How Postgrad Life Is Like The Sims


As a postgrad, I can’t help but have days where I feel like a Sim. I don’t know if I’m hungry, thirsty, or just need some basic human interaction to elevate my mood and turn my diamond green again. Playing The Sims wasn’t fun without the rosebud code giving you unlimited money, and real life isn’t very fun with limited funds, either. After all, without funds, a lowly postgrad can’t afford to put hot tubs in every room of his or her house in an effort to lure the opposite sex over for a night of woohoo in their vibrating motel heart bed.


While there’s not someone on the other side of a computer screen pulling your puppet strings, other people still control your life, you little Sim, you. Whether it’s your parent’s constant telephone interventions, or your boss’s relentless emails, you’re not entirely in charge quite yet.

Although we don’t speak Simlish or urinate on ourselves like our Sims did (I mean, you never know after a night of heavy drinking), there are still some serious Similarities.

Like The Sims, your apartment sometimes becomes a hovel. You wish you were Matilda and could clean up with your mind (or could afford a maid), but unfortunately, there’s not a real life version of Servo, the robotic housekeeper.


When you were little, you probably wondered how those creatures could live in such a disgusting state, but now you know. It’s hard to find the motivation to clean up after a rough day at the office, and suddenly dishes are piled so high that if an outsider saw your filthy nest they’d accuse you of hoarding, which really brings your mood bar down. Hopefully you don’t have any cat carcasses in your apartment, but you can’t be sure. If you’re not careful, flies could start circling the puddles of urine in your kitchen.


Why were burglars always attacking The Sims? I maintain that it was the Goth family, because Bella seemed like a real creep (although she went mysteriously missing in later versions of the game, or so I hear). While their neighborhood seemed safe enough, in postgrad life, you have to make a choice. You can choose suburbia, a place that’s boring but free of burglars, or move to an exciting city where your run the risk of being burgled at any moment. Sadly, you might be at risk of a run-in with someone far more frightening than the ambiguously-gay Frenchman cat burglar of The Sims.


In postgrad life, people sometimes have babies unexpectedly. It happens. The first time your Sims had a particularly hardcore make out session that made a baby you probably felt surprised, confused, and a little dirty— just like your pals at a shotgun wedding.


In the real world, making friends is hard. When you were playing the game as a teenybopper, it seemed borderline pathetic how bad these Sims were at basic human interactions. I don’t know about you, but if I met a guy in my neighborhood and he started performing magic tricks, I would be freaked out, and it definitely wouldn’t be a precursor to woohoo. Now, you finally understand why your Sims hated everyone. Adults are the worst. At least in The Sims you could create someone who looked like your nemesis and make their life miserable. Yes, it was vaguely psychotic, but so was most of middle school.


The Sims were pyromaniacs at best, and mentally deficient at worst. Now, you get it. How many times have you left your hair straightener plugged in, or your stove turned on? Unfortunately, your apartment going up in flames is a real possibility these days.


Sometimes I wish someone could take care of me like I was a Sim (I think they’re called parents). How great would it be if I knew exactly what I needed at any given moment—whether it was a microwavable meal, human interaction, or for the quality of my room to change immediately. Unfortunately, until rosebud and Servo the robot maid become real, it looks like I’m in control of my own mood bar for the time being.

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Margaret Abrams

Nothing Margaret writes should be taken seriously by anyone, including her parents, employers, or gentleman callers. She's currently coping with a quarterlife crisis.

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