I once knew a weary man who went into the woods to live. At first, he struggled mightily to procure the very basics. But he soon became expert; a woodsy minimalist. The outdoors quite suited him. He knew all the berries to eat and which to avoid, how to make shelter, how to find water.

I was surprised to find him at my door one day, several months after he’d first set out. I suppose he missed the conversation. But he seemed alive again, not at all the man I’d known. And I was truly glad for him. He gave me a map of the forest and told me to come visit when I could.

And I did. Often. He taught me some of his tricks, told me all the inside jokes he shared with woodland creatures. We had a riotous good time. If I went too long between visits, he came to me, and we enjoyed ourselves in my home.

But then one day I came and found he’d built a log cabin manse with all-natural furnishings. He’d even fashioned a toilet out of a tree stump.

After that all he did was complain about the splinters in his ass.