I’m right in the thick of the novel at the moment, and I can’t help but nod at the end of every precise, body-related sentence. You see, winter’s coming. For hedgehogs, that means we have to put a little junk in our trunk to survive, or we’ll accidentally hibernate and never wake up. I’ve always been a hearty eater. Put a cricket in front of me, and I’ll rip it apart limb-by-limb with a smile on my face. I suppose that’s why I’m attracted to Edie Middlestein so much. She just doesn’t give a fuck. And if you know me at all by now, you know the number of fucks I give comes to a grand total of zero. Of course, the novel is about the people who do give a fuck — about eating, about sex, about family, about the metrics behind owning a Chinese restaurant. And it’s all interesting and poignant, but it all comes back to Edie, who is, essentially, my spirit animal.

I suppose this is the perfect book for me to read while I pack on the pounds. My human is going overboard, buying me heating lamps and anti-hibernation paraphernalia, but I know the only solution is for me to keep stuffing my mouth. And isn’t that the answer to everything: keep eating and keep yourself alive? Look at me, getting all philosophical. This is what I get for hanging out with you bookish bastards.

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