Dear Bioware....

Dear Bioware,


I think we need to break up.


I like you enough and all, but it's clear to me that you don't care enough about me as a woman and in general, as a person, to commit to greatness.


We had a good run of it in Dragon Age:Origins. I fell in love with your lovingly crafter characters and unique worlds. I loved the racist and bitchy elves and thier plight with the Werewolves, the slow moving world the dwarves inhabited. I enjoyed the mages turning into scary, grotesque creatures and I learnt to never, EVER touch the small glass vial. I adored you for the way you made Dragon Age:Origins a whole life and a whole world for you to live it in.


But most of all, I loved you for the people. The people who you talked with and annoyed, who you kissed and insulted and laughed with. I loved Alister and his geeky adoreableness, even if it was ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE at some points to bone him. I loved Shale's fear of birds. I loved Zevran. Morrigan was a huge bitch and Lil was an entertaining little flower. They were almost real people, and I remember when Alister and I finally got it on I nearly danced with joy. When he dumped me cause I was an elf I cursed like a sailor, and may have teared up a little.


And then I played the expansion and thought 'They aren't going to make the next game like this, are they?'. I clicked objects to interact with people and that was the only real way to learn about my new companions, companions that I eventaully didn't care about anymore because I knew almost nothing about them. They were no longer the interesting, loveable characters that I knew.


Then The Boyfriend started looking up details about DA2 and began to freak me out. Qunari have horns? Sten was just a genitic fluke? Then why did -EVERY OTHER- Qunari look like him? I took some deep breaths and tried to rationalize retconning an entire race.


Then I discovered that the dialoge system was turning into the MASS EFFECT VERSION.

This? This is -BAD-.

This is GOOD!

WHYYYY?!?! *Cries*

I was so upset, Bioware. I can understand wanting to appeal to a wider demographic, but you already got me playing DA, you didn't have to do this!

DA2 was such a huge letdown, Bioware. I spent 90% of the game in one place, which wasn't changed in any way. Not even a little re-dressing, just the same place with new fights. The charcters were interesting and fun but you barely got a chance to figure that out, because I could only talk to them when it was quest-related. The backstory I did discover made me want to know more, but I had no chances to just chat with them for no reason. Yes, the fighting was nice and much smoother but I don't play for the fighting! I play for how wonderful your people are and how much I love your wonderful places.

I am so sorry bioware, but the lack of naked man chest combined with a dry story and hateful character interaction made this game almost unplayable. :(

So we're done. Unless I see proof that DA3 is going to be better.

Sadly not yours any longer,

Tamara.

Tamily Fies.

Sometimes I sit and wonder what my life would be like if I didn't have the family I did.

If I was born to two people who valued self esteem, or two people who shared the responsabilty equally. Or if I had a sister instead of a brother. Usually, when I think of these things, I decide that while my current situation isn't ideal in any way, that I do like the parents I have. Sure, and the moment I'd like a paino to fall on my mother, but once I move out I think our relationship will be a lot better. Because if she starts yelling at me over the phone I can just hang up.

And my dad...I love my dad. He's a quiet guy usually and sometimes he acts like my mom, but when he is I usually do excatly as he asks. Why? Because dad never gets disperportinally angry about things. When dad yells or makes a rude comment he is actually and truely upset about something. So I do it. It seems like any occasion is a good occasion for mom to yell, so I rarely take her screaming seriously anymore and therefore, see no reason to do as she asks.

The one person who I truely think I would miss if I had a different family would be my brother. He's 16 which makes him a bit of a shithead, but he's smart about politics and when I come home late and he's the only one up we can talk till two in the morning about his friends, Canada's lack of young politicans, communism and why it could work and all sorts of differnet and varying topics. He's got some sort of learning disability that makes reading and writing a chore for him, but he'd do it if it's something that interested him. I fell like teachers should tailor things more for him, but then I don't know what kind of 'special' treatment my brother gets. I'd rather not know, honestly.

I love my little brother even if I give him a hard time somethines. I guess it's what big sisters do. I've straightened his hair before (It's a curly mess), made him walk up to the corner store to buy me candy and even kicked him in the face once when I was thirteen because he called me stupid. On the other hand, my parents remain unaware of him smoking dope, when I've known for a lonnng time. I've bought him booze with the strict stipulation that he doesn't tell mom and never, ever drives after. I've gotten rid of his annoying friend for him and even told people he was out with mom when he was in the basement playing COD.

And he's a good brother. He told The boyfriend that while he may be eight years his junior he would still kick ass if anything douchey was done. My parents are blissfully unaware that The Boyfriend and I enjoy carnal pleasures, while my brother has known for almost a year. (Poor kid, walking in...*Shudder*). He even covers for us sometimes. He's a good kid.

Maybe me and him could get a mother transplant?

Sometimes, things just don't work out.

I'm not going to school anymore. I don't want to go into details, because it makes me depressed and I feel horrible enough about it as it is, but what are you gonna do, huh?

The Boyfriend and I are still togeather and going strong. Almost two years now, pretty damn exciting. I'm really glad that I have him through all of these hard times I'm going through.

My mother has become particularly unbareable lately. If you're wondering why I've got so many spelling mistakes it's because she took my laptop. She said she would give it back to me once I cleaned my room, so I cleaned it. It's vaccumed and dusted and the laundry is done. But when I asked if I could have it back she said she'd 'think about it'. Which means I'm probably not getting it back until I pay my dad back for it. Really sucks too, because if I'm seen using dad's laptop (As I am at the moment), I'll get yelled at and lectured. No one's home at the moment so I'm safe.

