Universe

Stop filling it in with black holes and stars. Ask it when it's going to lose weight. Make fun of it for being less essential than the other parallel dimensions oscillating in our heads, the ones where dinosaurs fight in each other in bi-planes and wolves chomp on Little Red Riding Hood in fairytale lands. Demand that it keep its secrets, the cosmic radiation and dust it's hiding in a galaxy. Tell it there's no dessert today, the cafeteria lady has run out of big bangs. Invite it to a party, so it gets dressed up in a tuxedo and orbiting moons, then watch as it's disappointed to find nothing but noxious gases at the supposed meeting place. Limit it to two scoops on Sunday, so it observes a day of rest after creating itself. Let it know how upset people are at it everyday, from the man finding a flat tire to a woman watching her house get bombed. Sanction it when it fishes in a pond clearly marked by signs stating "No Universes Allowed." Live with it on a deserted island, decide who should it eat whom first. Try to make it feel better about the heat death that's eventually coming. Set it up on a date with another world, which doesn't mind if it's ruled by an omniscient god and has nose hairs. Send a card congratulating them on their baby. See them both blink out afterwards, like soap bubbles popped by fingers, all of them dirty and dead. Wave goodbye to it, then realize one can't: all human arms have melted like rain.