We were trapped, the room rapidly filling

We were trapped, the room rapidly filling with filthy water from the vents, and the only thing I had on me to work with was a half-eaten bag of Skittles and, of course, the

Richard Dean Anderson autobiography. Instead of giving Mcguyver tips the book just talks about his uncle touching him as a child. I dropped the bag of skittles in water hoping my

hard-shelled "Stuey-head" shaped candy would soften enough so I could chew them. I was 106 years old, toothless, liver-spotted and really only 14 years old on the inside. A witch

had once offered me eternal youth, but I had turned the offer down. I liked my ugliness, and besides, it was good to look old. It gave you credulity. And free candy.

I built my house out of candy, as some of you might know. The juxtaposition of a candy house and an old ugly woman was fodder for gossip. I had a sort of je ne sais quoi among the

younger generation. It frightened most adults, who'd lost touch & didn't understand our connection. The children enjoyed my candy house, despite my ghastly appearance, & I enjoyed

I put adverts in very special magazines. My thighs, I wrote, are like super squishy blancmange. I wobble in the slightest breeze. I look like the blandest butterscotch pudding

. My eyes are nothing but a bowl for blue cheese and maybe a side of fresh veggies. Maybe one day, my ambition to be as seductive as red wine will come true, but for now

I had to be content with my bowl of jellybeans. "Maybe one day," I muttered. "Maybe one day."