My name tag scorches my skin as I safety pin it on.
ItsMeChristina.
I hate this, I thought to myself.
Everyone is going to be socilaizing.
I hate socializing.
Streams of people walk past me shuffling their way to their assigned booths.
I hate booths.
I make my way to the buffet and grab a paper plate.
I hate paper plates.
“What is this?” I say as I pick something that resembles a crab cake.
“It smells shrimpy,” replied a girl next to me.
I hate when people answer rhetorical questions.
I observe the girls name tag. Shit. I know her.
Please don’t recognize me.
I run away before she can say any more.
Where is my booth?
There it is! Right next to the bathroom.
I hate public bathrooms.
I slide into my booth and slump into my seat.
Fuck.
I observe all of the writers mingling with one another.
When one of them approaches my booth, I growl until they stride away.
Upon exiting I bubble in my yellow card that asks me how I liked the “Ferocious Ficlyers Fair.”

I bubble in the highest number.