Going through a pile of childhood photos to scan, I came across a few of my brother and I sitting in the snow in Long Barn and I noticed that the snowman we made was either surrendering to authorities or absolutely giving up on life with contempt for all who’ve fallen for the lies, in either case beyond fed up, and I can’t remember whether we knew it and didn’t care, or knew it and continued on in total denial. I was afraid for us in retrospect because we knew from certain fairy tales that things children create can sometimes come to life, and in this case our creation coming to life would mean inevitable doom for us all. The snowman we made was very angry.

I’m in red, my brother’s in blue, and the snowman’s in complete disgust.

We are artists.

Of the four of us, I’m the only one who looks pleased.

FUCK THIS SHIT.

We didn’t give him a cheerful scarf like other snowmen get. He is not a magical fairy tale, because the magic is in the top hat that we didn’t give him, either. Neither did we give him a pipe. Maybe that’s why he’s angry. He wants a pipe. He cannot be a jolly happy soul without a pipe. He has no intention of dancing around. When he melts away, he’s not going to wave good-bye singing, “Don’t you cry, I’ll be back again someday.” He’s going to give us the finger and say, “You’d better hope I don’t come back or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

So I’m not sure what my apparent joy over the situation indicates other than a lack of empathy for the snowman, but that might mean that I was a budding psychopath, so let’s just say that it’s my love of the horror genre being a case of nature rather than nurture and leave it at that.