My loans are approved!

I'm going to England! I'm going...broke. Oh, dear.





This shit had better be worth it.

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Farming for (Hearts of) Gold

An article in the NYTimes about Chinese gold farming really grabbed me today, and it put a lot of things into perspective.



For those of you that don’t know—you’re probably out reading good books or having a life—gold farming is an industry in which Chinese kids are paid about thirty cents an hour to play massive multi-player online games like World of Warcraft (WoW) and collect the gold coins that exist inside the game, so that desperate WoW players can use their credit cards to pay to have those coins transferred to their characters’ accounts. People pay real money to get fake money, so that they can do better at a game for which they’re paying a fee to play anyway—I think I’m going to put “buying WoW gold” in the Urban Dictionary under the heading throwing good money after bad. How do I know about this shit? I had a boyfriend that not only bought gold for his WoW character, but also paid some overseas service to have them “power-level” his character to the highest rank for him. I’m glad that the NYTimes had an article about this, because whenever I tell my friends about it, they think I’m making it all up!

As fucking ridiculous as this may sound, WoW has had a huge impact on my life. I never thought it would—I didn’t really grow up around computers, and the game I’d enjoyed the most was Tetris—but a year ago, I was living with my then-boyfriend, and he was basically raised by computers. I remember I had been upset with him because we weren’t doing anything special together anymore, so I had spent a week planning a dinner date at an Italian restaurant. The whole week the Ex said he wanted to go, but at the eleventh hour, he changed his mind, like he always does. I was very disappointed and got upset, and told him he had to go. He was so angry and sullen that I finally gave up when we were halfway there and told the cabbie to take us home. We argued some more in our apartment, and he said that he wanted to break up. He said that we didn’t have enough in common. He liked staying and playing computer games, and I liked trying new things in Chicago. Eventually, he said that he would go to a French restaurant downtown, if I agreed to start playing WoW with him once in a while. I was so panicked about having the relationship fall apart that I quickly agreed.

So that’s how I got started in computer games—one could say that I was a pussy that let herself be bullied into something she wouldn’t have wanted to do, others might say that I was being a good girlfriend and keeping an open mind about doing stuff with her boyfriend. Still other, more cynical people would say that that’s two ways of saying the same thing. My point is, I wouldn’t have known what World of Warcraft even was if it weren’t for my Ex.

Once I registered, though, I was hooked. I started playing all the time, even though I have no hand-eye coordination, and my character died a lot. I had to concentrate so much on not dying that I completely missed social cues, and probably alienated a lot of other online players. My eyes started to hurt from staring at the screen so much, and my laptop was always on the verge of overheating. I threw away many hours of my life on that game.

Now, those of you that know me in person know that I’m pretty open—I’ll share lots of things about myself without embarrassment. My blogging is also becoming more shameless (see last entry). Even so, I’m horrified to admit that I was addicted to, of all things, a FUCKING COMPUTER GAME. Two years ago I would have said that anyone over the age of 14 that played computer games frequently was a complete loser. Twelve months later, I would be playing WoW eight hours a day and not doing much else.

My boyfriend had it much worse. He was good at the game, so much so that tons of people were constantly recruiting him to play with them, and I think the social component and the recognition really kept him going back. When I woke up in the morning, he would already be playing, and when I went to sleep, he’d still be going. One time he played for twenty-one hours straight without stopping to eat, sleep, shit, or shower. He was not going to class and not turning in work, and he was supposed to be working like a dog for one of the most rigorous doctoral programs in the world. If they realized he wasn’t doing anything, they could have cut him loose from the program and we would have had to move out of grad student housing.

You’d think a stern lecture or two would have straightened the kid out, but it was more complicated than that. For one thing, I was playing the game a lot too, to avoid having to deal with our problems. Plus, I understood why he chose to abandon his studies—earlier in the year he’d suffered serious health problems, and missed a lot of classes because he was in the hospital. The department was not sympathetic, and they failed him. He felt defeated and got depressed. It was all very understandable, but he was still throwing his life away. Panicking, I would cry when I saw him in front of the computer—and then I would log onto WoW.

