Bad Dollies! Bad! **

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When I was 8, I had a killer doll for an imaginary friend–two, actually. The one that was “mine” I stole from Stuart Gordon; in my head, she was a tiny thing with a big knife who wore a yellow raincoat. In reality, she was a not-tiny My Child doll whose haunted stare seemed perfect for someone who killed people when I wasn’t lookng. Her name was Francine–from some mostly-forgotten Arthur book, maybe–and she spoke with a lisp. The other doll, her brother, was Chucky.

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It’s a Miracle

A friend of mine is job-hunting. My mom says, “What kind of job is she looking–that’s it!”

I wait with baited breath for what is obviously the most earth-shattering employment advice ever. She brushes past me, reaches reaches behind my computer monitor and pulls out this:

[Image description: a small plush hamster, an inch or so high, with huge dark eyes. A pair of hands are beside her, holding her up to the camera. She’s covered by a yellow blanket, as if she’s wearing a ghost costume. Her dark brown ears with pink insides are sticking out of holes in the top of the blanket. She’s smiling innocently, as if she’s done nothing wrong.]

That naughty girl.

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Super Smash Bros. Adventure

“Hey, do y’all have the new Super Smash Bros.?”

I can’t believe I’m asking this question. Fighting games aren’t exactly my favorite videogame genre. Sure, I fiddle with them sometimes—at 12, I rented Mortal Kombat II at the video store because “Hey! It’s the game Congress hates!”—but they aren’t much fun to play if you don’t have real people to fight. (All my friends are mature, responsible adults who’d rather go out drinking at the bar than play some videogame). So I wouldn’t pay $50 for a fighting game, and I sure as heck wouldn’t show up excitedly at Target on release date.

I hadn’t.

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