Wakey-wakey eggs and bakey.
Deer God, I hope that’s my mother behind me.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who you callin’ a gazelle.
If someone would please remove these roller skates from my feet, I’ll get up and walk away gracefully.
I am much, much prettier than you.
What do you call this magical land where rubber duckies inexplicably fall from trees?
Sender-inner Emily B. writes: I’m working at a whitetail deer ranch this summer, and we’re bottle-raising all the doe fawns. So far we have 46 fawns on the bottle. They’re all incredibly cute, pushy, and they’re all named: The pictures of the fawn in the grass are of His Majesty, who we’ve been nursing back to health. He’s a spoiled brat, but he’s so small and fuzzy that he gets away with a lot; the staring one is Eowyn (she’s a little crazy); the two curled up next to each other are Diana and Wren; and finally, the brand spanking new baby is Clementine being licked clean by her mama, Trey.