Laura Haas
Mr. Brindle
English 12
My
Object of Beauty
I sit on my mother’s queen size bed, basking in the magnificent pleasure I
receive when I play you. Your slim, sleek, white body standing tall as
you rest at your rightful place on the third shelf of the t.v. stand, wired and
wireless controllers lay scattered around you. I pause, taking a minute
to thoroughly examine you, and fully appreciate you. To some, you are
simply a material object to be used and discarded by greedy, money hungry
gaming corporations to obtain maximum profit, but to me, you are
beautiful.
You possess beauty unparallel to
every other console in existence. When I return home from a very
stressful day at school, I plop down on my mother’s queen size bed, and breathe
a sigh of relief as I watch a bright green circle encompass the button located
toward the bottom of the console, signaling that it is turning on. When I
am with you, nothing else matters, time itself seems to stand still, all my
problems withering away and dying like an evil serpent that lost its
head. I am granted blessed relief for a fleeting moment. You make
me forget, like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I
forget about the stress of writing long tedious papers on subjects I do not
care about. I forget about having to
study for pointless tests that cannot possibly prepare me for the future
ahead. I forget about having to please
teachers. I forget about having to wake
up at six thirty every morning.
I forget about everything, because nothing else matters.
You provoke an extremely strong
emotion inside me, so strong it almost physically pulls me back so I can remain
with you. I awake the next morning, the bright yellow sun shines brightly
through the windows, illuminating the whole room. I reluctantly get
dressed and ready for another dull, mind-numbing day at school where I do not
learn much of anything. I step down the old, concrete steps in order to
get into my silver 2001 Grand Am Se, but I pause, feeling a strong desire rush
through me. I long to return to you, to feel the adrenaline pumping
through my veins like water through a floodgate. I long to feel the sweat soaked controller in
the palms of my hands as I race against my fellow street racers in a fake
virtual realm. I ride inside of a fully
customized Camaro that rides low to the ground, and was completely black except
for the dark blood red stripe in the center that ran the length of the
car. At school I feel distracted; when I
should be concentrating on how to use synthetic division to solve a problem, my
mind wanders elsewhere. I think of the
most recent game I have played, and feel anxious to return home and continue
where I left off. When Mrs. McDermott
stands in the front of the small classroom and gives a lecture on how to
properly conjugate Spanish verbs, I stare off at the wall in a trance. I think about the excitement I feel as I
wander aimlessly around a map slaughtering mindless flood with a shotgun, or a
pistol. I think about the rage I feel
when some random flood slashes me with its large claws and I die as a
result. Instead of focusing on the
school lecture, my mind keeps wandering back to you. No matter how hard I try, I will never be
able to fully separate from you. I love
my Xbox 360.
