I type furiously. Motherlode. 50,000 Simoleons instantly. Over and over, I type this cheat until more than 1,000,000 show in the corner of the dashboard on the screen. What’s the point in making them work if I can make them millionaires with one single word? My Sims never worked. It wasn’t fun if they worked.
Another simulation of life. Except, I could control someone else’s rather than my own. I was the creator. The PlumbBob above their head radiating green light. Pulsating with the life I had endowed them.
I manipulated every aspect of their appearance. Their eye color, skin tone, hair, body type, clothing. I spent 90% of my time filling my computer-generated world with young adults and teenagers. No elderly and no children. They all come out the same way. Woman and man. Skinny and muscular. Beautiful and handsome. Society’s standard.
I built their houses. Mansions with pools. Designer furniture. A dream home. Society’s ideal.
Yet with all these riches, my Sims never lived a fulfilling life. I was never really good at the true purpose of the game. Working to make a living, form a family, grow old.
Rather, these extensions of my own flesh just existed to love and hate one another. Buy all the latest fashion. Form love triangles. To woohoo. To be perpetually young and reckless.
Medium: India Ink and Bristol Board (5 ft x 10 ft)
(The wall comic was adapted from the original excerpt featured above, so it does not exactly match.)