Sometimes I’m such a girl, that I think my ovaries have ovaries.
The game Grand Theft Auto came out around the time that my nephews were toddling. Before they were old enough to wipe their own butts, their winner of a dad (who spent most of their lives in prison) was teaching them how to play the game. This was my first impression of Grand Theft Auto. Nearly 20 years later, and many editions past: I still find the game to be misogynistic, unnecessarily violent, and generally, in bad taste.
Derek (the love of my life and pain in my side) knows this. He knows this, but plays the game whenever he gets the chance. I don’t judge him for this. I just don’t get it. On a whim, the other day, I asked him to let me play. Couples with shared interests right?
Initial thoughts? I was really excited to go shopping and pick out a cute outfit for my felon. One never knows when orange will be the new black for a thug. Accessorizing is key. I loved picking out my new ride. Derek showed me how to carjack, but I insisted on acquiring my stolen ride without force.
New outfit. Check. New 4 door truck with outlaw music blaring. Check. It was time to put the pedal to the metal; only I didn’t. I just got a new vehicle. Do you honestly think I’m going to scratch it up on the first day? Derek’s eyes were glazing over as I pushed on at granny speed and let other vehicles pass me. That’s the polite thing to do!
I finally made it to the “safe house” in the hills of Malibu, and was relieved to find a bottle of wine to sip on. I poured myself one or three glasses and then tried to retire to the outdoor jacuzzi. The game said no. In order to continue, I’d have to continue my mission by shooting at cops, stealing cars from hard-working citizens, and fleeing from high-speed chases.
I was already exhausted from the shopping and the wine, so I handed the controller over to Derek again.