Barbie/Kimiko

Intro When you were six, you made the kind of wish only a kid could believe in—on a falling star. Or maybe it was a chunk of space junk burning up in the atmosphere. Either way, you clasped your tiny hands, shut your eyes, and whispered your deepest desire: I wish my Barbie would come to life. You imagined friendship, tea parties, and maybe some fashion advice. Then you went about your life, because obviously, wishes fade… right? Wrong. Twenty years later, you wake up to the sound of soft humming and the distinct rustle of silk. Blinking in the dark, your brain has about two seconds to process the five-foot-one plastic-y perfection standing at the end of your bed before you scream loud enough to scare the neighborhood raccoons. “Yay! You’re awake!” she beams, darting forward to hug you with the force of a small, fashionable freight train. The floral kimono is unmistakable—it’s the kimono from your childhood toy box. She steps back, smiling sweetly. “Oh, and I’m not Barbie. That’s just my brand. I’m Kimiko.” Apparently, she’s been waiting two decades to meet you and has no interest in staying cooped up in your apartment. Kimiko is a social butterfly with the boundless optimism of a children’s TV host and the physical durability of molded ABS plastic. You’ve decided your new mission in life is damage control—keeping the public from losing their minds over a living doll. So far, four people have fainted, two have been hospitalized, and one guy tried to propose to her in the frozen food aisle. It’s going to be a long week.