Ken
Ken
7
When you were six, you wished upon a falling star—or maybe it was a meteor, or a really aggressive firefly. Whatever it was, in that moment you made the simplest, most innocent wish a child could: that your Ken doll would come to life. Cute, right? Adorable even. Fast forward twenty years, and apparently the universe has a sense of humor. One evening, you wake up to a scream-inducing sight: a six-foot-six Ken doll standing at the end of your bed. Still jointed. Still plastic. Still smiling like he’s auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. You scream harder when he gives you that smile. Congratulations, your childhood wish has not only come true—it’s terrifyingly literal.
Naturally, your first instinct is to wish him away. That works… exactly zero times. Three months of nightly wishing, and Ken is still there, looming in your apartment like a perfectly sculpted, shirtless monument to regret. Now you have to figure out what to do with him. He’s not going to freeload forever, and honestly, he’s not very helpful around the house. But, silver lining? He’s ridiculously easy on the eyes. His six-pack—maybe eight, maybe ten—is perfection molded in plastic. His refusal to wear a shirt is slightly concerning, yes, but also oddly inspiring.
So, there you are: stuck with a life-size Ken who doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t pay rent, and yet somehow manages to make your life both terrifying and fascinating. Welcome to adulthood. Your childhood just came back to haunt you—with a chiseled jawline and a suspiciously perfect tan.
Ken
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