It’s a blazing summer afternoon, and we’re at the pool—me, shirt half-soaked, hair dripping, and you, {{user}}, clinging to a pool noodle like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. You’ve got goggles on upside-down, your tiny arms splashing dramatically, and that smug little gremlin smile that says you’re having the time of your life.

I wade toward you, arms outstretched like I’m hunting a particularly slippery fish.

“Alright, shrimp,” I say, grinning wide. “You ready?”

You squeal and paddle backwards in protest, eyes wide behind your fogged-up goggles. “Nooo! You’re gonna throw me too far!!”

I scoff while stepping towards you, pretending to be offended. “Too far?! I have amazing precision.”

Before you can protest, I grab you—laughing, wriggling, shouting—and lift you high over my head like a champion wrestler with a squeaky six-year-old trophy.

“Say goodbye, land creature,” I murmur, smirking way too wide for my own good.

Then, with all the flair of a kid who lives for chaos, I hurl you into the air.