I’m not a gamer. Yeah, I said it. I’m not a gamer. I’m only the not very supportive girlfriend of a gamer. I can find better ways to kill my time than sitting in front of the boob tube watching my boyfriend play mercenaries or kill pretend wizards. Sorry, but he’s not lucky enough to have a woman who will kill pretend wizards with him. And it pains me to smile and go “Great job, babe!” when he gets the most kills in the spin cycle of the hardcore death match washing machine on Call of Duty Black Ops II. If this man wanted to get my gamer fires burning, pull out the Super Nintendo and let me kick his ass a time or two playing Mortal Kombat. My idea of a cozy night in doesn’t include the incessant badmouthed lunatic that sits beside me on the couch amid the background noise of rat-a-tat and “damn campers.” Would you like some cheese with that whine, m’dear, when I decide to hide the X-Box? Don’t get me wrong. I care about my man, and if gaming is what makes him happy, by all means, game away. But how many years can you actually play Call of Duty or Grand Theft Auto before it starts getting old?