Fortunately, both he and I stopped playing the game, and since I was a graduating fourth-year going part-time, I managed to get A’s in both classes that quarter. The Ex narrowly avoided getting thrown out of his program, and had to do an insane amount of work that summer to make up for the year’s worth of courses. Throughout the summer we continued to bicker about this and that. Around Halloween, we were having a quiet phase, which I thought was a good sign, but it turned out that he wanted to break up with me, and I had to find a new place to live. The year we were together was so fraught with difficulty that looking back, it was like the Hindenburg in slow motion: a twelve-month-long crash-and-burn.

My experience with this addictive game made me realize that in many ways I am a weak individual. When the going gets tough, I can become a coward and retreat into a fantasy world. Also, from being convinced the play the game in the first place, I know that I can let my fears of losing someone take over my better judgment. The game also highlighted that the Ex and I, in fact, do not have anything in common: a very social person in real life, I preferred playing WoW on my own. The Ex, on the other hand, shunned his real friends to play Wow with people he met in the game. I gathered things and played the imaginary markets well enough to earn lots of gold within the game, but I didn’t level up very quickly because I couldn’t fight very well; he could kill anything, but he didn’t have the patience to do anything else, so he spent hundreds of real dollars on WoW gold and power-leveling. The money thing was not surprising—I knew that he had and his family enjoyed spending money pretty freely, and they tended to brag about how much their belongings cost, while my family likes to brag about saving money off the retail price. The Ex had agreed to pay for my WoW account to convince me to play, and it would be just like him to pay for two accounts and then start buying fake money and pay other people to play for him. (At a time when I was seriously considering having a future with him, I worried that I would end up either over-working or having stifled career ambitions because of his wastefulness.) We both played the game obsessively to try to ignore our differences, but the game just put our problems in bold font.

Since I moved out, we reunited the following February, and then after another quiet, good stretch in our relationship, I went to attend a graduate course out-of-town. This time, he panicked, thinking about the time I would be going to England, and said he wanted to get engaged; I said I didn’t want to get married yet, so he broke up with me. We have cultural difference, personality conflicts, ambitions that don’t mesh well, and we don’t’ share any hobbies—it’s obvious that World of Warcraft is only one of many elements that marked our relationship as doomed. Still, I keep thinking back to that night when he said, “Play WoW with me or it’s over.” A part of me wishes that I had just walked out the door.

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Generalizations and Strap-Ons

Recently, someone told me that generalizations were intellectually indefensible. Feeling defensive, I made a crack about how he was making a generalization, and inwardly decided to disregard what he had said. After all, generalizations are necessary as expedients. If a dude comes at me with a knife or a gun, I'm going to remember the generalization, "Dudes that come at you with weapons want to rob and/or rape and/or kill you," and run like hell. Sometimes you just have to assume things about people.

But not always.

Out of nowhere, a guy I knew said, "You know, sometimes I fantasize about being a girl."

Interesting. I took the bait. "You do?"

"Yeah. And I've aways been turned on by the idea of a girl doing me with a strap-on. I met this girl online, and she's into it, and it is wild."

Now I have to admit, I was curious about this. Not because I wanted to do it, but because I was curious as to how a man who identifies as straight could justify his desire to be penetrated. He has to be gay, I thought. Maybe this is his first step toward coming out of the closet. In any event, I wanted to know more, and I really wanted to talk to someone about my penetration issues, so I suggested that we get a drink that night. Swapping sex/love stories with a gay friend over beer--sounded like a good plan.

Everything started well, except that my boy issues, which seemed so monumental to me at the time, were discussed, resolved, and dismissed before the first round was over. I was a little disappointed--aren't I a little more complicated than that? Don't I have more pathos? With nothing else to talk about, I started interrogating my friend about his sexual proclivities. Apparently you can be into girls and still take it up the ass, whodathunk? At about this time I realized I was a long way from Ohio.

