Speed Scrabble in Pandemic

Back in 2007, when I was 25, friendless and raw with heartbreak, I started playing online Scrabble. Specifically, speed Scrabble, in which each player has four minutes total to play all of their tiles. The speed and intensity meant that each game was wholly consuming, a total of eight minutes during which there was nary a second to dwell on the emptiness of my apartment, the way my phone never rang, the ex-boyfriend who otherwise occupied my thoughts.

Ever the poor sport, I chose “iwinyay” as my online moniker—I Win, Yay. Each time I was victorious, rather than the “gg ty” for “good game, thank you” that most people typed into the chat window, I wrote, “I win, yay!” Nowadays, I am appalled by my shittiness, but back then, the gloating kept me afloat. If, near the end of the game, I was losing, as time ticked down and mere seconds remained with each player making frenzied, desperate moves, I took advantage of my opponents’ distraction and the unlikelihood of their challenging me by making nonsensical words that racked up huge amounts of points: xiqrd on a triple word square. It wasn’t technically cheating, but by all metrics, it was shitty.

“I win, yay!” I’d type and close out the window before they had a chance to respond, to call out my shittiness.

And then I would start a new game. This went on for hours each night, this all-consuming preoccupation.

During the pandemic, my friend Jen and I have virtual coffee dates a few times per week. Sometimes she substitutes wine for coffee.

“God, I just need a drink,” she’ll say.

Alcohol only serves to amplify my sadness, to push me into artificial darkness.

I asked her yesterday how alcohol makes things feel better and not worse.

“It numbs me so I don’t think about anything,” she said.

It was a lightbulb—speed Scrabble, which I’ve picked up again, is my bottle of wine. It’s a healthier habit, arguably, and I’ve learned a lot more words (though have no idea what any of them mean—qat? xu? ut? taj?), but numbing just the same.

After more than a decade away, I’ve found I’m a much better sport.

“Good luck, iwinyay!” someone typed into the chatbox today, and I felt embarrassed of the username, carried over from 2008.

I’m a good player, though a little rusty. I hesitate to play a word if I’m not positive it’s a word, and feel guilty if someone successfully challenges me. An opponent yesterday made a several incredible moves, and I typed out affirming praise in the chat, which is something no one ever does, not during the quick-paced games.

After I lose a game, when most players type out “gg ty,” I fully type out “Great game!!” as though I’m overcompensating, don’t want the other person to feel bad on behalf of my losing ass.

This is weird, I think. And still.

My record on the game shows that I have played 10 games today, which equates to 80 minutes, and I don’t remember any of the games, don’t remember how many I won vs lost, don’t remember any of the words (except for noting that “te” is now an acceptable word—I thought I’d gone crazy, but Google tells me it was added to the Scrabble dictionary in 2014, which makes sense why I could have sworn it wasn’t allowed). But I think that not remembering, not thinking, is the whole point. As long as I’m playing, the reality of the world—the solitude, the futurelessness, the ever-encroaching disease—doesn’t exist.

Last updated October 30, 2020