A.C. Ahn's Blog, page 7

LoL – “Well… it’s about fucking time.”

THEY all waited for the Support to come.  Without her, they couldn’t queue a 5v5 premade game.  But, more importantly, the AD Carry would lose his lane without his precious support.  No one else could (or would, for that matter) sub-in for her either, since no one else could stand his rage or the constant babysitting he demanded, and definitely required.  Who knows how many times he would die aimlessly if it wasn’t for her.It was already half-past eight, and as you can guess, the Support was already thirty minutes late.  The team would meet every Friday and Saturday night at 8:00 P.M. and play ranked games into the early morning.  The Jungler and the Mid, being twin brothers, would plan their dinners to end a few moments before eight in order to give them enough time to clear their desks, log in, and join the Skype call.  The oldest, the Jungler, could never stand tardiness, no matter the excuse, but he would never say anything about it to his teammates.  This contradicts his position as the leader and call-maker of the team, but as he saw it, his jurisdiction lay within the fixed boundaries of the map, and any personal issue was not for him to comment on.  However, as with all twins, one was always a bit testier than the other, and as you can also guess, this wasn’t the first time the Support was late.“Oh my fucking god,” the Mid yelled into his mic, “How many fucking times do we have to wait for her?”  The Jungler wanted to chime in and support his brother’s remark, but on second thought, smartly decided against it.“She’ll be here.  Just give her a little more time,” said the Top.“It’s been thirty fucking minutes.  Can’t you call her and tell her to hurry the fuck up already?”“Hold on.  She texted me that she’s almost home.”As brothers, the Jungler and the Mid collaborated well together, especially when it came to ganks.  It wasn’t telepathy.  The two always made a point to forever ignore anyone who would ask them if it was.  Those who asked them if they could read each other’s mind or share physical pain didn’t seem like people they should waste time getting to know.  As a result, the number of friends the twins had was limited to their small gaming circle.  No, they just thought very similarly to one another.  For this reason, the Jungler would often refuse to gank top or bot lane until he pulled off a successful gank at mid first.  This usually led the Mid to carry most of the team’s games.  It also meant the Mid would get carried away and throw just as many trying to taunt the other team.The Top and the Support weren’t siblings – but the two were dating.  They’ve been dating before the team was put together by the AD Carry a year ago.  Unlike the twins, the Top and the Support had no in-game synergy, which forced them to take roles on the opposite sides of the map.  This setup worked well for the most part, until either of them would start to feed profusely, and the other would tease the feeder.  The three other teammates were sure that these instances led to insignificant arguments outside of the game.  The Jungler was worried that some day, one of these childish fights would lead to a breakup.  Of course, he never said anything about it.It was now 8:36, and just when the Mid was going off about how he was going to quit the team, they all heard a soft, “Sorry, I’m–”“Well… it’s about fucking time.”

Beer and Pastries

Whenever my mother goes out shopping, I always expect her to bring back unfinished pastries from her coffee breaks. Along with brand-labeled bags filled with clothes, there would always be pretzels or muffins, cinnamon sticks or scones. And every time, like a stalking vulture with a sweet tooth, I would claim the remaining goods, devouring it all for myself in the solitude of my room. My mother never minded; at first she would inquire about her missing delicacies, but as time went on, it was as if she brought them back specifically for me. Sometimes, fresh bags of pastries were left on the kitchen counter. And it was for this reason that I knew I was her favorite, for if one of my brothers ate the "leftover" pastries, she would scold them for spoiling the supper she was in the midst of cooking. Of course, that was never their intention–to get her riled up and upset–they simply wanted a taste of the same affection that I receive. But that was a perk only the youngest had in a family as large and chaotic as mine.Today, the carcass is from an apple tart with barely a nibble on its circular design. I take the small pastry bag as my mother calls down my brothers to try on the new jackets she bought for them in anticipation for the upcoming winter season. As I pass them on the way upstairs, Benny, my second oldest brother, takes a swipe at my freshly scavenged treasure. I pull it away and give him a sour look as he murmurs, “mama’s boy” from his crooked mouth. It's no surprise that Benny was not blessed with the same good looks as my other brothers and me. In fact, many misjudge his relationship with the family, assuming initially assuming him as a close friend than anything else. His nose is much longer and his eyebrows seem burnt off, which is a foreign trait compared to the rest of the Roe family. While my other brothers and I can easily be considered as handsome, Benny is anything but, and perhaps this is why he sticks so closely to my brothers at school, why he tends to eat with them during lunch whenever he can. Like the ugly girl amongst a group of attractive friends, he is oblivious, or rather, refuses to accept his physical appearance, or lack thereof.

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