Save my soul later, I'm busy

The moment I got up this morning, I started cleaning. I was still a little loopy though, as I didn't give myself enough time to recover from the strange Tim Burton-esque dreams I had last night, so it figures that I wouldn't think before opening the front door when the doorbell chimed over the screaming vacuum. I say screaming because these boys haven't vacuumed since the last time I was here, which was in September. And they didn't do the cleaning. It was me.

So out of breath and without looking through the peephole, I open the door to find two people standing there with Bibles propped up in their hands. They had the biggest smiles on their faces. Their smiles were so big they were almost disturbing, with wicked, maliciousness. Smiles that communicated to me "You must be terribly busy, but we don't care!"

"Oh my God, it's Sunday?" I asked with horror displayed on my face.

"Everyday is the Lord's day!" They were either oblivious or just as sarcastic. They caught onto my game immediately, and I didn't even get to play. I then imagined myself backing away slowly with the same wide-toothed smile as to not offend the species until I was able to close the door without them tearing me about like rabid, mouth foaming, Bible preaching, door knockers.

"You must be busy. We won't keep you too long," one of them said, as if he were being polite. I was covered in sweat, I smelled terrible, and the look on my face must have displayed my disinterest, but I couldn't bring myself to treat them like telemarketers. "We don't want any! And...and screw you!" *CLICK* Or my favorite, "Sure! Let me just find my credit card. Can you hold on for a second?" Set the phone down and just walk away. They will give up after about ten minutes.

Those people don't have souls.

But these people were trying to save mine. So I stood there and dealt with the endless Bible verses for thirty minutes. I'm too damn nice for my own good. The entirety of their lecture consisted of my eye twitching, me playing with the door, and the occasional glance over my shoulder to the half-wiped windows that I needed to tend to. I assumed they would get the message, but they were persistent little buggers.

And now I'm sitting on the couch, typing this out in defeat, covered in pamphlets and notes with verses on them. I don't feel like my soul was saved, I feel like it was sucked out of me. And the windows still aren't done.

Ugh.

Pills just aren't enough

Being sick seriously blows when I have been programmed to believe that all of the pills in the medicine cabinet are supposed to help me. Well, they don't, and the ones that might ease the pain I, of course, can't get my hands on because I need a prescription. Vicodin, sweet Vicodin, why are you so out of reach when I need you the most?

Then there's the time consuming necessity of reading all of the warning labels and paying attention to how many doses I can take, how many I shouldn't take within 24 hours, what I should consult my doctor about, all of the possible side effects, etc. It's all just an endless hassle that I go through to take these pills that barely even work for me. Most are temporary relief anyway. 

It's like brain voodoo. You think that they are going to help you, so the moment you swallow you immediately feel better. Because I am beyond that and I no longer trust these misleading remedies, they no longer work for me. Maybe I'm giving myself a headache by thinking of these things. Maybe there is nothing out there for self-inflicted headaches. Shit.

I recently heard a story from a friend about a coworker of theirs that had cancer. There wasn't much hope for him and the cancer began to take it's toll on his mind and body. He began to wither away from his previous, active self. Then he made a decision to try another method. Obviously the chemotherapy wasn't helping and the prescriptions they had given him weren't giving him any hope.

The man has been cancer free for almost a year now if I remember correctly, all because he began to experiment with natural remedies to ease the pain and work with the ailments that were occurring within him that were reactions from the cancer. He consumed seaweed shakes and all sorts of "nastiness", as my friend recalled, that would contribute to his health. And it worked.

I am officially motivated to go to a bookstore and purchase a big book of natural remedies, and I can't wait to get started. Sorry House, I choose the seaweed shake.

When guilt overrides the swoon

You know that you have yourself a keeper when the man volunteers to run to the store to get you feminine products and go grocery shopping. I was laying in bed, huddled into a little pathetic ball, cursing at Eve for picking the damn apple, and the man bundled up, asked me to write a list, reminded me that he loved me, and went out into the cold. Oh. My. God. Can you say alpha male?

