My name is Raven. I design and market visual advocacy tools for an NPO start-up in Chicago, IL.
Yellow is my favorite color.
- Photo Credit: A Hermida @Flickr
The BF and I have gotten sick of playing Resident Evil 5 and have moved on to Army of Two.
Frankly, I prefer the murderous zombies of the fictional Kijuju than the machine gun toting hostiles of Mogadishu.
His problem: I keep getting killed.
And, unfortunately, the BF has to drag me to a safe spot while enduring a barrage of machine gun fire while he attempts to heal me.
As soon as I’m healed, I get shot up again. The BF grits his teeth, yells like a mad man and points to the TV screen telling me where I should be going.
Flustered, I tell him I’m trying to build up aggro so that he can take all the enemies out without much drama. Actually, this isn’t true, I’m only trying to maintain bad ass-ness so that I don’t look so stupid. I don’t want the BF to think girls can’t play games that involve endless shooting and big guns.
After all, I beat Massive Effect.
Yet, I suspect it’s too late to prove anything.
I am not sure what this game is doing for the BF, but I’m well aware of what it is doing for our relationship. Our video gaming strategies have become a synonymous peek into our partnering capabilities. He’s far more capable than I when it comes to embarking on murderous rampages of hapless African mercenaries.
According to him, I don’t follow orders, won’t listen and definitely would not survive in the military (even if I did have a big gun).
My problem: Letting the BF choose what to buy at the Game Stop
