Calling all Video Games
It's official. I've had it with all forms of passive entertainment. Yep, they're all getting a one-way ticket to the attic, lovingly referred to as the depot for all reject possessions that we no longer can stand the site of, no longer need, or no longer want to be reminded of how we flushed perfectly good money down the toilet. My two youngest have a time limit for video games, computers and other things that turn their fingers into scorching speed demons and their brains into mush. But do they set their timers? Do they shut them off when told to? Do they gleefully pull the plug so they can race outside to play with real human beings. Yeah, right. No, I have to pry their white, sweaty little fingers one by one off the controls, wave my hand in front of their faces to see if they notice me, feel for a pulse to see if they're alive, and scrutinize their eyes for some sign that a soul, however feeble, still resides within. I'm usually met with a blank, lifeless stare, followed by a day that sucks until they collapse into their beds in a healing coma. It sucks because they whine that they can't play their video games anymore. It sucks because they are constantly fighting with their siblings and (gulp) parents. It sucks because they can no longer think of any active entertainment options involving living and breathing things or interesting books or the like. So they follow me around like lost puppies begging for me to act as their social director and think of something stimulating to do. It's hard as hell to follow behind Tony Hawk's Underground or Spiro. Dammit the pressure is just too much.
So I am pleased to announce that I am about to heave every controller and Game Cube and Nintendo and Playstation and Game Boy into a giant Hefty Steel Sack and chunking it in the most remote corner of my attic, then I'm locking the door and swallowing the key. YAY. Free at last, baby. Free at last.