Hello, and welcome back to the Langurds! For real this time – no more filler bullshit. If you don’t believe me, take a moment to breathe in the scent of decaying tofu dogs and evaporating brain cells.
Oh yeah, we’re back alright.
Turns out I remember zero things from last generation, but I do know that there was a terrible, awful, very no good heir poll and y’all panic-voted this box-headed fool into leadership. I think we will regret this soon, but for now it’s full steam ahead!
Commence the celebratory tea! (I hope she showed up on time)
Siesta: Hey Prototype, I’ve been thinking.
Prototype: God help us all.
Siesta: Since I’m in charge and stuff, I’m going to rename you Siri.
Prototype: Pray tell why?
Siesta: Don’t be silly, Siri. You answer my questions, not the other way around!
Prototype: You poor dense soul.
Ah yes, finally—a chapter number to match the Langurds’ maturity level. Just in time for…
Wink wink, nudge nudge. But of course, that’s a very sore topic around here with our Gen. 6 OTP fresh off a divorce and trying to cobble their lives back together. R.I.P. Quilamity, you had a good run were never going to make it anyway.
Both parties take some time to focus on themselves, which tbh is basically what they did while married anyway. Calamity spends hers witnessing important milestones.
Cal: Try not to get arrested, okay?
Trance: Sorry Mom, but my coolness is a serious crime.
And we’re off! Welcome to the first leg of a seven-day spirit journey. I hope you’re ready to feel closer to the Langurds than ever before (hey you in the back, I saw you swallow your vomit just now). Regrets? Absolutely not. Maybe a couple. Or twelve. Who am I kidding, guys? I’m in way over my head.
Our last instalment featured a disastrous bachelor party, a lacklustre wedding, and the birth of a Gen. 7 burrito, but not at all in that order. Don’t get me wrong—Cal and Quinn are totally traditional people who follow all the proper steps toward a conventional marriage.
Case in point—a timeless wedding ritual.
Cal: Is the cake good?
Quinn: WE MUST KNOW IF THE CAKE IS GOOD.
Skydancer: If I say no, does that doom you guys to infertility or something?
If that title doesn’t tell you we’re getting to the good stuff, then let me tell you right now—we’re getting to the good stuff!
Last time, Gumby finally died but Frieda’s Gold Digger LTW still registered as incomplete. Shit was lost; tables were very nearly flipped. Now we take deep breaths and try to figure out the meaning of this.
Frieda: Yes hello, I’d like to request a refund on my life.
I know I said Sim Salad was next on the agenda, but it’s Valentine’s Day, and on Valentine’s Day you should be with the people you love.
Lol jk, only using them to cure my writer’s block.
Now where did we leave off last time? Nothing important, right? No cruel cliffhangers? Excellent, let’s get back to our everyday Langurd stalking.
Since Calamity’s birthday, there’s been some speculation as to how Brave/Insane/Couch Potato would manifest in a sim. Well, let me show you.
Calamity: I like to live dangerously. *dark laugh*
Calamity: I DON’T WANT TO LIVE DANGEROUSLY I WANT TO TAKE A NAP.
The first of many case studies.
Who is Luke, and why is he warm? Why isn’t it Michaelwarm or Garywarm? Why does Luke get all the glory? Why am I writing these words and how do I stop?
Previously, Gumby took a leap of faith stupidity and invested in a crappy resort called the Fool’s Goldmine. Several days into its operations, I decided we’d better check in on the place to ensure that leap doesn’t end in a deadly fall.
Receptionist: Oh boy, here we go again. *sigh* Hi, welcome to the Fool’s Goldmine. Can I interest you in a stale breakfast or a cold shower?
Gumby: Miss, I own this place.
Receptionist: I’m sorry. Can I interest you in a FREE stale breakfast or cold shower?
…is when I’ll learn to update this sodding legacy.
Until then, we’ll all just have to deal with my natural blogging patterns, which—let’s be real—can be mostly summarized as: “When real life sucks, turn to Sims.”
And so, in a state of post-Christmas, cat-hates-me, roommate-got-a-boyfriend and it’s-cold-outside disenchantment, here we are.
It’s good to be back.
Omen: Just wanted to let you fools know I’m getting emancipated. You’re no longer my parents and I’m going into Sith training on Korriban.
Another chapter so soon?! (You ask in distress.) I’m sorry. I should probably leave a courtesy buffer or something but sometimes the words just keep flowing, y’know?
Last time, Gumby fell in love with Frieda Salas, an evil ghost who wants to kill him and steal his money. Lira had tea with her SimBots and lamented the curse of aging. Mandrake broke my game, and Boa tried in vain to die by jelly bean. I know now that that can’t happen, but for the sake of continuity and my pride I’m going to pretend I am none the wiser.
(Pretend not to be wise? How ever shall I do that?)
Gumby’s second date with Frieda was a raging and unreasonable success. I know the shot I gave you last chapter was a little stingy, so here’s a better look at her face.
Frieda: So hypothetically, what colour would you want your ghost to be?
Gumby: I don’t know. Why?
Frieda: Oh, no reason.
For anyone wondering, this is her real, EA-given colouring. All of the Midnight Hollow ghosts seem to look like this underneath, i.e. so white they must have been genetically engineered by Hitler himself.
Hello again! Seems like all I do these days is blog. Just as it should be, since I checked the archives and apparently this generation alone has taken me over a year to write. How? HOW? That’s 1/3 of the time this blog has been alive. What is it about Katana’s children that have made things so difficult?
Don’t answer that.
Thanks again to everyone who read the birthday posts. I know it was a lot to get through, but the party isn’t over! Oh no, keep your dancing feet warm because it’s Christmas in July! This post would have made sense if I’d stuck to the schedule dammit
Teqeq: Do you like what I’ve done with my hair? I hear chicks dig the flow.
And since Snowflake Day is a time for family, we invited all the relatives we could think of. Birth certificates/paternity tests required at the door.
Lt. Surge: Greetings, scum. As the master of this household, I have taken over narration duties for the time being. The coup was easy; Sam is a creature of very little willpower, known to melt in the presence of cats. She lets us sleep in her clean laundry and chew on her headphone cords because she doesn’t have the heart to tell us no. All I had to do was sit up here and make this face, and she immediately bumped my picture to the top of the chapter. Pathetic.