Page 1 of Aim Assist

Amy

It isn't often that I spend my time wondering if there's a life to be had outside of pets and video games, but sometimes— sometimes, you understand—I think that maybe I should try it.

You know, get glammed up for something other than a camera. Put on my fuck-me heels. Shimmy my hips into clothes that aren't exactly made for women with a little jiggle in their wiggle.

And then I end up dating a guy who turns out to be a raging asshole and remember why I stick with fictional men in video games.

I might have a slight obsessive crush over men in full tactical gear and a skeleton mask—thank you, viral trends on social media for introducing me to the joy of men cosplaying my favorite characters from Shadow Ops—but I've learned that most of them aren't worth my time or energy. Sexy bodies? Check. Ability to empathize with people outside of their phone screen? Big fat X.

Fucking dickwads. Every single one of them. They only care about how many reactions their next post gets, thinking they're the next viral sensation.

And some of them are, in fact, a sensation… online.

In person? Not so much. Never fall for those online personas. They're all fucking liars.

Even me.

Anyone who knows my online persona, AmYDeadYet, will see me in full make-up, with my pink-and-teal gaming setup and an entire line of retro-style dresses that I wear at any time of year.

It's my schtick. I like it, and so do a lot of others. Granted, there are haters—so many haters. You don't want to know what my inbox looks like.

The haters drive up comment traffic, though. And my fans seem to have a fun time fighting with them, so I leave it alone as long as it's not going too far. There are an entire sub-sect of humans that despise how a girl who likes girly aesthetic might actually play a first-person shooter.

Shocker, we exist.

I'm here to normalize that.

But what they don't know is that, when I'm not on video, I'm wearing some loose, silky pajama pants I bought online and giant t-shirts I've appropriated over time from my exes. My hair might, on a good day, be tossed into a messy bun. And I'm usually covered in fur.

Covered in it.

Did I mention the dog grooming? No? Well, I do that, too. With all my social influencer cash, I invested in a dog grooming company. The business is barking.

Sorry, inside joke. You know—dogs. Barking.

Anyway. The point is, the relationships might be over, but there's no reason to throw away a perfectly good shirt. I'm not about to buy new ones just to make some kind of point.

Even if I'm cutting up the one I was wearing yesterday, before my ex-boyfriend turned into a cheating, tiny-dicked, muscle-bound fuckwit.

Every so often, my temper takes over. So sue me.

Or, you know, don't. I don't have any lawyers on retainer.

"Amy?"

The cautious tone of my best friend is loud in my ear, thanks to the brand-new (and sponsored, hello free stuff!) earbuds. I'm not a huge fan of the latency, despite being marketed as a low-latency gaming earbud, but it's comfortable. Solid four stars out of five.

"What?" My snippy tone is unwarranted, and I know that as well as I know my own name—but damn it, Sam had to go off and get all cozy with her sexy new neighbor, and it made me lonely.

For half a year.

That's a long time in the era of Best Friends Forever. We've been each other's ride or die since 8th grade.

In the end, in my hormone-induced desperation, I hooked up with a guy who'd been sweet, sexy, and checked all the right boxes, straight off my favorite app. He followed me first; I followed him back. His feed is filled with videos of himself dressed as Phantom, complete with the skeleton mask and the bulging muscles. My feed is filled with the glamorous version of me shooting strangers in video games.

We got along like peanut butter and fucking jelly.

And now, three months later, I'm single and cutting his shirt into tiny little strips that I'm going to braid into a tug-of-war toy for my puppy (which was also a Sam got a boyfriend and I got lonely impulsive life choice).

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