Just Press A!

Yesterday, I started a blog entry about how lazy I was. Then I deleted it, because I didn’t feel like finishing it (que ironico!) and because it was really dull. Then I started one about how I couldn’t believe that Robbo and I are still getting along, having moved in together after dating only three months. But that was stupid.

And then last night, shit hit the fan.

It started innocently enough—we were playing Mario Kart on Nintendo 64, a game that I am only good at because I have it practically memorized, like all Mario games. In fact, this is the only way I can ever be good at video games. Then Robbo suggested we play Madden 2001. I balked, because I knew it would be trouble. He ignored me.
His fault.

“So, here’s what you want to do,” he says. (This is the last thing I remember understanding.) “Press A then a combination of a4534opdfgjuriogjfklgjfgifjgig and pick your play then press A to snap then A again to ofjutyirgk590659tj5y9j5.”
What?

Having 1) come of age in a video game era and 2) that pesky testosterone, I can’t blame him for thinking that his quick explanation of Madden would work. I did what (almost) all girls do, and started randomly pressing buttons at rapid speeds. “NO! Pressing B changes your player! You’re just changing the player! YOU CAN’T KEEP CHANGING THE PLAYER!”
What?

Oh good. Now I’m on offense. I randomly pick a play. I don’t know if it’s rushing, passing, PUNTING, I just don’t know. It doesn’t work, of course, and I throw my controller on the floor. “This game is fucking stupid.”

Robbo pauses the game. “Why don’t you take a deep breath and gather yourself?”
I unpause it. “Why don’t you shut the hell up?”
And tensions run high on Jane Street.

My competitive nature takes over and I decide that shit, I know about football. I know the difference between a nickel and dime, a 3-4 and a 4-3. I grew up in WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA, motherfuckers, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s goddamn football. I’ll school my smug boyfriend at this fucking stupid game. (This is where I start seeing red.) The plays pop up. “Okay,” I start. “Now, how do I know if it’s a running play or a passing play?”
However, my play clock is winding down.
“Just press A,” Robbo says.
“But wait, what will that do? Cause I want to—”
”The time! Just PRESS A!”
“No, but I want to—”
“JUST PRESS A!”

This was where I quit. Because I’m a quitter.

And because Madden is fucking stupid.