Savannah is gearing up to make her triumphant return and answer your most pressing questions.
Sign up below to join the newsletter and be notified when she is back in action.
It is cold up here in Atqasuk, Alaska, at this time of year. As a man living alone, I find it hard to fill the long, dark days. Oh, sure, I do the usual things to fend off the loneliness – playing strip cribbage by myself or writing bad love poetry in the snow when I have to pee.
Sometimes I try to sleep the whole day away, but lately I’ve been disturbed by crazy, recurring dreams. In one of them I am an engineer on a train that is approaching a dark tunnel surrounded by glistening bushes. My train speeds endlessly toward the tunnel, never reaching it. Eventually I wake up in a cold sweat, head to my medicine cabinet, and drink Listerine® until I temporarily go blind.
What can all this mean?
The Fourth of July is rapidly approaching, and every year my family – along with all other True Patriots – take part in the traditional holiday-themed activities of consuming excessive amounts of cheap domestic beer and blowing our thumbs off with illegal fireworks.
This year, however, I will be bringing my nine-month-old son to our family festivities for the first time, and I want to be sure I choose age-appropriate activities for him. So please advise: what is the appropriate amount of beer to give a nine-month-old?
Every year I resolve to get fit and lose a little weight, but I never stick to it. Last year, for example, I jumped out of bed on New Year’s morning and jogged to the lake to participate in the polar bear plunge, but it turns out you’re not meant to do this in the nude and, anyway, we don’t have a lake.
Despite my good intentions, no matter how hard I try I can’t break free from my lifestyle of getting two dozen Burrito Supremes® delivered by Uber Eats™ ten times a day and washing them down with bottle after bottle of cherry cough syrup. I blame my weight troubles on the fact my mother never breastfed me, and as she said recently, despite my pleas she’s not about to start now.
I’m desperate for some wise, empathetic life advice, but I’m writing to you instead.