Mom yells at me for no other reason then she can, it seems. For almost two years I've been coming home in between eleven at night and three in the morning from The Boyfriend's house, and no one has said anything about it. Last week my mother stayed up past two so she could 'catch' me. I would've tried harder to evade her had I known there was anthing to 'catch' me at.

Mom: Did you just get in?!
Me: Uh...Yeah?
Mom: Do you know what time it is?!
Me: Like, almost two?
Mom: So what, this is a regular thing for you?!?!
Me: .... Um...
Mom: You better get your act in gear young lady! And I don't want you -EVER- coming home at two in the morning again!!!
Me: ...I've been doing this for awhile...I don't understand why it's suddenly an issue..
Mom: BECAUSE BEFORE I WAS SLEEPING WHEN YOU CAME IN BECAUSE I HAD WORK IN THE MORNING.
Me: ....

I didn't talk to her for awhile and it seemed to die off. Lat night I came home at one and she didn't say anything. In fact, I haven't changed a damn thing but she's either asleep when I get home or she's forgotten about it. I'm guessing she forgot. She does that.

Then I asked to sit down and talk to her. I said I was sorry for the way I talk to her sometimes but that they way she treats me isn't in any way nice. She said she knew. I told her that I'd like it if she talked nicer to me and treated me with some respect. She said nothing. I told her that her usual meathod of yelling at me and insulting me ('Selfish bitch' Has become my new nickname.) rarely makes me want to do things for her, and she told me I was rude and embaressing.

Understand that. I asked her nicely to treat me a bit better, and she said I was rude and insulting. I broke down in tears to tell her that I hated myself enough, it would be nice to not hear every word out of her mouth be some sort of jab at my personal hygine or my lack of friends or whatever, and she said she knew but didn't at any point say she was sorry or promise to try and do better. So I've reverted to my old meathod of dealing with her. I'm going to avoid her as much as possible and hope she dies in some quick but fatal car accident.

I know what you're thinking. 'That's HORRIBLE. She has BREAST CANCER.' But it's true. I've met lots of people who think their parents are the best people ever, and that's fine. I don't. I remember the nice things my mother has done when I'm not around her. When I am around her, I remember the time she stuck a fork in my brother's hand because he tried to take a peice of her cake. He was seven. Or the time she screamed at me for four hours striaght on my sixteenth birthday because I 'lost' a pair of two-hundred dollar gold hoop earrings I had just gotten, when they were on her nightstand the entire time. Or the time she said I was shaped like a barrel. I have a list of things I could rattle off that would make you see my mother they way I do. But I don't see a point. Think of me as the horrible ungreatful daughter if you'd like, but just think of it this way. The positive things I tell The Boyfriend when I'm trying to defend my mother's actions to him have gotten so repetitive that he'll look at me and finish the story. That's how few of them there are.

Sad, isn't it?

I almost -died- you guys.

I learnt at an early age that bicycles and cars rarely mix well.

When I was young, about twelve or so, one of my favorite things to do was tear about my scenic neighborhood on my bike. It was a bright pink that offended the eyes it was so vibrant, with multi-colored (And by multi-colored I mean various shades of pink) streamers coming from the handlebars and a dark red basket. I didn’t care that most people were blinded by the sheer amount of pink on my bike because it was mine, and my love for it knew no bounds.

At the end of my street where I often terrorized people with the aforementioned pink bike was a hill that sloped upwards at an angle I have only seen since then in math problems.

It was a monster hill, where buzzards circled it’s peak and getting to the top was a breathless hike. Even teenagers walked their bikes up this hill, and that was enough to make any twelve-year-old wary.

The day of my incident was a sunny and perfect day with a clear blue sky. The sun warmed the roads and my brother and I spent a time playing with some softened tar before an idea struck me. This was the day I would tackle the monster hill on my rudely pink bicycle. I swung one leg over the pale pink seat and announced my intentions to my smaller and therefore wimpier brother.

“I’m going to ride up the hill!” I said, my jaw squared and my nose in the air.

“I don’t want you to die!” Evan cried, latching his sticky hands to my leg before I shook him off and headed towards my new goal. My little heart fluttered in anticipation of the respect I would earn from the other kids on my street. I began to slowly pedal towards the highest point in my tiny life, and the victory to come.

I caught sight of a car with dents in the side and a horrible green-blue paintjob. Two people were sitting in the car and one person was easing into the drivers seat. He was young, and it looked like his parents may have been taking him on his first ride. I was unconcerned by these things, grimly focused on the task ahead of me. I pedaled faster so I could slide behind the car before it pulled into the street, not wanting to stop and ruin my momentum.

I reached the halfway point before tragedy struck and my front tire slid into the largest crack my naive mind had ever witnessed. I screamed as the bike jerked to the left and toppled over, trapping me underneath the steel deathtrap that had moments ago been my beloved bike. I screamed louder as the car began to back towards me.

I couldn’t believe I was about to be squished by an aqua-colored clunker.

I desperately tried to wiggle free but paused when the car lurched to a stop. The driver seemed to launch himself from behind the wheel and towards me. His face was bloodless and his eyes seemed too big for his face. I began to cry.

He helped me up, stuttering apologies and continually asking if I was alright. When it was established that none of my bones were broken and my limbs were in fact not squished I began the slow process of walking back home, sniffling the entire time.

My brother teased me for days and the next time I went up that hill, I walked my bike to the top.