I Hate Myself For Loving You: Farmville

So if you haven’t gleaned it from the fact that I have a damn blog devoted to things I think about with no particular unifying theme, I have an office job. Sometimes I give my “employees” (eighteen year olds with lip piercings and accents) menial tasks; sometimes I participate in clothes swaps with fourteen middle aged women;  sometimes, I play Farmville.

For the uninitiated (I won’t say unaccquainted because this is some cult-level shit,) Farmville is a flash game on facebook (related: FFFFFF) wherein you harvest imaginary soy beans for imaginary coins to spend on imaginary sheep and/or tractors. If you save up enough coins, you can buy a pagoda or a little Italian villa. You can also pay fucking actual money for your farm accoutrements, but I’m not quite at that level yet.

I am, however, at the level of checking on my goddamn digital raspberries hourly in case I forgot when they were suppose to “ripen.” That little guy there, with the mullet? He has been black, female, fu-manchued, and vaguely resemblant of Lady Gaga a la that hella awkward French Vogue shoot when she dressed up like a weeping clown, all in the past three days. I get uncomfortable if I let my land lie fallow. I get weirdly stoked when people fertilize my watermelons.

The thing is, I have a real life. Like today, I discovered the most excellent office-clone-cum-stoner lunch of all time: sage box American Spirits and banana pudding, with real fucking bananas and whipped cream and little swirls of graham cracker dust and oh god it was delicious. Until I remembered that my rice paddies were withering, as we speak, on the internet and suddenly, my banana pudding tasted like shit and everything was awful. Then somneone sent me an elephant topiary, and everything was okay again. Except not on the inside.