I used to stalk around parties, bars, looking for fun. My face a mask of distraction, concentration. A hint of blood lust. When I’d finally manage to grab fun by the tail it’d yelp, look at me with its big sad eyes. So I would let it go, count to twenty, then begin following its tracks all over again. I wondered why other people at parties weren’t so concerned with tracking down this beautiful little beast. I mean, come on? How could you ignore it? I was obsessed, like a hunter in one of those old stories, obsessed with the game that continues to elude them. Except, I never really had trouble catching it, fun. It never ran…