My mum said I was like Misery today
She meant Annie, because the weather was bad and I folded.
My mum said I was like Misery today
She meant Annie, because the weather was bad and I folded.
“It’s all in your head.”
“Yep, just like everything else I experience.”
I’ve recently downloaded Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp for my phone. I downloaded it for soothing reasons, for curiosity reasons and for nostalgic reasons. I used to play the first instalment of Animal Crossing when I was a teen, on my Nintendo DS you see, and I was fond of it then.
If you don’t know what it is, it’s a game where you create a character, and then you’re plopped into a beautiful little world where you build your own campsite with furniture you craft and invite over animal guests to enjoy it.
You befriend various sweet and characterful, but repetitive, creatures and decide who you want to give the honour of hosting.
You do favours for these animals, which include collecting fish, bugs and fruit and in return, they give you more crafting materials and money to buy more furniture. It’s sweet, but when I write it like this, I realise, it’s circular.
You also get the option to create and express through the medium of clothes and hairstyles sported by your character, and through the choice of objects and the layout of these objects in your campsite. You also get to enjoy being engulfed in a soothing cartoony environment with pleasing music and art which turns your phone screen into the form of adorableness.
You know how the Victorians liked to collect and catalogue things, they liked encyclopedias and gathering stuff that actually belonged to other people, and storing knowledge and artefacts from the empire in museums.
That’s kinda what Animal Crossing is like, except there’s a lot of pastel colours and cutesy characters instead of the macabre, dusty, blacks, greys, browns and maroons of the Victorians of the common imagination. (In the first conception of the game on the DS, you actually do collect things for the town museum.)
My little character (she’s called Lavender) could easily be a Dickensian urchin picking countless gentleman’s pockets for silk handkerchiefs instead of the fishing, bug-hunting, fruit picking spritely round-faced favour-doer that she is. That is, she could be if she swapped her mint green hair and perpetual smile for a ragged cap and TB, and if we swapped the animals for Fagin.
It’s funny isn’t it – how a lot of games seem limited in the way their narratives and goals and quests function. In games, I do often find myself becoming a collector figure. It’s almost like it’s hard to portray progress without gathering different objects and earning improved relationships and items.
The quest to collect seems to make games enduring because there always seems to be more to collect, to the point where your character becomes a compulsive hoarder of things that they keep in their vast inventory that somehow is able to be carried anywhere despite containing things that would probably exceed the character’s body weight.
I’m also a fan of the Elder Scrolls and Fallout games, and although on a totally different console/ device and seemingly of a completely different genre, the collecting still exists.
So much of gameplay consists of trading with, buying and selling from and to non playable characters and harvesting from the post-apocalyptic wastelands, archaic dungeons, mountains, forests, caves and beaches of the game maps.
The player takes on the role of the hero in both types of game, but the word hero could be interchanged with “helper”. How often in a game is one approached by a character only to be asked to do them a favour, whether that be to bring them three horse mackerels or apples or to defeat the trolls in Greyskull dungeon or whatever? The answer is – very often.
My little person is driven by caps, or bells, or gold coins, or weapon mods or more stimpaks if you sneak in here or kill this, or more missions or free mercenary work, but it still feels the same.
It just got me thinking about a number of things:
It also made me think about gamification and how that’s often used in workplaces to make “productivity more fun” with league tables in call centres and the like. It’s all interlocking and overlapping and I’m getting tired.
The objectification of living things in this game also struck me – I mean I know it’s what usually happens in our current world but, I couldn’t help but see how it both conforms to and feeds the cultural norm of viewing animals as things which can be bought, sold or traded with little moral consideration.
That was a 3am ramble and more messy and tangential than I would usually produce, but take this away- the figure of the collector in games – why is it so widespread? What is the alternative?
Byeee – may your posts collect lots of likes and you feel the strange buzz of recognition from numbers going up and from being thoroughly productive.
