Since I’m usually at least six months behind any trend, I only recently developed a minor obsession with Words with Friends.
This obsession quickly turned into warfare.
Now, for me, the title of the game is misleading. I play against my mother, aunt and brother – all of whom I had to beg to accept my game requests. They’re not quite “friends,” but rather people who are forced to put up with me since we share DNA. I take what I can get.
From the get-go, I made one of the biggest mistakes any athlete – or iPhone owner – can make. I got cocky.
I’m a journalist, and I scored a respectable 670 on the verbal section of the SAT. I figured the game would be a breeze.
My opponents crush me by at least 100 points each round. I view Words with Friends like an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet: I feel like crap afterward, but I still keep going back for more.
One fateful day, I commenced a game with a guy I was newly infatuated with. I thought I would be able to impress him with my knowledge of adverbs and my strategy of adding an “s” to every word.
My loss was devastating, and my ego was severely bruised. How could I set him up for a triple word score? What evil force caused me to get a row of vowels? Would he still father my children?
My neurotic nature only worsened as the game continued. I worried what he would think of every word I put down. Would he think I was dumb if I played a three-letter word? What would he think if I spelled “slut?” What was I doing?
Like all good things – or in this case, mediocre things that stress me out – the game ended. He resigned, and I was declared winner.
My dream was finally discovered. Even though the attraction fizzled, victory tasted sweet. Hand me a medal, and put my face on a Wheaties box.