Log 7.1: Last Wolff Standing

In a modest house in the northernmost neighborhood of Windenburg, Ace Sloan waited while his son Gardener attempted to prepare them both a breakfast of toast and eggs.

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Though the two had been through an immense loss, the last mourning moodlets had long passed and they were, for the most part, just a couple of guys getting on with the task of living.

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Their domestic skills were admittedly a bit withered from disuse. They’d both used busyness as a coping mechanism for a long while now and weren’t home all that much. And when they were, they were tired and grubby.  It was easier to just eat cereal.

But they were starting to feel like they should probably at least work in a hot meal once in a while. Like, on Saturdays, or something.

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Ace, a writer, had poured himself into his work and become quite successful. Or more accurately, he’d poured his time into his work; the heart and soul parts of himself he’d held back, now grown over by a mossy mound of easy puns and gallows humor. But those parts didn’t seem missed by the world at large.

To the smell of burning egg, he turned over the courtesy copy of his latest book in his hands, scoffing that it had actually made the Bestseller list.

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“It’s like crappy analogue clickbait.'” Ace mused aloud.

 

“Are you serious, Dad?” his son chuckled as he plopped down the platter of  food, “It’s hilarious!”

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I guess they don’t look that burnt..

Gardener, a Goofball, found just about anything hilarious, though – the lower-brow the better.

It’s not that Ace didn’t appreciate a good ‘your mom’ joke, it just seemed like whenever he wrote something he felt was really meaningful, it flopped. After a while he just stopped trying. It was certainly easier not to try, but dang, he was getting bored with himself.

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He imagined if Freesia were there she’d say something like, “what did you expect? People are stupid.” And he’d argue that they were just looking for a break from the burdens of seriousness and responsibility. Her dark outlook had always given him something to push against, a conflict which helped him achieve balance in his own head, if not in the world.

He wondered now if she was right after all – not about people being stupid, but that living fully was about conflict; about fighting and resistance. Without that stimulation his life seemed to lack a certain texture, or flavor.

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Or maybe that was just the eggs. He was trying to be polite.

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“Needs more salt, right?”

 

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*wheeze*

 

Gardener, by contrast, wasn’t plagued by such thoughts.

Since the recent celebration of his young adult birthday, Gardener had been happily advancing through the Tech career, taking shortcuts whenever the opportunity arose. Not a lick of shame, which Ace often found perplexing.

I mean, anyone might reasonably expect that a Perfectionist would take more pride in his work. But Gardener seemed to feel that crafting the perfect excuse was a perfectly worthy manifestation of his gifts.

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Calling in fake-sick is Gardener’s #2 favorite thing to do.

 

He was starting to suspect that his primary objective, however, may not prove so easy to fudge through: as the last surviving heir to the Wolff legacy, Gardener must ensure the continuation of the bloodline.

If the string of horrid dates he’d been on in the past week was any indication, that one was gonna take some actual work.

He always seemed to say the wrong thing.

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Whoaa..
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“You have, like.. dude eyebrows! Cool!”

 

Or do the wrong thing.

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In case you wondered: Farting is Gardener’s #1 favorite thing to do.

 

He’s just the wrong dude for the job, seems like.

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This one told us to take a flying leap. Pretty sure she meant that literally.

 

But he’s the only dude we have, so he’ll keep at it, bless his heart.

 

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[ Introducing gen 7 heir: Gardener Wolff. Geek, Goofball, Perfectionist. LTW: Angling Ace. :B ]

 

 

 

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Log 6.2: I suck at everything.

I’ve been putting off writing this because I don’t even know where to start. So I’ll just say it plainly: Generation 6 has come to an early end.

It’s not that I’m hideously behind in writing (though I am). It’s that most everyone is dead.

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Yes – actually, prematurely dead. Keeled over. Kicked the bucket. Taking the great dirtnap.

First I killed off Freesia, our current heir.

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The last living photo I have of her, smelly and flirting with Ace while he tries to work.

It wasn’t intentional, but it was my fault. Carelessness. You see, in all my months and years of playing this dang family, I have never had a legacy sim die from anything but old age.  And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I admit there were times when I anxiously sat whilst some unloved spare swam beyond the point of exhaustion or unskilledly repaired an electrical appliance whilst standing in a puddle.  Even if a sim managed to get shocked, it was only a negative moodlet – not actual death. So it wasn’t pure folly to imagine that my 5-handiness Angry sim would manage to survive repairing a cheap radio whilst standing on a soft fluffy carpet.

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But nope. Zzot.

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Tried to plead. Also nope.

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Ace of course was heartbroken. For a time his only solace was to go to those weird popup downtown events that I never got invited to in my other save.

He found karaoke a temporary but welcome distraction.

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I’m not sure that counts as singing but if it makes you feel better, honey..

The kids would come along.

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Her yell-singing is the funniest thing ever.

They karaokeed, tried new vendor foods, talked to strangers and dumped paint all over the ground. It wasn’t perfect, but they seemed to feel better for a time.

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Sweet Eliza Pancakes always lent a comforting ear.

 

That brings us to how I killed most of the kids.

Ginger, who I hadn’t told yet was to become the next heir and aged up looking very like her grandmother Reagan, but Insane-r, was first.

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She’d rolled the Master Chef LTW, had taken over many of the household cooking duties already and wanted to try cooking one of the new recipes she’d tasted downtown. It seemed like a natural progression. Of course I was going to let her. Did I know something bad could happen? Intellectually, somewhere in the back of my mind, sure. (I take these really long breaks and then have vague memories that I cannot confidently assign to a specific iteration of the Sims – was this thing in sims 3? 2??) But was I thinking of it at the time, or even paying attention to what she was making? Nope.

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Cooking with gusto is the only way to cook!

So, with my inattentive blessing, she cooked up some Poor quality sushi, ate it, and died in her chair.

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At first it looked like a rapid-onset nap..

And then her baby sister Greta, a beautifully dark, oddly thin Evil child who I hadn’t even introduced yet and was looking forward to getting to know, decided to join the club.

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Here she was as I remember her: alive and plotting.

 

Poor Greta. So young, and already witnessing her 2nd death-of-a-loved-one.

But that was not unusual in a legacy house. What was unusual was that she took a break from sobbing to pick up her sister’s fatally toxic plate from the floor and finish it off.

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She died immediately, while Grim was still processing big sis. I didn’t think that could even happen to a Child unless you somehow managed to ignite one (don’t ask).

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For the love of Willwright, let me keep the little one at least!

 

Anyways, Grim was a stingy jerk as usual, and the living room was filled with urns, with only 2 of our 5 sims left to weep and moan.

So passes Generation 6. And most of 7. God I suck.