By Allie Brosh
It is a booklet I wrote. simply because I wrote it, I needed to work out what to place at the again disguise to give an explanation for what it's. i attempted to jot down an extended, third-person precis that may suggest how nice the booklet is and likewise sound vaguely authoritative—like possibly somebody who isn’t me wrote it—but I quickly came upon that I’m now not sneaky adequate to tug it off convincingly. So i made a decision to only make a listing of items which are within the book:
Stories approximately issues that occurred to me
Stories approximately issues that occurred to folks as a result of me
Eight billion dollars*
Stories approximately dogs
The mystery to everlasting happiness*
*These are lies. maybe i've got underestimated my sneakiness!
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Additional info for Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened
But when turning her head at an extreme angle fails to produce a life-altering epiphany, she usually just shortcircuits and rolls onto her back. Over the past two months, she’s made some progress, but it’s been painfully slow and is easily forgotten. Still, I was living under the assumption that maybe my dog just had a hidden capacity for intelligence—that all I had to do was work hard enough and maybe she’d wake up one day and be smart and capable like a normal dog. But one night I was sitting on my couch mindlessly surfing the Internet when I looked up and noticed my dog licking the floor.
I put the biscuit under the cup and started the timer. My dog ran over to the cup and sniffed it. She walked around it once and then looked up at me like I was some sort of wizard. I pointed to the cup. I knew it was cheating, but I wanted to help my dog pass her test. She didn’t understand, but she knew she was supposed to do something, so she just started frantically doing things because maybe—just maybe—one of those things would be the right thing and the magical wizard cup would let her know where the treat went.
Dear other iterations of my past self, Thank you for not being so goddamn weird that I felt I had to address you personally in a letter from the future. I commend you. A lingering fear of mine was confirmed last night: my dog might be slightly retarded. I’ve wondered about her intelligence ever since I adopted her and subsequently discovered that she was unable to figure out how stairs worked. I blamed her ineptitude on the fact that she’d spent most of her life confined to a small kennel because her previous owners couldn’t control her.