Sul Sul, Readers! 👋
It has come to my attention (because I was forcibly moved) that I am now a resident of a brand-new town. Yes, my handler—Mikkimouse the Great and Sometimes Questionable Builder—decided to catch the dreaded “gardening-decorating bug.” Instead of just deleting the offending plant like a rational human, she bulldozed my entire house and plopped me into a neighborhood where I know no one. Absolutely no one. I mean, honestly—would you move Beyoncé to a random cul-de-sac because you didn’t like her azaleas? Shoo flee!
She insists she’s “rebuilding my dream home.” And, okay, it does look almost like my original house. Almost. But let me tell you, readers, “almost” is doing some heavy lifting here. The kitchen sink is on the wrong wall, the wallpaper makes me look sallow in selfies, and there’s a window directly behind my toilet. (Yes, directly. Behind. My. Toilet. The drama.)
On the bright side, Poe has miraculously gone more than three minutes without a skunk attack. That’s a new household record, and I’m considering framing a certificate. Meanwhile, Inkwell has maintained his reputation as the laziest cat in the Simiverse. He is in excellent health, which means I can finally vacate my timeshare at the Brindleton vet clinic. Dag dag, waiting room coffee machine—I won’t miss you.
But don’t worry, your favorite bestselling author and influencer (that’s me, in case you forgot) is still thriving. New town, new house, same fabulous me. I’ll continue to chronicle my glamorous struggles and dramatic triumphs, so stay tuned for more chaos, tea, and Simlish exclamations that EA never bothered to subtitle.
Until next time—Dag dag, ooh be gah! 💋
—Clara Whitmore
Greetings once again, dear readers. It is I, Clara Whitmore—mystery novelist, reluctant traveler, and apparently the Sims equivalent of a garden gnome, forever being uprooted and plopped down somewhere new.
For those keeping track at home, let me recap my rather dramatic history of forced relocations:
And the reason for this epic tour across the Simverse? Was it divine intervention? An urgent mystery needing my sleuthing skills? The wrath of the cowplant? No, my dear readers. The culprit was far less glamorous: a mudroom.
Yes, after all the drama of crossing biomes, climate zones, and postal codes, my handler decided my life needed… a glorified coat closet. A mudroom. To hang jackets and muddy boots. I suspect Mikkimouse has the attention span of a toddler on a sugar rush. First it was “Clara needs a greenhouse for inspiration!” then “Clara must have a pool for wellness!” and now it’s “Clara cannot possibly function without a mudroom.”
At this point, I half expect my next novel to be interrupted by yet another rebuild—perhaps for the installation of a llama yoga studio or an “emotional support laundry room.”
Still, I must admit, Windenburg does suit me best. And if a mudroom is the price I pay for returning to my true home, then so be it. After all, what better backdrop for a mystery than a cozy Windenburg cottage with a suspiciously overemphasized mudroom?
Until my next untimely demolition, I remain your faithful chronicler,
Clara Whitmore
Novelist, accidental nomad, and four-time victim of sudden household reconstruction
EA Staff (Retired)EA Staff (Retired)EA Staff (Retired)EA Staff (Retired)
