In the recent headlines of bad behavior whether it be another tale of a celebrity spouse cheating, politicians shouting out ill intent remarks or the latest admission of drug and alcohol abuse, we tend to minimize it by the all saving and fix it right now entry into some sort of rehab.
Rehab is an important step in not only the lives of the afflicted but to the family members that have endured the wrath of said affliction. That being said, I wonder as we become twitter fanatics, texting titans, I Pad wannabes and Farmville fiends, will there a place where we can go, our head held in shame as we confess our weaknesses?
Hello, my name is Elizabeth and I’m a Farmville addict.
It all started as a simple networking game. A few plots to plow and plant, a cow, perhaps a chicken or two and the generous gift from a neighbor of an apple or plum tree. Soon that was not enough; soon I needed a grove, a beautiful grove of orange, olive and the all-aspiring Glomar trees.
Who could bear to have a pasture full of horses with the stable? The need to receive nails and boards became almost as strong as the first cup of espresso in the morning. Soon there is the compulsive need for red barns, pink cottages and the majestic French Maison accessorized with breadbaskets, Provencal pots and small hills covered in lavender.
I have neighbors that I do not know, much like real life, however I am neighbors with a Sun Conure named Cayenne Sol, a scruffy little dog called Duke and my favorite, a cat with an attitude named Hailey Boo.
I plot for coins, FV cash, and the status of hitting the next level so I can buy other things that I don’t need and quite frankly, no longer have room for. I need to upgrade my farm but I need more neighbors. I become frantic in my search for takers. Am I opening myself up to ridicule by admitting to my Face book friends that I’m in dire need of a few more neighbors even it they’re four legged?
I’m hover a bit in the Farmville closet, ashamed of my choices, embarrassed by my need to prosper in a virtual land of budding plants and pink ewes. I don’t like to publish my accomplishments on my Face book because I wonder what my literary friends would think. Hence, no one gets to hatch any of my mystery eggs, sorry folks. It’s an ugly secret.
I use to get up in the morning and the first thing I would do is check my Weight Watchers website, calculate the same boring breakfast, and record the activity points for the morning. WW fell second to the urgent need to harvest my fields and get the day’s planting done. The little gold letters telling me that I had gifts to receive was an added pleasure much like a box of baker dozen doughnuts with that extra glazed pastry treat.
It’s an addiction; sure, a harmless addiction but I ask you, what’s next? Will there be a farmer’s market on Farmville, perhaps organically grown vegetation or the threat of oncoming tornado or worse, such as leaf eating moths? This is all too much for this city girl.
It all started with a harmless invitation, a piece of land, six plots, and a damn cow. It has turned into so much more, an excuse…to piss away an hour or so a day when I should be doing so much more. I have no food in my house but I have a frickin field of almost fully-grown broccoli!
Please help me. My name is Elizabeth and I’m a Farmville addict or if anyone is interested, I’m still seeking four more neighbors under the name of Vickie Stahl.
My dog refuses to join up; she can be such a snoot.