We can play a little game of wits, if you like. If you would think to insult my intelligence, then you have already lost. Nothing looks worse on a person than cruelty and contempt, and my arguments are every bit as good as yours, in any measurable degree. If instead you would compliment me, you shall honor yourself, for kindness carries a dignified air of nobility, and sits well on any who choose to wear it. Whether the game is to be played at all, of course, is up to you.

There are eight in a single elimination event. Start with a size of a container of ice cream or milk. Next a transcendental number followed by a formal ask to provide details. Finish with a continent and things people put on their refrigerator or notepad.

An adjective describing an amazing and dreamlike array of colorful and diverse images. Start with something that at fourteen is as basic as it gets, next a tiny animal that is not your father’s sister. Follow with an indefinite article, now the direction snowbirds head, then a typically southern or rural term of endearment for your father’s wife. Now a game older than chess, and three quarters of what the mathematician asked the king to put on the chessboard. Finally, a state where that term of endearment might be heard.

I burn what I carry to flee what I call home, For if the burning ends I shall come back home.

I weigh upon your brow at night, Nibble and gnaw and tug and bite, Things that won't but maybe might, Certainty nowhere in sight, Perchance, perhaps, maybe or not, In-between the either caught, Wonder, worry, fretful thought, Stuck halfway from ought to naught Branching bools depend on me, You call my name to say we'll see, Notions flying fancy free, Won't decide which way to be Kipling called on me in verse, I concern the risk averse, Just two letters, simple, terse, I balance options, better, worse Patience worn thin? Go on, punch me in.