The weekend after he came back, Bloo insisted we go for a long walk in the woods. I got the feeling he had something planned that he wasn't telling me, but I went anyway, following close behind him as the cool shade enveloped us.

We made our way down a gentle slope along a ridge that opened downward and outward into a panorama of lush green. "Mac," says Bloo, "how long has it been since you've played pretend?"

I think back. "I think some of my friends and I tried, once, back when I was about twelve. It was hard, though; everything felt awkward and empty. It came so naturally when I was younger, but I guess you lose the knack as you get older."

Bloo shook his head. I suspected I was about to learn something. "The problem wasn't that you were too old. You were just self-conscious. The ability is still there, it's just held back by the part of your brain that worries about how you'll look."

"I don't think there are many adults out there who still play pretend."

Bloo picked up a stick and started poking at the dead leaves in front of him as he walked, like a blind person. "What do you call actors, then? What do you think stage hypnotism is? UFO conventions, spiritual experiences?"

"I guess you're right."

"It's obvious."

As we passed one trail intersection after another, I started to worry that we would get lost. "Where are we going?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?"

I waited for him to interpret my lack of response as a _no_, but he stayed silent. I hadn't been this far into the woods in over a year. As I saw bright sunlight striking grass up ahead, I finally realized where we were.

We passed into a large clearing, where the trees' lower-hanging branches gently brushed up against the sides of a two-story shed. I saw clumps of placed dirt, broken glass, strewn-about wooden boards, beer cans—everything looked just like it was supposed to. There was no doubt about it now; Bloo had, indeed, been watching me during the years I couldn't see him.

"You've been here with all your other friends, so I figured we could take a trip here, too." He placed his hands on his hips as he admired the splintering, possibly-rotting walls of the shed, the bent, rusty nails poking out at aggressive, spiteful angles.

"I've been here with them, but there's nothing to _do._ Usually we just sort of pass through on our way to somewhere else." Many of the trails exited the forest near commercial districts or parks—sites of actual civilization, as opposed to the secluded, wooded vale that I called home.

"I remember when you first found this place, you thought a homeless guy was living here. Remember?"

I sighed quietly. "Alright, we've seen the shed. Is there anything else you wanted to do, or are we heading home now?"

He arched an eyebrow at me. "Not yet. You're going to relearn what it's like to play pretend."

"No," I said flatly.

"C'mon," implored Bloo. "It's easy. Just go for it."

"I don't know how."

"That's what we're here for. Go on, pick up a stick and stab some goblins or whatever."

I found the straightest, sturdiest-looking branch I could and waved it awkwardly through the air, not sure what I was supposed to experience.

Bloo stroked the chin he didn't have, nodding thoughtfully like a director watching a scene play out. "You're not feeling goblins. Okay, we'll try something else."

"I feel like an idiot."

"You'll work through it. C'mon, what kind of bad guys can you work with? Robots? Aliens? Muslims? Zombies? The one percent?"

I tried to think of some group that I wanted to skewer with a sword. I couldn't really get excited about terrorists—after all, I had no context for understanding criminals, let alone terrorists. Had I ever been bullied? Not seriously. Suddenly, an idea occurred to me.

"Why don't you just tell me what I can work with? Shouldn't you know?"

"You can't do it yourself? Can you say 'epic fail'?"

"For God's sake, don't say 'epic fail'."

He raised an eyebrow and smiled knowingly at me. My eyes widened as it dawned on me: I had found my enemy.

Within less than two minutes, I was swinging the stick in furious arcs through the air, twirling around like a madman and screaming at the top of my lungs.

"Shut the fuck up about 9gag! No one wants to hear your bullshit!" In the back of my mind, I was dimly aware of Bloo standing back and watching me with considerable amusement, but in my rage, I was well past the point of caring. _"You don't want me to taze you, bro? I'll do more than that, I'll tear your fucking throat out!"_

Bloo nodded sagely. "You have learned much."

"Am I mad? Am I mad? Of course I'm fucking mad! You dead, bro? You dead?"

The adrenaline rush was as intense as it was unexpected. I could hear blood pounding in my ears I imagined stabbing through Guy Fawkes masks and meme-blazoned T-shirts. I nearly wept with joy as I realized how much I'd been missing out, what a thrill there was to be had in righteous hatred.

"Fuck off with your catbread! Fuck off with your rage faces and troll faces and the rest of that bullshit!" As I swung the stick against the shed's support beam, my weapon snapped in half and the moment was shattered. I was left breathing heavily, staring at the ground, exhausted and ashamed, yet experiencing a strange sense of catharsis.

Slowly, I looked up at Bloo. I bit my lip as I saw his smirk. "Well?" he asked. "How do you feel?"

I took a long, shaking breath as I straightened my back. "Did you know that would happen?" He nodded. I started pacing around the clearing. "Okay, so I guess I _can_ play pretend. I'm still not sure it's something I enjoy though. It felt so _weird."_

Bloo waved dismissively. "That's just your self-consciousness kicking back in. You gotta work on getting rid of that—it's not a quality that'll help you out much in life."

"If I lose my sense of self-consciousness, I'll look stupid in public."

"Then I guess the question is: which you do you care more about? The you that others perceive, or the you that you experience?"

"I'm probably best off just trying to balance the two."

"You were supposed to pick the second one."

"You haven't convinced me that I should."

As we made our way back home, I felt myself drifting easily down the trail, more relaxed, less aware, less placed than I normally was. The trees rolled by like a slow pan in a pretentious movie; the trail contracted, swelled and slithered beneath me, as though it were alive. There was some subtle change in how I perceived the environment around me.

What exactly had Bloo done? What was his game?