24/05 Ted #3

Ted's just sort of standing around not doing much, so I promise him a wish, "Learn writing skill", I figure that's kind of important to someone aspiring to be a professional author (but not essential for all of us, amirite!?). I was hoping this would spur him on to take a little initiative, but he didn't do anything. His Energy bar is quite low and it's 2am, but he hasn't taken himself off to bed yet. I figured I'd let him go in his own time. Perhaps he has something he'd rather do right now. He stood in the corner of his room and laughed while thinking about the house. For god's sake, Ted.



5am. Energy bar is critically low. He still doesn't go to bed. By 7am his plumbob is bright red and he's angry about being awake -- yet the thought hasn't occurred to him to go bed. His Hunger bar is low now too, and his Bladder is close to needing immediate emptying. He thinks about a park bench and laughs.

Not wanting him to wet himself, I finally instruct him to use the toilet. Can't believe I have to do that. A little miffed, I send him to bed at 9am, where he dreamt mainly of food, and getting buff. He wakes up at 7pm, starving. Great Ted. You're nocturnal now. That'll be wonderful for the job search.



1am rolls around and it's clear he's not going to the fridge to get dinner himself. He's mad as hell he's that hungry. He's hangry. He keeps pointing to his mouth in exasperation and yelling. I make him go get cereal. I'm wishing there was some sort of electrified cattle-prod to poke him with at this point. Do something for yourself, you lazy bastard. Why do you need to be instructed on everything?



As he's eating, the postie leaves some bills in his letterbox, but she dumps them on the ground in a huff due to the letterbox being full already. Whoops, forgot about bills. I send Ted outside after he's eaten to pay them and get them out of the way. 2 x §83 gone. The bank account at 2:30am stands at §729. Need a job. The usual suspects plus one interesting option - Journalism Career - Paperboy. §38 p/h. Journalism could be a step in the right direction? At least it's writing. Beats cleaning toilets. But with §729 left in the bank, things aren't desperate enough to have to settle for anything other than fiction writing. Yet. Ted's not buoyed by this small ray of hope. His social bar is really low. He can't call anyone to chat, it's 3am. He's lonely.

At 3:30am, his energy bar is just a little over half, so I figure it would be a good time to get some rest to try and reset that nocturnal sleep rhythm. He laughed, almost as if he was relieved. He crept into bed and dreamt of something really strange, this was the picture:



When he was hungry and fell asleep, he dreamt mainly of food. His Social bar is low, what is this dream? Is it a fight between the happy self and the angry self? Green representing the happy plumbob and orange the desolate plumbob? Perhaps it represents someone turning their back on him -- social exile. Either way that's pretty heavy... he's not in a good way.

He woke up at 8.15am, a respectable hour to get up instead of being all nocturnal. Social still critical, Bladder critical, Hygiene critical. Oh Ted. I decide not to instruct him on anything, I worry he's getting too dependent on me. Why doesn't he do things himself?

I refuse to be an enabler right as the countdown begins to the full loss of bladder control. If he doesn't take himself to the toilet in the next 4 minutes, he's going to wet himself right there in the corner of his bedroom. Think of the carpet, Ted. Engage autonomy, Ted! TED GO TO THE TOILET BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!


19/05 Amy #2

At 6am Amy woke to the delightful sounds of birds chirping and car doors closing as people began their commute to work for the day. Being the neat freak she is, she diligently made her bed and shuffled into the kitchen to make some breakfast.

Toast and jam. Awesome.



7:20am rolls around and Amy feels like watching the tewbs a bit. In her jim jams. Because she’s a grown up and can do whatever the hell she likes! Yeah!

What? Bills in the letterbox at 8:20am?! Ugh! Being a grown up isn’t all jim jams and toast and jam.

At 10am Amy turned the TV off and did some tidying up. She recycled yesterdays paper, and laughed at the bin. Crazy bins. What even are they?!

11:45 sees Amy’s fervent return to the window. I’m starting to worry about that. It’s odd. She stares out the window until 2:30pm. That’s a really long time to be staring out a window. What is she looking at? Is she pining for the outside world? Maybe she should go for a walk later. Just for the air and to check out the neighbourhood. Why haven’t any neighbours come to visit?

Even though her hygiene bar is still over half full Amy decides to jump in the shower. She was far from woofy, but I think it was just an excuse to get out of her PJs. She sang in the shower in Simlish. Sounded like she was having a fantastic time. I wish I could understand the lyrics. It sounded a bit like James Brown. She gives good funk.



Refreshed and ready to face the day, she’s plucked up the courage to pay the bills that arrived that morning - a rattling reminder that funds are limited. Better pay the bills then get right onto the job search. Bills come to §84, leaving §656 in the bank account. Should be enough to live off until a job comes along. Staring at the letterbox puts her in a great mood. Of course it does...

Job search today seems equally fruitless:
Music career, a fan. §21 p/h.
Culinary career, Kitchen Scullion. §25 p/h.
Military career, Latrine Cleaner. §40 p/h.

40 Simoleans an hour!? God that’s tempting. But there’ll be no time for writing. In a Military career all spare time would be spent researching and keeping in shape, surely? Not that desperate yet. There’s enough in the bank to wait it out. For now.

Back inside, Amy turns the TV on for a few hours before deciding on some dinner. These bills and job searches and grownup responsibilities are getting too heavy. She decides to have ice cream for dinner. Take that, childhood! Throwing out the empty tub fills the bin inside, so she decides to take the rubbish out to her upright non-molested garbage bin. In true Amy style, staring at the bin makes her happy.



To bed at 11pm, per chance to dream of babies, ghosts, death, gravestones, wedding cake, and dragons. Fuck yeah, dragons.


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