Whenever my Dad is pestering me about something, all I have to do is grab at my pelvis and say that I'm cramping and the man is out the door with skid-marks from his shoes trailing behind him.

I'm sure I am going to receive polar opposite reactions from the different sexes on this one. I assume the testosterone pumped men are going to groan and say that the man has no dignity, that tampons are "ewwie." Oh, but the ladies-- the ladies are going to rejoice, for there is still hope in the world. A man that would do that plays the role as an oasis in the desert for the romantically starved. Luckily the majority of my viewers are female. I wonder what that says about me. Maybe it says that I talk about periods too much. That tends to drive men away, right?

I just destroyed my boyfriend's dignity and I'm bragging about it.

He's probably in the feminine hygiene aisle by now too. Poor guy.

...WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

A New Hope: The Boyfriend Blogs Back!

Sorry about the Star Wars joke, folks. So, I'd like to introduce myself, for those of you that don't know me. I'm Mike! The yankee alaskan coastie boy J-Roll loves, for some reason. I may or may not be committing some cardinal blog-sin here, writing a post on HER account, but I had some things I had to say.

Um. I forgot them. Instead, some alliterative poetry! About boobs!

Or should I say...bodacious boobs!
Titillating tits!
Breathtaking breasts!
Juicy jugs,
Hot hooters,
Tasty ta-tas,
Smoking...sweater kittens.
Gnarly...knockers. Okay now I'm just grasping at straws. Enough of this! I look forward to you, the internet, hearing more about my somewhat humiliating hijinks through Jessica's writing.

And to Jess' family...I'm so sorry. She's probably going to kill me anyway when she finds out I did this.

Toodles!!

A Man's Perspective: The Burial Edition

Me: "I want to be cremated. Hands down."

Mike: "Well yeah, everyone wants to be cremated. But have you really thought it through? What if there's a zombie apocalypse?"

Me: "What about it?"

Mike: "A zombie apocalypse. Don't you want to be reanimated into a zombie?"

Me: "If there's a zombie apocalypse, I highly doubt it is going to involve reanimated corpses."

Mike: "What? It's all about the black magic."

Me: "No. It's going to be more like the modern version of zombie, like a disease or a parasite."

Mike: "Why? Because it's cool and hip to be a modern disease zombie? Voodoo has been around way longer."

Me: "It's more realistic."

Mike: "Black magic. I refuse your modern theories and reality."

Me: "If I come back with black magic I'll be like, a dust spirit zombie combination!"

Mike: "Yeah, but you'd still be dust."

Me: "But I would be hard to kill. I'd be little floating particles-- meaning I'd be more evasive!"

Mike: "Still dust."

Me: "I'm guessing you want to be buried because of this."

Mike: "I don't know yet."

Me: "You can't base something like this over the cool idea of being reanimated into the living dead."

Mike: "Yes I can. What else am I going to be doing with my time? I am going to be dead. May as well plan for a zombie apocalypse."

Me: "That is just false hope."

Mike: "No hope when you're dead. Maybe as well be walking around, eating people."

To each his own

Sorry about my unexpected hiatus. Not too much has happened worth blogging about. But I am stuck indoors for a while so I feel that I owe it to myself to post something, even if I end up deleting the entire entry for fear of passing on my intense boredom onto my viewers. I would never wish that on anyone. So I will attempt to make this worth reading.

Today while perusing the online world that is Facebook, I came across an argument between friends about smoking shisha tobacco.  "It's so stupid. It's like smoking weed. It's illegal. Anyone who smokes should be behind bars."

I had to refresh the page to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me. But the comment was still there, residing on my newsfeed like a f#&%ing parasite of knowledge. Tobacco is illegal huh? Then what does that classify me as if I work at a lounge that distributes illegal goods? And what about all of the law enforcement that come in once in a while to smoke? Should they be behind bars? Should I?

