These are the days where "California Gurls" plays on one of three radio stations while I read a letter-to-the-editor by an Alaskan father holding his daughter's suicide note--a letter I happened upon by scrolling too far while reading an invitation to join the quilting club.
These are the days I eat meat of an animal I've only met in a children's book. That moose was given a muffin, this one gave us his heart. To cook and eat. These are also the days that I eat a hardtack cracker called Sailor Boy Pilot Bread. It's made in a factory in Richmond, Virginia, but 90% of it is consumed in Alaska.
These are the days that a black crate full of "RealityWorks!" babies suck electricity out of the socket in my office. I dole them out to teenagers whose classmates have babies at home that are significantly less robotic.