[ WP ] After all the years of wondering why others have it so easy , you discover that you can change your life 's difficulty level in the `` options screen '' . Yours was set to `` hard '' .

My girlfriend just broke up with me. She told me she was `` too tired of this shit,'' and that I was `` too complicated.'' I hated her for saying it, but I could n't argue; I knew it was true. I had gotten it from every girlfriend in high school, and now, the girl I thought was the love of my college career, gave it to me, too. I'm immune. 
 
 For as long as I can remember, my life has been simply that: complicated. At five, my parents and I got into a car accident, leaving me as an orphan; at seven I was in my fourteenth foster home; and then when I finally thought it was getting easier at thirteen, my adoptive parents turned out to be nature-worshiping hippies, who ate a diet of foods found solely in their backyard, and believed that loving anyone besides each other was a sin in the eyes of Mother Nature. This left me desperate and hungry- desperate for food and hungry for attention and affection. I eventually got a job, but even that was a pain in the ass. I turned 18 on the day I graduated high school and left for Pittsburgh, renting an apartment for the summer with the money I saved up and starting college in late August. That went okay for a while, until I met this girl, Susan. She thought I was complicated, but truth be told, I've never met a more complicated girl in my life. She wanted everything to be perfect- grades, body, plans, everything. When things did n't go her way she flared her stupid little nostrils and manipulated everyone who crossed her path. I could n't provide her that stable perfection, and she could n't provide me with the affection I so desperately craved. 
 
 Sue and I were done, which left only school for me to focus on. Until today. I had a breakdown in front of my Orgo professor... and the rest of the lecture hall. I knew there was something wrong with me, but it has never been this bad. One thing led to another and eventually I was called in by the dean of Pitt and suspended from school `` until further notice.'' He thought it would be best for me to `` take a break from life for a while.'' So I bought a train ticket and headed back to the town my parents died in. I thought I would go to City Hall and request my birth certificate, as well as my mom's and dad's death ones. The woman at the desk was weary of giving it to me, warning that what I would see is usually confidential information. I disregarded her obviously artificial care and went to the back room to claim the envelopes, then walked out to the laboratory where I planned on continuing my plan. All I had to do was take my birth certificate and put in the envelope with my parents' death certificates, then we could all be buried together tomorrow morning. It seemed convoluted to me at times- the simplistic way that one could just request death- but I supposed it was a good idea for the hopelessly depressed, like myself. 
 
 I opened the envelope and figured I might as well glance at the certificate, which, to my surprise, was more of an electronic iPad looking thing than a piece of card stock. I scrolled around through the settings and applications, realizing quickly that there was a lot more involved in the birth and life of a child than I thought. Finally, I got to the `` Options Screen,'' seeing the choices: Intelligence, Profession, Passion, and Difficulty. All but the latter were grayed out, preventing me from further exploration. I tapped on Difficulty. Mine was set to hard. Nauseas but enlightened, I realized why my parents died and I had been dealt such a shitty deck of cards. They chose a hard life for me. After the initial anger and resentment towards mom and dad, I realized that they only did it for my own good. They did n't want everything to be merely handed to me; they wanted me to work. They never could have predicted their deaths or my distracted adoptive parents or my battle with mental illnesses. I could n't stay mad. If anything, I felt refreshed. I spent so long trying to figure out why everyone around me seemed to have it so much easier, but now it all made sense. My mind raced and the room spun as the woman from the front desk came bursting through the doors, lips pursed, heels clogging, and eyes squinted. She wanted to know what was taking so long, and if I still wanted to put in that request. I told her no, and asked if I could return my parents' envelope but keep mine. She rolled her heavily mascaraed eyes, saying I should have read the manual, that of course that is what I would be doing, that that was the policy. I resealed the envelope and her cold, veiny hands snatched it back. Her snobby chin motioned to the back door and, happily, I exited. For the next two hours ( in the hotel room I rented ) I paced back and forth, eventually deciding that it was probably best to read the manual. Lo and behold, it is possible to change the settings. 
 
 So now I lay here, undecided with a lump in my throat. Everything sucks. There is not even a chance for me to get back into Pitt, as the dean requires suspended students to remain within a 50 mile radius of the school if they wish to return. I broke that requirement, Susan broke up with me. I do n't want to die, but this twisted form of euthanasia is making me sick, as I know it is probably the best option. I know that if I just go through the next few levels of difficulty, I can go back to the beginning and have it easy. Maybe then I'll find a good job, go back to school, and settle down with a woman who actually cares about me. I know if I get to that level, I'll have money and will no longer have to worry about anything even remotely serious. But my parents- they wanted me to work hard. They did n't want me to slack off only to become rich or famous accidentally. They had a dream for me. They chose this like they chose how smart I'd be, and like they chose my brown hair and green eyes. It's a part of who I am, but I do n't know if it's who I want to be.
