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What I've decided is that you don't play FlappyBird. You motivate FlappyBird. You have to touch that screen, or the bastard falls straight out of the fucking sky.

And not just your normal fall. Wherever it hits the ground, it will—without exception—do so face-first. Oddly enough, before the game starts, FlappyBird flies just fine—arguably like a real bird. But it's as if you becoming its handler instantly takes away all its birdly pride, and it is reduced to bouncing through the air—that is, only when you force it to fly.

It doesn't help that FlappyBird's default and only expression is a wide-eyed straight-face so straight that it reeks of the long-suffering stoicism of someone who fucking hates you, wants you to cease everything you do, but will instead remain in passive-aggressive, incredulous silence as it follows the bare minimum of your directions.

Because you, according to FlappyBird, suck.

But this is where you can start seeing eye-to-eye. As you shed painful, desolate tears in your frustration with FlappyBird, you can find the scant solace in that, as much as you hate FlappyBird, it hates you.

It's relatively popular to complain about FlappyBird, but in all honesty, it isn't all that bad. Certainly, the first couple days or so are cruel and unusual. But, over time, it grows on you. FlappyBird gives you company during 15-hour flights, and also a way to pass the eternity that exists inside a Tokyo Met rush hour train. FlappyBird, also forced to travel, becomes your commiseration. Or perhaps just the forbearing target of your revenge, but either way, your sick relationship will get you through the commute.


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