Confessions Of A Flappy Bird Addict


It’s a self-destructive habit inflicting millions of Americans each day. It ruins relationships, inhibits concentration, and I believe it to be a major contributor to unemployment. What is it? Flappy Bird. And it’s negatively impacting my life. So much so that it took me more than an hour to write those first two sentences.

This is my story.

Like many drugs, it began as a harmless recreational activity. My innocence was taken as soon as I lost my Flappy Bird virginity. I was hooked. I left my naivety in the distance and never looked back, for I was on a mission–a mission to get past the first tube thingy. After nearly 10 minutes of this, I threw my already-shattered iPhone onto the floor out of anger and poor sportsmanship and decided right then and there to delete the app and give it up while I was ahead.

The next day, I remembered I’m 99 percent sure I have adult ADD and I got really bored. So, naturally, I pulled Flappy Bird back down from iCloud. I had already had the first sip of that crazy jungle juice and I was thirsty for more. That, and I have the attention span of a guppy. I played for an hour. I had vowed to myself to make it past the first obstacle, then the second, then the fifth. Each time I would accomplish a goal, I would set a new one. I couldn’t get enough of it. My iPhone began to die so I downloaded Flappy Bird onto my iPad. My addiction was manifesting before my eyes but I was too afraid to look up and notice for fear of kamikaze-ing into a defective Super Mario Bros. portal.

I first noticed I had a problem when my relationships with people began to falter. I chose Flappy Bird over face-to-face and over-the-phone interactions. Facebook and Twitter notifications filled me with a rage that burned deep within. My mom and I hadn’t talked in days. A significant other of mine made me question if I wanted to date someone who texts me wile I’m trying to play Flappy Bird. I mean, you’re hindering my dreams. What kind of relationship is that? Any type of notification that came to my phone, caused it to glitch, and subsequently made Flappy Bird die made me want to skip my phone across a slab of concrete. But I still couldn’t stop.

As far as my focus goes, it’s taken me nearly two days to write this column. So, there’s that. I’m also incredibly thankful that I don’t get paid by the hour, but by the month. Because I have done nothing this week to get paid for. Why? I’ll give you one guess. I can’t concentrate worth a damn. I’m a Flappy Bird fiend. My iPad high score and my iPhone high score aren’t the same and I’m constantly trying to beat myself. If I’m not playing it, I want to be playing it. I reward myself with it when I feel like I’ve worked long enough–so typically every 10 to 15 minutes. My work ethic has begun to suffer and I’m starting to notice.

I have a problem.

My friends have unsuccessfully tried to intervene. Typically what happens is they play Flappy Bird and begin their own addictions. It’s an unstoppable rebel force unlike that of Doodle Jump or Candy Crush simply because it cannot be reckoned with.

My name is Lindsay Sayers and I am addicted to Flappy Bird.

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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