P.S. that was a joke 😉
P.S.S. I didn’t mug that frog for her shirt she gave it me once we reached a friendship of level 7 😎🐸
Unfortunately, you don’t get a reward for reading to the end of this, although if you are here, you deserve one. X
This is one of those posts I just do, and don’t think about too much. I’d just like to share a bit, and this is my sharing vessel. It’s pretty short haha, don’t worry.
So basically, match.com doesn’t allow you to pick more than one gender that you are or that you are interested in.
When you first sign up it says: “I am” and the options are “a man” or “a woman”.
Then, the second part says “looking for” and the options are the same and this is deeply inconvenient and limiting for me and it annoys me because I’ve started paying for it now on impulse and I’m paying for a limiting service.
I think I sort of felt that by paying for it, going through the action of going through my purse, I was being active and serious about finding someone yknow, because I am. I could just really do with someone to be with and get excited about seeing, and to cuddle and go out with, someone who can indulge me with all the sex I haven’t been having for so long haha.
I am annoyed by what I see as Match’s failing because it’s alienating. I’ve been on Okcupid for two years now and I’m getting a bit sick of it to be perfectly honest, I just wanted a fresh site and a bit of a fresh start, but at least Okcupid let me open up my preferences to more than one gender. I could actually select “Everyone interested in women” and that was much better for me.
Now, I’m just looking through a sea of men, and I already feel like maybe I should’ve picked women and it’s just made me make a choice I didn’t want to make about who I want to see based on something that feels inconsequential in terms of my attraction, and it’s frustrating.
It must be off-putting for gender non-conforming people in an even bigger way.
I just wanted to take advantage of the wider dating pool I assume match.com has because of it’s popularity and the number of stories I’ve heard about people meeting through it and I feel like I can’t join in in the way I want. Siiiiiiiiigh.
P.S. I appreciate that match.com gets plenty of business without changing this, I just needed to get it out of my system. And maybe if it was a bit more inclusive, it would get even more.
My news feed is not an echo chamber. Not only do I see things I wouldn’t share (which is fine of course), I see things that I find wildly disrespectful and problematic. I see things which make ire rise inside me, these things are so often bland parroting of oppressive notions that are still cemented in certain people’s minds.
For the most part, I feel that the people sharing these sorts of things are not very discerning, they haven’t really looked into the thing in the depth that I would before making a public post about it. They reactively respond to articles or videos with what they deem as a simple, rational argument but comes across to me as the most banal, un-thought-out conclusion.
I can see a lack of experience and research gilded with the bullshit of angry prejudice and misplaced arrogance. They have this seemingly unwavering belief in the trueness or correctness of their argument. They think they’re being wholly rational and original and I’ve heard their words a hundred times and it’s tiring.
It’s tiring because, sometimes, these words feel like they’re a direct attack on the worth or existence of other human beings and they’re tiring because I often feel a violent urge to respond and defend.
The thing is, a lot of the time, these people don’t think these issues really affect them, or that they don’t really affect anyone, they are framed as a thought exercise or a detached discussion topic.
However, in reality, the issues discussed affect people’s actual lives, and to flippantly post drivel such as this is misguided and irresponsible. If people who recognise that they are affected negatively by systemic problems such as racism, sexism, homophobia and transphobia see people who aren’t affected in the same way posting about “the transgender ‘argument’ ” or “reverse racism” or “straight pride” or the “myth” of the wage gap or poverty being ‘self-inflicted’ because an individual hasn’t “pulled themselves up by their bootstraps” they see that their plight for justice is not supported by the poster.
Not only is it not supported, it is trivialised and it is made more difficult, it is evidence of this being a common opinion in the populous, it is aggressive towards the very real struggle for equity for those who are oppressed.
Justified anger coming from someone who is directly affected by these widespread problems is framed as “irrationality” and as “getting too emotional”, and this leads the poster to dismiss their arguments – this is tone policing.
I posted this because I was angry, because I saw something on Facebook this morning that I knew to be blatantly untrue and the poster spouted it with a self-assured grandiosity that pissed me off. It’s not the first time he’s done it and I haven’t commented, although I did spend time finding a concise and informative video on the topic to which I was going to link in the comment thread.
