Child started playing this game, Tapfish, on my first generation Galaxy Tab.
I’m kind of into it, too. I’m babysitting our two tanks while she visits Grandma this week.
This game is mildly frustrating because the cool stuff costs real money (in the form of fish bucks), but I’m in the middle of an “event” right now where you breed these two special clown fish that the game puts in your tank for free over and over again and you get all these other special clown fish.
There are challenges like raising sea turtles which take two weeks to grow.
And selling multiples of adult fish.
And breeding specific kinds of fish that become available as you ascend the levels.
I’m not really sure what constitutes ascension, it just says once in a while, “congratulations you’re on level X! Have some free coins! Also a fish buck!”
One of the features is that you can visit other people’s tanks. If you help them by cleaning or feeding their fish (or reviving their dead fish), you earn coins and experience points.
Sometimes visiting someone else’s tank feels a little like snooping in their drawer of underpants.
We visited this tank last week.
And all I can think about is some webcam-furry-antisocial-internet-people romance, where Sally Interwebs made this special tank for Henry Interwebs, and paid real money to get the bride and groom divers, and how sweet Lord, the whole thing strikes me as, well, creepy. Yes. Creepy.
And I am an internet dater.
But seriously. Look.
I picture greasy-haired embrace, awkward, saliva-rich kisses. I picture acne scars and sweatsuits. Think People of Walmart.
And that makes me a horrible, horrible snob. I know it. Especially since I have done somewhat extensive internet dating. Especially since I spend more hours than I care to admit staring at screens. Especially since I am really digging Tapfish! But my oh my.
Also last week, on the same day, this little fella flew into our house, landed on my bed.
The last time I saw a Katydid that close was when I was a child.
Child said, “What is it, mommy?!”
“A Katydid, Child.”
“Katydid?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a bug that looks like a leaf so it is safe from being eaten.”
“Oh. What should we do with it?”
“We’re going to capture it and put it outside.”
We did. Katydid lives to die another day.
Child’s totally a city kid. We visited friends who live in the hills who practice burning of trash, and Child asked, “Why are you making fire?”
And I’m left wondering what the Universe wants me to know about my life, sending me the sensation of being a judgmental ass the same day she sends me and Child the gift of nature and the privilege to free it.
Anybody else with incongruous missives from The Universe (or God or gods or the cosmos or whomever you observe)?
April Line Writing 