Half Life

I think I got bored of the writerly solitude because my friend came to see me last night and while he was reading I started playing Second Life. That is about as sociable as I ever get.

I’ve heard about Second Life but never bothered until I read, a while ago, that Snowbooks bought Mothernight there. That sounded interesting. So I logged on, my computer juddering under the pressure of having to download the software. (I must have been bored, because getting it to run also involved updating almost every driver I have – but I digress).

I spent a happy half hour trying to make the avatar look just like me. She’s got my freckles and glasses and silly hair, but she’s much prettier – if you like big-eyed dummy-looking girl-graphics, that is.

I teleported into a bar so I could chat to people but they were all six feet tall with big boobies, or square-jawed top-man models with Tony and Guy hair. They were all dancing and I don’t think you can do dancing unless someone wants to dance with you. Second Life was very quickly shaping up to be distressingly similar to First Life. I conquered my shyness, trotted about and said hello to everyone then practiced flying for a bit and looked at things then said hello to everyone again.

‘Why isn’t anyone talking to me?’ That was me, whining a bit.
‘They can see you’re desperate. You’ve ran up to every single person in the room.’ That was him, sucking at a bottle of wine and reading Kurt Vonnegut.

‘I’m being nice! I’ve got red shoes…’

‘You’re too short. And why are you torturing yourself in that bar when there’s a whole world out there! Wait.. check it out, Yoda’s over there. Go and dance with Yoda.’

The sight of Jenn Proto sitting by herself at the bar, looking around through too-big glasses (must fix that) and watching the beautiful people dance made me feel a bit sad. But I was tipsy, and I am an emotional drunk. Off I went. She runs like she’s got stones in her shoes, skinny arms flapping out behind her like kite-strings. I felt tender for her, kept wanting to tell her to play it cool, to look aloof and interesting.
By the time I’d trotted over to Yoda he was dancing with a nine-foot purple haired goth with yellow eyes and sparkly boots. You can’t blame him, can you?

I just put it on this morning to see how Jenn was doing. She was still standing by herself in the bar waiting for me to figure out a way to teleport her to a library, but little person crawled up onto my knee and said, ‘is that you? Pretty girl! Mummy on the pootie!’ which was very nice.
Clearly, my only friends are the ones I breed myself.

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