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Where do you get your ideas from? When people ask me that–they tend not to, although there are a few sweethearts who do–I have to wonder: isn’t it obvious? I am a tool for generating ideas.  First I cut things up with my agonizing powers of analysis.  Then I stick them back together with my glittery gluestick

Sorry, one more before I get back to the snow.  I was trying to explain about winter being magic, and realized it was missing context: not-magic. Matt is less than two years younger than I am; I think he has the exact number of months and days memorized, which, really demonstrates the whole concept of privilege:

  Don’t worry.  I won’t forget about the snow.  Every night before one of these comes out, though, I toss and turn, trying to think of the next one to write, and if I don’t agree to write the one that needs to get written next (according to my subconscious), I don’t get to sleep.

I have lost my ability to shrug off the cold. As a kid, the cold wasn’t just cold, it was part of my identity:  I am better than you because I can endure the cold.  South Dakota has a lot of sour-grapes values:  I can’t have nice things, so I’m better than people who can.

The early cats in my life are going to be really hard to write about, so I’m going to skip it for now: right now you just get the dogs. Vague Red Dog Sorry, vague red dog.  I only vaguely remember you:  you must have been an Irish setter.  You belonged to Chris, maybe.  I

  I’m tempted to write this one like a horror story, but that would miss the point. The boogeyman lived inside an old, disconnected furnace inside my great-grandmother’s house, just across the gravel road from my grandparents’ house.  It wasn’t until just this morning that I realized her house was a mother-in-law house:  probably because