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Reliable Source: Revenge, Sex on the Battlefield 2

Marion Cox | 30 Jan 2010 14:00
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She threw the game in the trash and ran off crying. A little while later, I could hear her talking to someone on the phone, with more than one reference to "that selfish asshole who never grew up." I retrieved Battlefield 2 from the bin, liberated Mr. Flask from his hiding spot, went to Jim's house to play. I ended up living there for six months happily ignoring the phone calls about why I was ignoring my emails, and emails that asked where I was and why I wasn't answering the phone.

Jim was happy just to have someone to talk to after he went into a long depression when his mother refused to fund his Lake Michigan surf shop. He didn't mind me hanging around and even helped me when the divorce papers came by calling her a "B." Jim really was a good friend, but neither of us dealt with the very adult situation in an adult manner. I was a Staff Sergeant Bigbillybupkis, expert at throwing grenades over a wall in Karkand and team killing players who were attempting to pilot my helicopter. Adult things could wait.

We logged about 500 hours in Battlefield 2 before I finally read the divorce papers. The official reason for the divorce was listed as "irreconcilable differences." I agreed. I signed on the dotted line and never thought I'd see that harpy again.

And now, five years later, she was sitting next to me, the only person who wanted to do me a favor and the only person responsible enough to have a valid driver's license.

We drove in silence for two hours. "So," I hesitated, hoping she would fill in the blank.

She didn't.

"How's Molyneux?" I asked. Molyneux was our pug; she kept the little bugger as part of the divorce. I named him after Peter Molyneux because I knew he would eventually disappoint me somehow.

"Dead."

And there it was, even in death, fat little Moly failed to even give me something with which to break a 5-year tension.

"How's your dad?" I said, silently hoping her response would be the same.

She ignored the question entirely and fired back, "You left me to play a game. I came here to get some closure, put this behind me so I can move on with my life." Sort breaths punctuated her words; she seemed to be hyperventilating.

I'd seen it all before. When I disagreed about throwing out my Dreamcast she had pitched a fit and then hyperventilated herself into an ambulance. I had to calm down her before we both went into a ditch, or worse, the hospital, "You're right, I was a jerk."

Her face relaxed and she started breathing normally again. "How could a game be more important to you than your wife? Were you on drugs?"

The answer was assuredly yes, but I did my best Bill Clinton impression, "No. I left because you went crazy over a game." It felt good to say that, so I went on, "You were too busy with your own fantasies that you tried to bury anything that didn't fit into your ideas of what was 'adult.' You wanted me to be someone else. Plus, you told me over and over again that you wanted kids and yet you denied sex for two years. How was that supposed to work?"

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