Dear Harriet Walter,
I am 20 years old and I have just figured out, on my own, the best way to cut boiled asparagus, having so far avoided the hundreds of potential opportunities when I might have learned this already.
(Diagonally. Like a baguette. And you brace the asparagus against the fork on the other side while you're slicing it.)
For years I've been cutting it straight across and it's gotten all separated and stringy and un-cut-able, like a squishy green human spine.
Movin' up in the world yeah.
In other news, for various reasons I now have a queen-sized hide-a-bed to sleep on for a few days. I am sprawled across it as I write this. I almost never sleep on beds this wide; I feel quite majestic, like a sleepy tyrant surveying the bloodstained districts of her warm, sleepy dominion.
Also, my dad is in his early fifties and his hairline is immaculate. Not a hint of filamentous recession. I wish more people could be like him that way. Good job, dad.