospect promotes a more comical, long-winded way to accomplish similar feats. But not entirely. In The Sims, you can manage yourself or an entire household, pets, and even the success of your neighbors.  You can get your dream job and work your way up the ladder, all while balancing the general mood of your subject. I say subject because essentially you’re a god. In my case, a very foul and apathetic god who does not bat an eyelash for your squandering in urine. I don’t care how late you are for work, you just shovel shit anyway. Shut the hell up before I create a parallel universe where you come home to find your living room filled with wooden chairs and your dog farting over a candle.

You don’t have to create a more successful version of yourself, as the point of creation in The Sims is limitless and on-going. There are wishes to fill, houses to build, shotgun weddings to attend, and moodlets to manage. It’s not easy, without rhythm. But neither is pimping.

Let’s pretend for a second that a gamer’s value was measured by the gamerpoints/trophies they had acquired, or how many hours they’ve spent on a single game. If you’re being pissy and don’t like that idea, then lets mix it in with the gamer’s understanding and comprehension of the story, how well they can navigate the menus and commands, and their general tactics. I’m not your caterer. I don’t give a fuck. Pick one, let’s roll.

As I previously stated, the Xbox 360 has a requirement of 1000G’s per game minimum. Which means both Skyrim and The Sims have to have at least that much to acquire before the game is considered “platinumed”, or fully beaten. In any other regard, this is a ridiculous method of measuring gameplay, seeing as Skyrim is a natural 100+ hour game as opposed to The Sims free-play hour rate. You can play that shit for an hour, or all week. So each is worth 1000G’s, but which is HARDER to beat?

The Sims.

The most difficult achievements to acquire for Skyrim are 15 Deadra Artifacts worth 30G called “Oblivion Walker” and mastering 20 shouts “Thu’m Master” worth 40G. The deadra artifacts are difficult because not every deadra will approach you, and you will not always stumble across them. Not to mention there are only sixteen artifacts to collect, and that at any time, you can make the wrong decision and ruin your chances of acquiring one. Yes, you can fuck it up. It takes a couple hours to collect three or four of them, but 15 and the odds of messing it up? I’m tossing this shit like disc golf.

Mastering 20 shouts is more difficult if not frustrating to pursue. Each shout has three words, and each word is written on a dragon wall, hidden at the bottom of a dank dungeon, guarded by a something long dead, that is coming at you with the ferocity of a father who just found out you knocked up his fifteen year old princess. Each wall gives you one word, and there are only twenty shouts in the game. There are two methods of getting them: one, ask the Greybeards. They don’t tell you what word you’re getting, and they’re about as helpful as anyone at the DMV. Just a lot of old, bitter, sexless assholes sitting on a hill, enjoying the paling shade casted by the EPIC ELDER DRAGON THAT BROODS YOUR FATE AT THE TIP OF THE MOUNTAIN. Then of course, you could just go exploring. Hours of your life, cast into the void.   

That’s +2 to difficult collecting for Skyrim.

The Sims has multiple, especially with the new release of The Sims 3: Pets. The first achievement that made me want to rip off fingernails with uncooked spaghetti was “Miracle Worker”, which is fulfilling 1000 wishes, for a treasured 30G. Let me explain something to you. Your sim is capable of wanting four wishes at a time. They can range anywhere from watching the cooking channel to making out with the pizza guy you barely know, and everything in between. Normally you can get the little pixelated asshole into a rhythm, where they only wish for contextual things, i.e. if you’re working on your charisma, they want it to go up one. No problem, right? Fuck you. The first three skill levels are practically handed to you in charisma. From then on, you need to make FRIENDS. And then BEST FRIENDS. And this starts a wish tree like “become best friends with what’s-his-name” and “make out with that one lady”. Your sim will need to acquire more friends before they skill will go up, which takes time; time away from taking other skills up, work, general mood managing, and other things you might enjoy more than walking around town greeting old people who hate you from that one joke you told. With four wishes at a time, you have to be choosy on what you grant for them. It takes so many real-time hours to get even 150 wishes. I managed to fulfill about 240 before my week-long attempt came to a grinding halt by my sudden realization that I was sober, and very very alone.

Next up, the “Pyromaniac” achievement, which dictates to you, the slave no matter how many sims you create, have to get an insurance check for $15,000 after using the “fire storm” karma power. First you have to UNLOCK the firestorm power. I’m not even going to get into that. It costs karma to activate, so if you haven’t saved up enough by the time you want to set your house on fire, you’ll just have to wait some more. Once you trigger fire storm, balls of flame fall from the sky and land in random areas of your lot, wherein there is no guarantee any will hit your ENTIRE HOME FILLED WITH FLAMMABLE EXPENSIVE FURNITURE AND ELECTRONICS. Did I mention you have to have the money to buy all that expensive shit you’ll be getting the check for? So you have to make the green, buy the right objects, put them close together and pepper them everywhere, and then active the karma power, hoping a gigantic ball of hellfire strikes your futile targets. Don’t forget no one can be home, because they’ll call the fire department, i.e. no kids, maids, babysitters, and your fire detector will alert them anytime there’s a candle lit. So you had to get rid of that shit. And if you’re like me, you forgot to put it back and your stove caught on fire, which burnt down a majority of your home, earning you almost no money to compensate. Kraft be damned, you never make mac & cheese ever again.

Lastly, the achievement “It’s Good To Be A Sim” worth 50G. This requires you to have a child prodigy, get 10 positive moodlets at the same time, complete 500 wishes, get a spa treatment, have 150,000 Lifetime Happiness points on one sim, and fulfill a non-lifetime wish worth 7,500 lifetime points (which is what wishes give). JESUS CRUTCH AMBLING CHRIST.

To get a child prodigy, you have to set your game options to turn off aging. Then you have to wait like a tool for the kid to realize what it wants to be, which for this achievement is a chess legend, or famous writer. Kids don’t have the same rights as adult sims, so there’s very little they can accomplish. They are the women of the sim world. They can read, and they can write, so you put that little bastard to work until his eyes bleed or CPS takes them. Once they get a fathom of their life goal, you deem it worthy and take off towards child-stardom. All the while wishing they succumb to their success as children and start a horrible downward spiral of addiction and unsolicited vulgarity.

10 positive moodlets? Find a rhythm, use a karma power, try not to hang yourself with an HDMI cord.

500 wishes will put you in your grave. Remember my 240? Never in your sad life.

Spa treatment is a glorified day-trip that you have to spend money on. Grieve.

Getting 150,000 Lifetime Happiness points requires you to become a wish filling machine. Each wish grants you a set number of points, usually in the hundreds, that will be stacked for you to buy perks like not having to pee, etc. This takes awhile, but it’s not impossibru. And then fulfilling a non-lifetime wish worth 7,500. Fuck these people. Seriously, fuck them. Fuck the lot of them. This requires you to reach the tippy top of a skill, or job ladder. Your sim will want to better itself over and over until the 9^th out of 10 total skill blips to fill, where it will then tell you it will grant your pathetic corpse 7,500 LHP if you push them over the edge. As if you haven’t been lifting their weight the entire game.

The decision is obvious. The Sims is more difficult to beat, ergo should be on the radar for hardcore gamers wanting a reason to boast. You don’t want all the gloating saved for the fat ladies, do you? Neither do I.

Although The Sims is a more difficult game to beat, Skyrim still reigns in a higher satisfaction rate. There’s something more alluring about stabbing an elf in the rib cage than watching a tomato plant bloom.