It's nothing special.

Some random Hans Christian Anderson. I was looking for a story on mud--a nod to the "your mind gets dirty as you get closer to thirty" that's been doing laps in my head--and came up with a handful of shit. Lots of boots and dusty saddlebags. Maybe a goat or two. Ugly, big-nosed rustics getting the girl based on spunk. Hate it.

But it can't all be selkies and blackbird pies. A person's got to commit to his time in the trenches. That copy of "Bremer Town Musicians" isn't going to illustrate itself.