**2016 WATTYS WINNER FOR VISUAL STORYTELLING**
Letting her appearance fall to the wayside and desperate to find a reason for her life, Marilyn sits half naked in an Urgent Care examination room with a mysterious skin itch. If she can survive the hum...
McCutie redirects his eyes towards the floor and man-giggles. I love making members of the male species man-giggle. It's sort of this new hobby I have. Making younger men man-giggle is my PG version of being a cougar. Don't get me wrong, I do admire PG-13+ cougars (assuming their prey is of legal age). I just can't do it. I can't get over the damn pedophile'ish feelings that come with dating a much younger male. I know myself too well. Eventually I'd get exhausted being the glorified and unpaid babysitter. So instead, I partake in the far less invasive sport of man-giggling.
"Yes!" McCutie looks at me and smiles, then turns away when he can't hold back a laugh. Pointing towards a hallway shooting off the one we're currently on he says, "The pool and spa are just down there."
The game face I wear when I start playing the sportof man-giggling is like:
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"Excellent. And I hope you have those really fluffy white bathrobes with La Urgent Care embroidered in gold thread." I turn to make eye contact. "I just can't stand those disgusting laundry bags with open backs those other establishments try to pass off as robes. If I wanted to flash people wearing a piece of fabric with a 1970's print on it, I'd—."
McCutie stares at me—hanging on my every word—waiting for me to drop the humorous punchline.
"I'd—I'd—." Crap! My comedic suaveness doesn't seem to be getting good reception in here. Must. Redirect. "Well, damn it! I know there must've been a super funny Woodstock joke in there somewhere." I pause for dramatic effect—glancing up at McCutie with a crooked grin. "But clearly I'm too young to know anything about Woodstock."
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My invisible cougar tail is out—meticulously swaying from side to side as I playfully interact with my McCutie Mouse.
He opens the door to an examination room, standing to the side to let me enter first. Such a gentleman. I glance around at the drab décor, then point to the pillow on a table-bed draped in fabric. "What? No chocolates on the pillow?"
Awe. There it is. The sweet sounds of man-giggling.
"I'll see if I can fix that." He hesitates for a moment as though he's actually trying to come up with a solution for my fake problem. "There might be something in the vending machine."
