Computer games are the spawn of the devil of procrastination.
I don’t play them very often as I’m not terribly good at them and they consume vast amounts of time. Time that could be allocated to doing other things, such as writing. If I do get hooked into them I’m the kind of person who tends to play non-stop for lengthy periods.
I’m sure my husband, who possesses a Zen-like affinity for computer and console games and exudes a Ninja calm-but-deadly intensity when he games, is amused by my antics when I’m playing them.
My body contorts into whatever movement my virtual character is attempting to make, and I yell, yelp, curse, and sometimes jump out of my seat in shock. (If you’re easily offended by off-colour language skip the next bit, and well, you should probably not read this blog a lot of the time.)
This is what you’d have heard if you were eavesdropping Chez McHugh last night:
“Shit!” frantic mouse-clicking
“Die, motherfucker, die! He he he.”
“Bastard! Where did you come from?”
“Yippee! I found a secret place.”
“Nooooooo!” mourns the mangled corpse of her character. again
“I’m stuck, goddamit.”
“Don’t mouth off to me, you mangy citizen, or to hell with being good and I’ll cut your head off.”
There is something cathartic about running around killing anything that gets in your way, as long as it doesn’t clash with your mission objective.
In computer games, I mean. Not real life. Honestly. I can tell the difference… I swear.