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.
Hey everyone! It’s one of my three favorite times of the year: the times I sit in front of my computer with a newly edited and formatted copy of Defenestration awaiting its release, my only job at that point being to write an editorial. And I never know what to write! I could claim that my perpetual writer’s block is due to the sheer number of these things I’ve been expected to create; 2018 marks the 15th year we’ve been doing this, and I’d much rather you read the short stories and poems instead of whatever I’m cobbling together here.
Winslow doesn’t know if he has knuckles. Frankly, I don’t think he has bones in his hands.
This is actually way better than what Winslow used to be doing in the laundry room.
