When the game is over, where do our Avatars go?

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In 2003 Major League Baseball season, Oreo Queefs stood at half a meter, weighed 385 pounds and, impossible, stole 214 bases, wiping out a century-old record of 138 seasons in one season, the walrus with the feet of the cheetah Queefs also regularly threw the ball at 500 meters into the opposite terrain – beef without steroids not seen before or after. In just two seasons with the Florida Marlins, he hit a .680, hit 203 home runs and was knocked out for embankment charges 46 times. Then, before they even reached their super alien prime minister, Queefs disappeared into the air.

A few weeks ago, I received a text from manager Marlins about what happened to the former Golden Glove winner. Queefs fell in hard times. The 43-year-old now lives with his uncle in a rented caravan in Nevada, where the two of them run a failed sausage stand, which is not for sale, called Queefs ’Kiosk Kielbasa Kiosk. He has divorced twice, the manager tells me, he has not seen his 12-year-old son for 12 years and is on parole for trying to rob a bait and equipment store.

In reality, Oreo Queefs only exists on the PlayStation 2 memory card, which is now likely to corrode at the Eastern Landfill in Massachusetts. The manager is my childhood friend Chris, the former owner of EA Sports MVP Baseball 2003. One summer night we devised Queefs, the only way two thirteen-year-olds know how to reproduce: our lubricant is a 2-liter Diet Pepsi glued straight from a bottle, and our uterus is a Create-a-Player game screen. The X and Y buttons dictate the chromosomes of our designer, we chose his height, weight, cheekbone structure, speed, vision and hot zones. We gave our firstborn the scariest name our pubertal brain could think of after Nov. 9 and we watched with pride as he eviscerated the league.

Then, like gamers, we bored our child, abandoned him, and conceived a few more, including the garlic Pepperonis, whose anatomically absurd chicken-winged legs single-handedly led Cal State Fullerton to the first national basketball titleCollege Hoops 2K6) and FB # 44, the nameless Alaska defender who has won four consecutive Heisman trophies (NCAA Football 2007). Then, on dark futon couches in college, I gained more children with other friends, including Uku Pryzvashevki, a 7’1 ”, 140-pound Bulgarian heavyweight champion (Fight Night Round 2), and Y. Anus, all transitional lenses and blue egg sweater vests, who coached the Maine Black Bears for 130 seasons (most of them simulated), and ended his career with a staggering record of 1,654–19 (NCAA Football 2009).

I haven’t played any of these games in ten years, but over the years my friends and I have updated each other about the lives of our created characters. Everyone was overwhelmed with glory. Pepperonis is in jail for embezzlement from the dining room of his alma mater. Anus, now 168, is hiding in Peru and is wanted by the feds for tax evasion and his nine former lovers for hypocrisy.

The media analyzes too much why millennials I can not to grow up since the oldest millennials have grown up legally. However, I cannot refrain from the fact that at the age of 32 – at a time when, for example, Jesus Christ led his friends and then most of humanity to eternal salvation – my friends and I sent messages to each other during the working day. about how the characters from the video games we created when we were teenagers became financially insecure, criminally prone to dead fathers and ask, why?

Writer Sam Anderson recently said that “the world of sports media is basically where American men avoid therapy. “The same mainly applies to sports video games (where there is still a shortage of female athletes), and especially to evoking the survival of fictional sports video game characters. As children, we lived our dreams in return through their record-breaking successes. As adults, we process our real downfalls and failures through their imagined failures and failures.

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