You will never guess where I am, so do not even try. I am on an heirloom pig farm in the middle of nowhere, New York. My being here is due to my parents, who, in addition to bringing me forth into this world, which is to say, into a state of being anywhere, also decided that it would be fun to have a family vacation on a pig farm. And it turns out (despite my sister K’s deep and, I think, continued suspicions) they were right! It is lovely here. There is a little apartment in a renovated barn that is basically a luxury kitchen and bathroom with a bed and a porch. There are chickens ranging free. There are pigs and a Viking stovetop on which to cook them. What more do you need?
To come here, I had to leave right in the middle of revising my wretched book, which might actually have been a good thing, because Friday I was like this:
That’s right, bitches. Allie Brosh drew a picture of ME. (ETA: Not really.)