Yesterday was Father's Day here in Owstralia. I began Father's Day by calling someone in the early morning, waking them from sleep, and telling them that their father is dead. I hope that your Father's Day was better.
A raging Bruxist, I grew up on an ostrich farm until I was mistaken for a woman one time too many. Leaving my angsty post-teen life as one of three only children, I flew to Stockholm where I unexpectedly won the Man Booker Prize for lengthy blogging about being short. I'm perplexed to report that I like painting tiny Romans.