While it may be sunny in Chapel Hill, it’s even sunnier in Azeroth. Lock your doors and lower the blinds: We’re logging onto World of Warcraft!
I’ll preface with an embarrassing confession. I roll a Death Knight. He’s an orc. But don’t call me a noob — I’m serving DPS to the gods and frost build realness. All doubts of my abilities disappear when I unsheathe my dual-wielded Dreadblades.
What can you do on a sunny day in the “real” world? Kick a soccer ball? Cooooool. In WoW, I can kill the literal king of the undead and the lord of the demon aliens in the same day. You do the math. I don’t have time to outdoor frivolities when the uneasy truce between the Alliance and the Horde could fracture at any minute.
Here’s a little factoid: Aging is 90 percent sun damage! Wrinkles? Nu-uh girl. I’m keeping my ass inside. A computer sun gives me all the benefits of outdoor time without the drama of melanoma. They got vitamin D supplements at Whole Foods and that’s good enough for me (I keep my bottle right next to my Metamucil).
I’m no statistician, but you’re like, 25 times more likely to die the literal second you walk outside your house. In WoW, you can die as much as you want. You have to pay to get your armor repaired, but I’m loaded with cash from selling valuable herbs at the auction house. More money, fewer problems!
If I haven’t convinced you, I don’t know what will. Go run around and get stung by bees; see if I care. Hope you’re not allergic.
Beep beep! Who’s that in the driveway? Whoever he is, he is driving a Gucci-edition Fiat. Does the top go down? The driver doesn’t answer, but you guess not because the convertible top is severely dented on the left side. That’s fine! You climb into the front seat and can already smell the driver’s handsome musk. He smells like motor oil, salami and egg. Maybe he’s been cooking dinner for the two of you. Will he tell you his name? He clears his throat and spits into a courtesy cup from AMC Theaters. Domenico, you’ve decided to call him, is, by comparison, a tall drink of water.
Domenico is actually of average height. You realize this when he gets out of the car. Although it’s been nice not talking and listening to AM radio, you are eager to see what Domenico has planned. From the looks of it, you are at a shopping center with a Subway, a T.J. Maxx and a Jackson Hewitt. Domenico charges in the direction of the Jackson Hewitt, ever the go-getter. You follow him wondering to yourself, why we would go to a Jackson Hewitt when they're only open Monday through Friday? Perhaps Domenico is taking you to a speakeasy of some sort which can only be accessed by those who know the owner and the secret knock. You fantasize about the dim lighting of the place and the charcuterie board you will share.
You are jolted from this serene fantasy the sound of glass shattering and Domenico disrespecting his mother. He speaks! You spy him clutching a bloody fist and wincing just inside the now pulverized front window of the store. You rush over to console him. He turns away, clearly trying to conceal his pain and be strong for you. “Damn it!” he shouts at the far wall of the store. You follow his gaze — you two are so in sync — and realize what is perturbing him so: a placard on the wall reading: “No cash is kept on premises.”