I’m poking a bear that has been generous enough not to kill me. I should be curled into the fetal position. Instead, I’m angering it. “Sorry,” I relent, because I don’t want to be bear food. I’m too cute to be bear food. What do bears eat anyway? Fish? Plants? Bugs? Awkward brunettes with a penchant for running away from their problems? I don’t look like any of those. Okay, well, maybe the last one describes me to a T.
