Ferocious Ficlyers Fair

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.