Trent Speaks

It was with the greatest astonishment that I found myself in the shower this morning, nose to nose with Trent Lane.

"I read your blog," he said.

"Oh. Uh, lovely," I said, as I exfoliated my derriere to make it smooth and kissable.

"I'm not 19," he said.

"You're not?"

"I'm 22."

"Oh." I thought for a moment. "Hmm, yeah. That would make more sense, wouldn't it?"

"Right. If I were 19, I wouldn't be too old to take Daria out, but-"

"22," I interrupted. "I get it. Right. Okay. Fine. I'll be 19, you can be 22."

"You can be whatever you want, Hilda," he said.

Then he disappeared, leaving me to ponder the mystery that cartoons are. That a cartoon IS, if you will. At the very least, why it was so that I found myself having conversations with one.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson