2. Amy
Amy
As a girl gamer, streaming comes with a lot of comments that I don't care to deal with.
A lot of them are sexual and crude.
Plenty of them are pure vitriol because no one believes girls can game, despite the fact that the era of "all girls online are guys in real life" is way over .
There are also the people who like to comment on my hair, my make-up, my clothes, my dog (who's asleep on my bed, turned in for the evening—she's an old lady at heart when she isn't eating my shoes), and my setup, as though offended that it look anything other than a generic RGB setup in a dark room with little action figures on the wall.
You know. The quintessential cave of a nerdy man. Massive eye roll.
Today, I'm not interacting much with the comments. I'm dressed up to be every man's little gaming fantasy, with my boobs pushed up in a little rockabilly dress that's a size too small in the bust. Bright red lipstick swiped over my mouth gives it that sultry little pout that drove Paul wild. My hair's having a good curl day, and it's all over my shoulders in a wild mess that even I admit looks hot as fuck.
Yeah. I'm clapping back against that asshole who cheated on me.
I spent a week sulking about it, and I'm over it now. I know that fucker still watches me stream—it's his fucking fap material. It's what he does.
So, I'll let him see what he's missing.
I don't know how Twiggy McSticks is in bed, but if she has any self-worth at all, she'll do the bare minimum, because that's all she's going to get in return. So I'll let him daydream about all the times I teased him to the edge of explosion. On the phone. On dates. In the movie theater that one time, where I'd gone on my knees in the dark.
I'm going to have to replace that memory with a better one, though. I don't want movie theaters tainted by him forever.
And then, when he's back in my inbox, begging for my forgiveness, I'm going to step on his balls with a pair of my favorite stilettos and really grind them in, so he knows he's missed out on the best bitch he could have ever had.
Yep, I've moved on. Can you tell?
Taking out my aggression in Shadow Ops' competitive Supremacy mode, I don't bother with teamwork. I can hear my teammates swearing at me every so often as I rush an enemy flag without backup.
It's funny—no matter how popular you get as a streamer, most people in games don't recognize you. They don't know if you're good or bad from your gamertag. Sure, your followers know you, and you get into a headspace of thinking that you're recognizable…
In reality, even the most famous streamer is a tiny fish in a giant ocean of players, who don't all watch videos on the games they play. They just play. For fun.
So my teammates curse me. It's fine. They don't know me. I'm a wild card.
It always feels good when you play and find a fan, don't get me wrong. It's a crazy high.
But today? It feels better when you're trying to bust up all that tension inside with incendiary devices on a video game and don't have to worry about the feelings of strangers who don't know you.
It's why we have alt accounts. But today, I'm streaming, looking hot as fuck and making crazy decisions. My comments are an entire mood today as half of them cheer me on and the other half degrade me for being a show-off.
They can all fuck right off.
Then there's the voice chat of my fellow teammates. That's fun, too.
"Is this bitch a girl? Get the fuck off the game if you can't play. Fuck, I don't want to carry your fat ass, AMY. Amy? Amy Dead Yet? Fuck kinda name is that. Like telling everyone you're dog water. At least try to sound hot."
"She's fucking trash. Shit, someone got me. Fucking lag! Lag is a bitch today."
"I'll fuck her in the ass if we lose. Fucking fatass bitches always think they can play but they're all hard carried. Why would you air strike there? Dumbass."
Wasn't even my air strike, you fucking moron.
I don't bother with responding; they aren't worth my time.
My kill count rises rapidly as I sneak around cars and toss a few grenades. Other times, I snipe the unaware as they come around corners, never knowing that I'd seen them coming.
It isn't like every shot I hit goes for a head. Plenty fly wild and free, sliding into an innocent wall or car. There are more body shots than not.
I die a few times. Not a big deal.
It's all about the kill streaks, though. Taking advantage of the radar after a 3 kill streak, I manage 2 more, giving me the option to drop a missile.
So I do.
The entire time, the NPCs speak with their sexy Russian accents. It's all because of this game that I have a thing for men with Russian accents and tac gear. Seriously, it's a problem.
When an enemy finishes me off with a grenade, I respawn with grim determination. He's in a broken down building, up a ramp made of the fallen remains of the second floor's landing.
A few quick shots and he's down, with the gratifying payback! flashing at the bottom of my screen.
That's what you get, bitch.
When the game ends (with a loss), my frustration still simmers. Toward the latter half of the game, when all my teammates realized they couldn't keep calling me a hard carry, they switched to other insults.
"Must be nice to sit around in your mom's basement, fatass. Some of us have to work for a living."
"Fuckin' no-life neckbeard."
"That's not a girl, guys. That's a G.I.R.L. You know, Guy In Real Life? Hahaha."
Would be nice if people would come up with something original. It's all the same. Death threats, rape threats, jabs at your employment status, your looks. The only thing missing today is how many men my mom has fucked, which is apparently a shocking amount for a strict Christian woman who married her high school sweetheart.
Mama would die of shock if she heard what these fuckers said about her. Thankfully, she's not good at internetting.
A new friend request catches my eye; a player from the last match, TrickShot999. Silent during the game, but his K/D was good. It could be argued that we'd carried the rest of them, though we lost anyway.
I click accept on Trickshot999's friend request, wondering if this is going to be another try-hard or someone looking for an e-girl to simp over. A party invite comes through a second later.
A simple message pops up.
Trickshot999: zombies okay?
I can't help the small smile that curls my lips. Zombie mode is my go-to when I'm in a shit mood. Something about mowing down the undead and watching their bodies explode is cathartic. My frustration ebbs, replaced by a flicker of anticipation.
I glance at my chat, lips twitching as the comments flood in.
PixelNinjaUwU: why u accept him but not me? :(
huggabuggakills4u: u never accept my friend requests wtf
SniperSnipesSnipers: simps gonna simp
"Don't get too upset, guys," I say, laughing. "I'm a picky bitch."
More comments roll in, but I ignore them, settling in for a long stretch of gaming. Cracking my knuckles, I accept Trickshot's invite.
"Hey," I say, slipping my headset on. "Ready to shoot up some zombies?"
"Always," comes the response, and I startle slightly at the deep, smooth voice. Definitely not a squeaker. "You any good?"
I snort. "Guess you'll have to wait and see. Fair warning, I'm streaming."
"That's fine."
He doesn't say a word about me being a girl; this is a good sign.
We load into the map and I buy my starting weapons, fingers finding the familiar keys with practiced ease. The countdown begins and I bounce on my toes, eager for the bloodbath to start.
"I got your six," Trickshot says as the first wave of zombies stumbles into view. It's still easy mode, but it's going to get harder.
Honestly, hearing a guy on the internet say something like that is usually cringe. In his voice? It's not.
"Roger that." I line up my shot and pull the trigger, watching with satisfaction as a zombie's head explodes. The pixels of gore make my tummy flutter. Yep, the answer for angry women is always to go shoot some zombies. "Let's do this."