There is one thing that really pushes my buttons, and it is ignorant statements like that. Obviously the person did not do their research. Obviously the person needs to do some research.

I read the comment over and over, feeling ridiculous for how much it bothered me. If America's youth is unaware of what is legal and what isn't, will that not determine the future of this country? If people do not know anything on the subjects in which they discuss and refuse the opportunities given to them to learn more, what will my future look like?

That doesn't just go for the legality of certain things, but what about politics? Science? Religions? I'm sick of the mindless dribble I see online of these youths talking out of their asses as if they know something about what they say, when in reality, they are completely unaware that they know nothing.

I never want to be like that. I want to learn. I want to be able to voice my beliefs and have viable backing behind them. I never want to close myself off from ideas just because I don't agree with them. I try to keep myself open to everything and anything there is to know about the world. Let us reword this kid's response.

"Smoking is bad for you. Just because smoking is legal doesn't mean that it should be taken advantage of. I don't agree with it."

I can consider an answer like that, even if I'm a smoker. Sadly, not everyone can appreciate those opposed to activities they partake in, and that is sad to me. Arguing for the sake of arguing is meaningless. Having a civil discussion for the sake of absorbing something from it is respectable.

A Man's Perspective I: The Menstration Edition

Me: "Do you know how periods work?"

Mike: "Yes. No. Maybe. No. Yes."

Me: "Wait, do you know? You don't, do you?"

Mike: (uncertainty in voice) "Of course I do. Everyone knows how periods work."

Me: "...Well?"

Mike: "What?"

Me: "Tell me how it works."

Mike: "Well, uh, see, your body decides that it wants to have a baby every month for some reason, right? So it takes this empty room and stuff. Then it gets everything all ready, puts all the decorations up. Then it gets tired of waiting -- rips all the decorations down and says fuck it!"

Me: "You forgot the most important part though."

Mike: "You mean the egg?"

Me: "Yeah. It's the most painful. Imagine the egg to be my fist. My finger is the tube."

Mike: (Man wince) "Like a softball through a garden hose. (Some sort of ugh/ew noise-fusion)"

Me: "Yeah. Then the egg kills itself."

Mike: "Maybe Aunt Flow murdered it then threw it away with the decorations."

Me: "Oh God."

Mike: (Srsface) "Aunt Flow's a psychotic bitch."

I like living, thank you.

It is hard to have adventures in Alaska when there is so much damn ice on the road. The weather condemns you to stay put and that is hard to do when you are restless and live in a small town like Homer. But even if I wanted to to venture out and the weather allowed it, there is still one small issue-- I don't have a car.

Mike has been hassling me to learn how to drive his truck so that I can have a means of transportation during the day while he's at work. It makes sense, right? How hard can driving a stick shift be?

Reasons why I refuse:
I don't want to destroy his truck.
His truck barely makes it up hills.
He has trouble driving his truck.
I don't feel like learning how to drive on ice and learning how to drive stick shift at the same flippin' time.
Most of Mike's friends are afraid of his truck.

If those aren't reason enough and ya'll think I'm being ridiculous, I have more. His truck stalls out a lot. His Alaskan friends advise me not to learn in this weather. His truck is attracted to ditches. His truck slides across the road like it was made to do just that.

Still not reason enough?

Then your name is probably Michael.

Dance Fails

Dancing aimlessly around the house in your underwear is the best remedy to the loneliness that occurs when the boyfriend is at work. I highly recommend it, even to people who are as clumsy as I-- the bruises are worth it. So far I have two new ones. It started off Foot Loose-esque with the leaps and the spins, fused with some Gaga moves, and topped with Shakira's hip pops. I probably look ridiculous, but at least I feel like I could give Beyonce a run for her money. By the time I'm finished, half of the furniture in the house is going to need repairing and I'm not going to be able to move for a while.

"No officer, I did not beat up my girlfriend. She just uh, was trying to learn how to breakdance on Youtube and flew through the window somehow. No officer, I can't explain the series of holes in the walls. No, I can't explain why she keeps answering your questions with Kesha lyrics either.

