I heard things have gotten a little, um, angry these days at WryTimes, so I was brought in to lighten up the mood. I personally think the term “therapy dog” is reductive and vaguely condescending, but until they come up with something better, let’s go with that.
And look, I don’t want to play games, or pretend not to know what is obvious to everyone with even one functioning eye: I’m cute. Very cute, in fact. My cuteness has even been labeled “on the nose” when I was standing right there. As if I’m not smart enough to know what that means. C’mon, guys. This is not my first rodeo.
So anyway, let the haters hate. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to do a job, in what’s arguably the roughest moment in American history. (And I know I said “rough,” it just came out. I wasn’t trying to be cute.)
p.s. It’s not a big deal if you forget, it’s gonna happen, but my pronouns are she/her. ❏
I’m contractually obligated to open an Instagram account, so feel free to follow me @quincyonwry. Or not, whatever.