There is something wearing away at the very fiber of relationships. It has nothing to do with infidelity or irresponsibility. It's not domestic violence, a dead cell phone battery or even crack cocaine. It's an evil little box not limited to but including PlayStation.
These days it seems that men don't need to get married. They have already found their life partners. Sadly, she is inanimate.
It's hard to tell where women gave up on video games. I imagine we stopped playing after "Contra" when we no longer had 30 lives at our disposal. Nintendo Power couldn't help us anymore.
Back when you were playing "Bill Walsh's College Football," we didn't care. You all still had cooties and picked your noses. We had My Little Pony, and you couldn't compete with her or Barbie's Corvette for that matter. It's been over a decade since we touched our ponies, but the dudes are still going strong.
There's nothing worse than a girl pretending she's into watching you play some graphically challenged "NHL 94." I can assure you that I am the only female on the planet who likes it, and you're walking a fine line with me, dancing along the edge of ineptitude.
While you're wailing at the telly like a bunch of savages, we're imagining you cruising your "Mario Kart" straight into the "Vice City" hood where you will then be accosted by Tommy Vercetti, but, incidentally, you are not Mario, or Luigi.
You've never once raised your hand in class. However, you became an all-star debater while addressing the presence of the celebration in "NCAA Football 2004" because it results in a 15-yard penalty.
Your geology lab must wait because you are five games into a "Madden" tournament, and your wide-out has 1,000 yards.
You describe the Tuesday release of your pre-ordered game as a "life changing experience".
You realize it's 4 a.m., and you started playing at noon. Yet you have the audacity to wonder why we think you are from Mars?
We try to understand, really, we do.
How could we not appreciate the intrinsic value of "Madden 04"? Playmaker control revolutionized the game. A swift right thumbstick, and there goes my receiver on the fly, even after the snap! There are tinted facemasks and the players' real tattoos. This is no longer "John Elway Football" when all the teams were blue and orange.
While you're rocking a reverse on "NBA Live," we apathetically gaze at the wall thinking about our new waterproof mascara.
For the sake of the relationship, we watch you drink eight pitchers and play five hours of "Golden Tee" at the local pub. We even give you quarters. Not only are we not impressed with your high score, but you have also begun to frighten us. We wonder if you were hugged as a child.
You do deserve a shout-out after tolerating our uncoordinated bowling and our new Britney Spears compact disc. You come to Victoria's Secret. You explain the intricacies of the almighty dipstick. Where does the oil go again?
It's not that we want you to give up playing. Trust me, have your time with the boys. Stay in touch with your manhood if it keeps you from metrosexuality. Wear brown shoes and a black belt. Get your haircut at places whose names contain adjectives such as 'great,' 'super' and 'best.' But for the love of God, go outside sometimes.
We'll extend an olive branch. You put the controller down for a bit, and we'll stop reciting the grams of carbohydrates in beer long enough to eat 30-cent wings with you.
Oh, I'm going to throw a flag on "Haven't I seen you at the Computing Commons?" as a pick-up line. We will run away from you quicker than if we spotted a Valtrex bottle in your medicine cabinet. Look for that penalty in "NCAA 2005."
We don't want to control you. We're just looking for a certain level of equity. We get bored. We become delirious. The juiced-up frat boy with back acne begins to look good. Capice?
Kim Taylor is a journalism senior. Reach her at kimberly.a.taylor@asu.edu.
