I played my first hand with confidence: "I care a lot, like a whole semi-truck full of care," I boasted, picturing a gigantic truck brimming with care. Your eyes widened slightly, but I knew you were just warming up. "You wouldn’t even begin to understand the depths to which I care," I added, laying down an imaginary card of immense value.
Your turn came, and you played a card that made me raise an eyebrow. "I care as much as the height of Everest," you declared. I chuckled, unimpressed. "That's nothing. I care more than the distance from the sun to the moon to the stars to the end of the known and unknown universe," I countered, throwing down a card that glittered with cosmic significance.
You smirked, playing your next move. "I care you plus one," you said. I laughed, "Get outta here. I care your care plus a quintillion." I imagined a card so large that a billion monkeys typing randomly couldn't even begin to describe its enormity.
But then, I decided it was time for my final play, my trump card: "I care infinity." I laid it down with a flourish, expecting you to counter with another ludicrously high number. But instead, there was a pause. A moment where our game seemed to transcend the playful rivalry. In that silence, we reached a kind of emotional truce. We both cared, and ultimately, I guess that's what mattered most.