With a red bucket stuck on my head, I don’t leave the house. Sneezes and violently shaking my head do not loosen its hold—at least there’s something still attached/attracted to me. With this trap clinging to my fragile neck, I have an excuse as to why I’m not working on the book, why I’m not visiting anyone. The best consequence: I can’t play games. I once had a dozen white marbles, and each hungry hungry hippo ate them up. I won’t share the names of the hippos—no one wants to be called a hippo. She harasses me with text messages, emails, and Facebook comments, and demands I do this, do that, and she eats my life away, and won’t I have lunch with her again. No one told me that we don’t get any more marbles. No one told me this was a game. I don’t like to answer questions and I can no longer read or hear them. Does it taste like plastic and vomit in here?

Cat Dixon