I live in a bubble. My body’s been wrapped in bubble wrap enough times to just roll around and eat things my mom leaves on the floor for me. Some may think that life as an orb can get boring, and they’d pretty much be right. For most people, ball form is extremely limiting.

But not me. I’m impervious to sharp objects, and I can roll around my basement really fast. My current record is 25 seconds, but with my eyes open it’s like 8 or 9, depending on how many times I throw up from motion sickness.

In the house, it’s just me, my mom, and the bugs I’ve lured out with bread crumbs and then crushed with my ball. Maybe one day I’ll venture into the outside world again, but what’s the point? Life’s safer just rolling around and adding on more layers, so I’m faster and more protected.

My dad left a few years ago. The day before I first bubbled myself. It’s a tale as old as time. Dad said he was going out for a pack of smokes one day and started a new family in Italy instead. I haven’t left my basement since. My mom says my dad’s the reason for this and that he'll be back. But she’s never been able to see the bigger picture: me, beaming, zooming around in my enormous plastic bubble. 

These days my ball has grown to the point where I can’t even move. I’m just stuck in a bubble with a face full of plastic, my father’s words and teachings echoing in my head. What a man. It's because of his wisdom and gutsy example that I've become the bubble-person I am today.