We kept drinking (this being Chicago, I also had a kraut dog), and soon I was past being concerned about my immediate problems and instead started describing, in detail, my preferences in a romantic encounter. I shouted over the din of the bar to my new Gay Best Friend about stuff he had absolutely no business knowing (and for a gay dude, he seemed awfully interested on a personal level). After one of my more outrageous declarations, he nodded wisely. "Well you know, a guy and a girl can only do that comfortably if they have the right height ratio. How tall are you?"

"Five-five or five-six."

"Then the guy needs to be six feet tall."

"Good!" I thought of the two men I knew that were six feet tall, and a third that I figured was probably five-ten (close enough).

After a few rounds, I was jubilant about my prospects with regards to the three guys that have captured my imagination, so much so that I wasn't taking much notice of what my faygele friend was saying.

That is, until we got kicked out at closing time. We walked back to my place so he could look up the bus schedule and hopefully snag the last 6 home. Tipsy, I giddily showed him my new cowboy boots and pictures of two of my boys (he only approved of one). As he headed out the door, I gave him a hug and said, "Thanks for listening to me!" With a small smile he said, " You're cute."

"What?"

"Nevermind. I should leave."

The door closed, and I was nonplussed. Oh, well. I started surfing the web, hoping to sober up before I dozed off, to avoid the restless drunk sleep. Thirty minutes later my phone rings. "Hello?"

"Amanda?"

"Yeah?"

"The 6 won't come until 4 am. I don't think I can wait till then. And I can't afford a $40 cab to the Far North Side."

"Oy. Ok, ok. I'll let you in."

On the elevator up to my apartment, I gave him the third degree:

"What did you say to me before you left?"

"I dunno, I'm sorry."

"Good!"

"It's just that you're tempting."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm actually a terrible person to be with. I hit boys when I'm mad. Really."

"That doesn't change the fact that you're tempting. Hey, you know I'm six feel tall."

"So?"

"So remember what we talked about? That's the perfect height."

"Dude we are not doing that. Or anything else."

"But.."

"What about strap-on girl? Have you thought about her?"

"Yes, yes, I know. Look, just becuase I'm tempted doesn't mean I"m going to give in. Gimme a little credit."

"Fine."

"OK then."

"And do you remember what I said about hitting boys?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"So we can't just spoon?"

"NO!"

In the apartment, I pulled out a sleeping bag and threw a pillow at his face. "If you need another blanket or some water or something, I'll get it for you. Now stay on the floor or I'll kick your ass."

We both went to sleep, and I tried to ignore the fact that I had a sexually ambiguous--hell, sexually omnivorous--drunk, horny dude on the floor right next to my bed.

Rest assured, dear reader, nothing happened that night, but I now feel a little chastened by my friend's statement about generalizations. To wit: not all dudes that take it up the ass are gay dudes that are safe to drink with. Also, sometimes my life really is complicated.

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I jumped in the lake.

facing north:

facing east:

facing south:


It was cold!

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Ha.

The gentleman I spent time with in Vanderbilt just sent me this picture:


He also sent me text messages describing the waves and mentioning places "where we could..."

Life just isn't fair sometimes.

I really want to see him again, but he'll probably find a beach bunny (or two) on his trip through California, and that's probably for the best. When it comes to "love 'em and leave 'em," I really need to work on that second part.

Would additional conquests in Chicago be the solution? I don't know. Certainly recycling old Chicago conquests would not help.

I really need to get back into school.

UPDATE: I just got off the phone with The Ex. He passed his dissertation topic exam. Good for him! Suddenly I don't feel so "free" anymore. I dunno...someone told me to embrace solitude. I hope that that's what I'm doing. On Thursday I'm going to jump into the lake.

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