Dear Dust

Get a clue, asshole. You’ll never write anything half as good as Fountainhead. Ayn Rand spelled it all out fifty years ago and if your [sic] too dumb to get it, then you can fall back in the mud with the rest.

The Light in The Cave

On a daily basis, about fifty questions speed through my brain so quickly I barely have time to recognize I’m even mentally asking them.

I think about these things almost always. My subconscious has become so clogged with questions that it’s started solving the puzzles and riddles while I’m asleep. My dreams have recently featured math quizzes from junior high, where I had a minute to solve as many multiplication problems as I could before my teacher would come by and snatch the paper off my desk.

Dear Dust

Every Christmas my sister and her husband fly in from the Midwest for a week of festivities at my home. In recent years, my sister’s husband “Ron” has become a real problem. In most respects we get along exceedingly well, but Ron has a very annoying habit. Mainly, he insists on making “Ron’s Special Christmas Nog,” even though we repeatedly ask him not to. Both my sister and I are a bit overweight. Egg nog is full of milk, cream, eggs, and sugar. Ron whips up a batch every night. It’s great that he’s festive, but all that sugar gives me a headache in the morning, and I hate the extra pounds I pack on over the holidays. Can’t he do something creative with celery instead?

Ms. Waistline