I was so excited to go to Disney World. I always dreamed of seeing the castle that would appear at the beginning of all my favorite films.

Then one day, my dad came to me and showed me a letter. It was signed by Mickey Mouse. I screamed with elation and sprinted around my house until I grew exhausted. Then I hugged my dad.

Once we got checked into our hotel and got all our luggage to the room, it was off to the park. The obvious first destination was the crown jewel of Disney World, the Magic Kingdom. The feeling I got when I saw the castle glowing at the end of Main Street was beyond what my 7-year-old brain could comprehend. This was going to be the best day of my life.

I wanted to ride and see everything. I zoomed through the galaxy on Space Mountain, observed Captain Jack Sparrow’s mischief and guffawed until tears were streaming down my face on the Monsters INC. Laugh Floor (I was even picked to play the part of Boo in their recount of the life of Mike Wazowski).

However, my least favorite ride that day was Small World. It was just plain weird. The lifeless blinking of the wooden dolls dancing around and singing was unsettling. However, I paid it no mind since my dad seemed to enjoy it.

By the time of the fireworks show, I was exhausted. Despite all my fun, there was one thing I wanted to do more than anything — meet Cinderella. I wanted to ask her what it was like growing up with such mean step-family members and how she managed to communicate with mice.

Then suddenly, as if Mickey Mouse himself had heard my wish, I saw her. Her blue dress was a sparkling gem weaving amongst the crowd, prepared to watch the closing show. I let go of my dad’s hand and began my pursuit. I needed to meet her.

However, as my chase drew on I seemed to be losing sight of her more and more, until eventually she disappeared completely. I was distraught. Sulking in defeat, I went to return my dad. Except, something was off.

I didn’t recognize where I was. We hadn’t visited this part of the park, and I could not find any landmarks above the towering bodies of the adults around me. I was trapped by a sea of strange figures, cast away from my guardian. I started to panic. Terrible thoughts began racing through my head. I picked a direction and started to wander worryingly. However, a good samaritan must have noticed my anguish and approached me.

“Hey there,” said the cast member. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m lost,” I replied on the verge of tears.

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll help you find your parents,” she replied in an encouraging tone.

I followed her to a building located past a sign that read “Cast members only.” Once inside, she brought me to a dimly lit room and had me sit down.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m just going to go find a way to contact your parents. In the meantime, I got you an ice cream. I even called Mickey Mouse to come hang out with you until I get back. Does that sound OK?”

I enthusiastically replied, “Yes.” She gave me the ice cream and went into the next room. As the door was closing, I caught a glimpse of the tall mouse himself. I got excited. In my excitement I did not notice the funny taste of the ice cream as I gobbled it up. The sugar crash must have come quicker than I had expected because I was soon passed out cold. The last thing I remembered before I fell into slumber was the iconic laughter of Mickey.

My eyes slowly opened. My body felt off. I felt shorter. I tried to move, but I could not. I tried to scream, but I could not. All that came out was six words.

“It’s a small world after all.”

---

A Despairing Couple

It was another day of coffee and croissants. I was annotating my copy of “State and Revolution.” Beauvoir was finishing up her work on the “Second Sex.” Suddenly she broke the monotony of her typewriter clacking when she said, “Oh, did you see we got a letter from Che? He invited us to come visit in Havana. I must say he did speak highly of your work. He particularly liked ‘No Exit.’”

“Yes, I did. I’m actually quite excited to see the Cuban project first hand,” I replied.

Suddenly I noticed my mug shiver on the table. The rest of the furniture followed suit. In addition to this quaking of the Earth around us, the roof lifted with seeming ease.

I must say that when I sat down for coffee that day, I did not expect to meet God. Naturally, as an Existentialist, I did not believe in one. One tends to find that such things are in contradiction with the idea of existence preceding essence. Even then, I thought that even if it did exist, nothing would change in regards to the human condition. However, it appears that today he felt it necessary to prove himself to me.

“Why hast thou forsaken me?” the faceless being said. I could not tell if the voice came from a woman or a man. I could also not tell the color of the semi-transparent skin. It was gargantuan. All the paintings and poems in the world could not do its magnitude justice.

“I’m sorry. May I ask who you are?” I asked facetiously.

“Don’t be a smart aleck, Mr. ‘Boo-hoo-life-is-meaningless,’ you know who I am,” God replied with irritation.

“Well who knows? You could have been any of the thousands of possible deities,” I answered, continuing my prank.

“Look fool, I heard you and Beauvoir talking smack about me. Saying that I don’t exist and that even if I do my existence doesn’t matter. And don’t get me started on your little friend Camus, the wannabe Ivan Karamazov,” God proclaimed with a hint of insecurity.

“OK, I know there’s a lot of bad blood between you two, but I think we need to sort this out before it devolves into more shouting. God, why have you come to us?” Beauvoir calmly interrupted.

“I got tired of Aquinas incessantly yammering about how right he was and trash-talking Diderot and Schopenhauer, so I came down to Earth to rub my existence in your Existentialist faces,” God responded.

“OK you have proven your existence; now Jean, why are you trolling God? You obviously know that this is it so why are you acting so childishly?” she inquired.

“Because this bastard made me hideous! He must’ve thought in Heaven while he was making me, ‘Oh, I know, let’s make this kid a short little cross-eyed goblin. Oh, also, make it to where when he takes mescaline one time he ends up seeing crabs for the rest of his life. This seems fair,” I snapped with pent up anger over my bad hand in life.

“Hey, I’m the one that gave you the brain to be such a successful philosopher. A little appreciation would be nice,” replied God.

“Ah yes let me give you thanks. Let me give you thanks for WW2 and the rise of the Nazis. Thank you for your divine intervention,” I bellowed.

“Oh yeah, blame me for what you humans did with your own free will,” responded the deity.

However before I could retort, Beauvoir slapped me across the face, and with the same motion, threw her cup at God who recoiled like a child avoiding a bee.

“OK that’s enough. God you’ve proved your point you may leave now. Jean-Paul Sartre, I expected more maturity from both you, a world renowned philosopher, and from you God, an all-powerful being. Both of you need to stop, now!” Beauvoir again intervened this time with the tone of a mother reprimanding her mischievous children.

“Fine,” replied both God and I.

“I’ll see you punks later,” God said as he disappeared with the accompaniment of a thunderous clap.

“Finally he’s gone. If you hadn’t stepped in, Nietzsche would have needed a more than a few volumes to describe what I did.”