It’s 1995 and I think this wood nymph wants me to follow her into the forest, should I do it?

Definitely.

It’s 1998 and the new telephoto doubler I got for my phone lets me surreptitiously take photos of my wife sitting on a rock … uh-oh, busted.

It’s 1997 and somebody is wearing my shirt.

Hint: It’s not the dog.

It’s 1999 and Tucker would like you to state your business before he will let you talk to his mom.

It’s 1990 and I’m trying to impress this girl with my golf skills.

It’s 1995 and I just caught this girl who fell out of the sky.

It’s 2001 and I find pretty things to take pictures of on Balboa Island. Even if they don’t really want me to.

“Hurry up and take the picture already.”

It’s 1991 and my career as a milliner is over before it begins.

It’s the entire 1980s and am I a boy who likes to sit with dogs while reading, or a boy who likes to read while sitting with dogs?

… Yes.

Things haven’t changed all that much since then, either, other than what form the books take. Oh, and now there are cats involved, too.

It’s 1985 and this girl I haven’t met yet is going to be scandalized when we watch “Beastmaster” in 10 or 15 years, because “ferrets don’t squeak, they go ooka-ooka-ooka!”

A Girl and Her Ferret
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