Even at my young age and short stature, I’ve killed bad guys, hundreds of them. It is a gruesome task that requires the finesse of a robot ninja spy, the strength of three Batmans, and an expansive collection of finely-honed weapons smithed from the finest plastic.
My desire to vanquish every faceless foe breaching the ramparts of the family room holds no candle to my profound need to find the one plastic sword worthy of completing my armory and bringing me lasting peace. Does such a weapon exist? After searching for half of my 7-year life, I can declare that, while my eyes have not yet seen it, my heart witnesses to me its existence.
I humbly admit, during my journeys through the far-off merchant lands of Target, or whilst studying the runes dispatched to my keep by the scribes of Walmart, that my greed—nay, my hunger—for the perfect blade has deceived me into thinking I have found “The One.” Alas, I have ever been mistaken. But I will never yield.
There are whispers, flowing from mouth to ear among the swingsets and bike paths of these lands, whispers of a legendary sword—perhaps THE sword—complete with hilt and handguard, balanced perfectly for breathtaking couch-to-ottoman battles, waiting to find its home in my peanut butter-crusted hands.
Only then shall I be satisfied.
Mandy is absolutely triggered by Twitter’s possible takeover by Elon Musk. She attends a Twitter-sponsored therapy session to help her cope.
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