I woke up and realized I was in a bubble. A bubble of what I didn’t know, but it was most definitely a bubble.

The clock radio was blaring The Bangles, and I began to reach over to smash it on account of hating that band when it occurred to me I would have to try to reach past my bubble’s membrane. I was suddenly altogether fearful that I might pop the bubble.

“So weird that I’m in a bubble,” I said to The Bangles. It was Thursday, and they simply weren’t listening. Typical of bands like that. Just typical.

My dog stared at me, no doubt thinking, “How’s he going to feed me in that bubble?” She woofed in empathy of my dilemma.

I looked at my feet. They touched the bottom of the bubbles, causing the filmlike rainbow to swirl in reaction. I don’t trim my toenails as much as I should. They’re gross.

Then it hit me: I’m being protected. Something’s horribly wrong with the world and I’m being selected, being saved. It became doubly imperative that I didn’t pop the bubble.

I had a purpose. I knew it.