This comic is based on a conversation my daughter and I had. The dialogue is transcribed word for word.

Why are you here? Strike that—you don’t have to answer that. It’s what’s called a rhetorical question, obvi. Also obvi: you came here for wisdom, for guidance, for that one little nugget of an insight which you can squirrel away and unleash upon the world in a big way. You came here with a plan, a tablet, a book rearing to go. Maybe it’s werewolves in space. Maybe it’s vampires meets Das Boot—Dracula in a Submarine. Maybe it’s Bambi-grows-up-and-commits-Bambi-patricide. Turns cannibal.

It looks like Ben and Winslow must live near me, because I can’t figure out the weather we’ve been having, either. Right now it’s in the high 80s, but the week before it was cold and rainy, and we had insane winds before that, and snow in March, and fireballs in February, and hailstones the size of babies, and then a rain of actual babies after that tornado ripped through the maternity ward. Strange times, indeed.

I once pretended to be Jamaican for five minutes.

Considering the fact that I’m whiter than mozzarella and have lived in Ohio my entire life, this was no small feat.