I had to weigh up whether or not I was going to get involved, I had to make that decision based on whether I have the energy to educate someone on something I don’t think they really care about because they don’t think it affects them directly.
I had to see videos coming from the opposite side, perpetuating the same myths he was sharing, I had to see movements I hold dear called “cancer” by the same content creators.
I had to discuss with a close friend, whether I should reply, just to get it off my chest and feel a sense of support and validation coming from someone I respected.
I had to feel myself getting angry and consider the consequences of the argument, would his friends all rally around and insult me personally, would they send me harsh, threatening messages about my appearance, my sexuality, my gender? Would relationships with mutual friends be complicated?
Was it my duty to respond as a form of activism? Would I feel better or worse once I pressed the enter key? Would it be better to prioritise my own mental health? I don’t know, and as of yet I haven’t acted, but it puts the poster in a category in my brain: can’t be trusted, ignorant of important issues, impulsive with misplaced self-importance and limited restraint, despite vastly empty knowledge of the significance and complexity of the societal structures that contribute to human suffering.
In a dark corner of a 7-11 Samantha drooled on the pink and mint floor. Plump drops of thick liquid fastened her to madness in the eyes of the average onlooker and Angie Curtis was your average onlooker.
Tiff spun her candy cigarette in her fingers, it hit the tiles. She picked it up and returned it to her mouth with greedy swiftness and munched it into chalk.
All the while, the pool around Samantha grew and Angie’s anxiety went swimming in it, her body became more and more rigid and she sank into fear.
Samantha had gone to a place unheard of, with purple walls reaching into blackness, skies so vast it made one quiver on insect-jointed legs.
Confusing lines were drawn over and through things that we hold as opposite ends of a spectrum: day became night between breaths. It was hard to tell if you were outside or in, if you were breathing air or liquid chocolate or shit.
Clammy coldness flickered to feverish heat and the senses entwined in a swirling fluid chaos.
10 minutes of deadness in Samantha’s eyes made Angie frantic and convinced her of a harsh pragmatism encasing a deep and fearful desperation.
She emptied a water bottle over Sam’s head and with a wheezing shock and speed the two of them swept the shelves into their bags and bustled into the stock room at the back, dragging Tiffany with them.
After the adrenalin had worn off Samantha crashed into a pile of their coats and packing cardboard and slept heavily for hours.
Angie pushed all the packing crates against the door, stacking them into towers. She regretted soaking her, but it gave her something to think about as she wrung her clothes back into the empty bottle as best she could and hung them up.
After eating a miserable feast of sweets she would have once enjoyed, she sing-song spoke Tiff to sleep and fell into it herself. Her dreams were grasping hands and heavy footsteps.
People who think of Rick as grandpa are missing out on his sex appeal.
Stop relating with Morty people.
You’re relating with Morty too hard.
I got swept up and my legs dangled useless,
A flailing schoolboy in a wind tunnel careered past like a comet – the brightest kid above school.
The ground was de-carpetted, sods and clods pelted Aunt Lucy and Uncle Abe and the sun smiled on like a gormless div.
Carla became a bag of wet sand and a quiver ran under her face,
She was leaving to a place unwillingly visited.
Her body hardened to a frozen hunk while she flitted over the time barrier, through the pain-wall, to be cast down so cruelly into the fray.
Her new body was the trauma she had once felt, in the past – crystallised into a glass sculpture of herself.
She grasped to be let out behind rustling crepe paper eyelids and the screams escaped, but she couldn’t hear them under thick syrup.
“Flashback” gives the illusion of speed, but the shutter can keep clicking.
Down in the depths where the man floats, you know, the man –
The man that we see. With the suit on. And that thing round his legs.
Well, down in the depths where the man floats,
The crabs sing and the fish nibble at his skin and it comes off in clumps like hair in the shower plug.
It really is a lovely environment to raise a shoal, plenty of plant life, plenty of air, just a shame he couldn’t extract it – could have made a nice life for himself down here in the depths, got a nice wife, couple of friends, some anemones.