I’m not a writer. I only play one on my blog. How’s that? Well, really, who has time to write and play Clash of Clans?
Seriously? Rilla plays Clash of Clans? Yes. Yes, I do. And I don’t even like video games.
It all started a couple of months ago, when my son, Magne*, said, “I wish you’d play Clash of Clans with me, Mom.”
I thought, “Aw. He wants me to play a video game with him.” Yeah, I thought I would be playing with him. Silly me.
So, here I am, sitting between my husband and son on the couch, saying, “I think I can get three stars on eight, but seven is iffy. If you give me hog riders, I can get at least one star on seven.”
“What if I give you a dragon?” Realm asks.
“Hey, give me a dragon! I need it to take down five!” Magne tells him.
We have pow-wows going into a clan war. When we’re neck and neck with the enemy clan, I get serious.
“Mom, it’s okay. It’s just a game,” my son reminds me.
“I know, I know,” I say, but I sneak out of the room to text a friend of mine whose son is in our clan.
“Can you tell Battlegade we need him to attack?”
She has no idea what I’m talking about. She thinks I’m asking if her son can come over to actually play. Who ever heard of that?
On the way home from our vacation, we had two hours to go before our clan war ended.
“Okay, they’ve got two players who each have one battle left,” I say, looking over our opponent clan’s scores. “They could still get more stars and win if we don’t get more players to participate.”
So, I look up a friend through Facebook. I message her, “Can your son, who’s in our clan, can get on and attack number six?” Then I write, ‘See you at church services tomorrow!”
She writes back, “Now or tomorrow?”
I tried to explain myself, but there is no explanation for the social disaster I’ve become.
I have no shame.
I dream of millions in my gold storage. That way I can upgrade my town hall. I’m so close to a dark elixir barracks that I can almost smell it. And it probably stinks.