The Game

The Game. It is why I am sitting here, in this mall: all built, bought and paid for, and produced by the game. It is why the middle-aged woman dyed her hair platinum blonde and got a twenty-dollar tan. It is the reason why young lovers use their parents’ debit cards or, heaven forbid, dig into their own paltry funds to impress the opposite sex.

“I bought you that bracelet… Wanna go out?”

It is the sole reason why I ventured into this mall in the first place. I must play the game. I must obtain licence through labour to pay other players of the game for use of their property for shelter and occasional hygiene upkeep, thus somewhat aiding their ability to play the game. One knows that they must play the game along with oneself, thus intertwining the lives involved. They must throw their chips in the pot, inherently conceding to the fact that those chips may be lost. Such is the game. Many short stacks, very few winners.

As the slightly hunchbacked, fifty-something dark haired housekeeper scours the overpriced and overcrowded food court for a table to tidy, or a floor to mop, is she aware of the seemingly insurmountable odds stacked against her? She must. Isn’t one subconsciously read the rules of The Game at some point? Moreover, is one even given an option as to what game can be played? What if one is not much of a gamesman, and instead sees life as a cooperative effort? One would say, given the graduality of The Game — from birth to present day — before coming into full view, that it is more or less sprung upon one’s being. While some humans may have created their own little sub-games in their formative years, these pale in comparison and cower in fear to the real Game once it comes along. For it is the reason why mansions are built and clothes are made and bought in exorbitant quantities.



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