I know there’s a place for me in a doubles game at the ping-pong table and so I’ve been trying to get into the game room at any and all cost to my health and sanity. I wave my student ID around until my arm is tired, shouting “I have credentials.” “But you don’t have the proper attire,” retorts the fellow behind the desk.
It’s true, I don’t have the proper attire. I am dressed like Donald Duck. I don’t wear pants but I don’t have feathers. I’ll have to find another way into this so-called room of games, where the tops spin and the bowlers roll. They’re getting dizzy in there, and one day I shall get dizzy too, like a spinning paper top. That gameboard torn in half, fifteen small mammal hearts bled on it. I’ve broken just as many credit cards trying to unlock the door when nobody is looking. But they always catch me in the act and I have nothing but a broken credit card and a frozen bank account. Now that’s what I call credentials. Unfortunately the fellow behind the desk calls it something else. He calls security.