...you are going to handcuff me aren't you?"

Poor Mike.

Answer me this:
What is the craziest thing that has happened to you while home alone, specifically dancing? Have you fallen down stairs? Flipped over couches? And dance fails of the sort?

Share!

They really don't, Mom.

Men are the most amusing creatures.

First off, I grew up with my Dad, a man who is so haunted by his cholesterol issues that he stands in the pantry shouting "sonofabitch!" every time he reads a food label high in sodium, sugar, and fat-- pretty much all of the food he consumed daily before I intervened. My Mom always says, "Men never grow up. The only difference between a five-year-old and a fifty-year-old is that their toys are more advanced." So far, today has proven this to the point of overkill.

Earlier Mike and I went to the convenience store to finally pick up some cough medicine for me and we managed to wander into the toy section. I have never seen a man so amused by bouncy balls before. What is when men and spherical toys? And dragon figurines? And battery-powered musical instruments? We ended up walking out with more toys than items of convenience. We spent one minute in the pharmacy and twenty looking at aged toys that should have stayed in the 90's.

Onto the next thing men do. They will go to any length to make things more convenient. Why get a stand for the TV if you can use a mini-fridge instead? And why have drawers when we have perfectly good crates laying about? (asdfghjkl!) Well, after a much needed shower, I stepped out to find Mike trying on my jeans and examining himself with a pleased look on his face. Me? I didn't know what the heck to think of it. So of course, I asked.

"What are you doing?"

"My pants are too loose," he replied.

Silence.

"Yeahhh... these are much better."

He's still wearing them. Still don't know what the heck to think of it. I try not to look below his chin for fear of stereotyping.

I won't bother writing out all of the things the man says when playing video games.

"I took those guys down all by myself!"

Yes you did baby.

The boy doesn't have cold medicine-- but at least he has super glue!

That's the last time I ninja out (ACHOO) into the middle of the night hopped up on wine and margaritas with the boyfriend's best friend. I don't care how bored or lonely I get when Mike's on watch and won't be home for a day and a half. I know enough to be aware that if you stick a certain breed of (ACHOO) Texan in the snow for hours, she's gonna get sick-- like, really sick. This certain breed of Texan actually likes the (ACHOO) heat. I do not enjoy having to wake up at 3 a.m to massage the life back into my fingers and toes.

No, guys, I am not exaggerating.

Can't write anymore. My fingers are starting to stick to the keyboard and I think my big toe just fell off.

You can eat around the debris

Delayed flight, body odor infested plane, screaming babies, man in front of me reclining his chair to the point of almost breaking it into my lap, sore neck, no more peanuts on flights, lack of working outlets in airport to charge laptop, sitting next to the bathrooms on the BO infested plane, lack of outlets on flight, stupid line cutters when boarding plane, having to check in again, not knowing where the heck to put my luggage in those tiny stalls in the public restrooms, running across an airport the size of Texas, almost slipping down the stairs after warned that it was "slippery".

Then I saw him standing there beside the door, hands in his pockets, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. And all the bullshit that I had to endure to get there was so unbelievably worth it that I would not mind doing it all over again-- from the friends that told me that long distance was ridiculous to the people that told me I should end the relationship before I get hurt. Yes, I would experience that shit over and over for him.

That was the first day, which sets us up for what happened last night.

Keeping in mind what was said previously, I was put to the test to make sure that it was actually true. It's easy to say that you are willing to experience distasteful things to be with someone you love. I mean, that's love. But I guess when I made a mental note of it in the Homer airport, someone heard me and decided, "What the heck? Let's test her some more!"

Yep. My bad luck was not left behind in the South. It followed me to Alaska. Then it developed into a more lethal strain of bad luck and became contagious rather than hereditary (sorry Mom).

Last night Mike and I were craving pizza, so we bundled up and went outside to heat up the truck. Well, taking into consideration that the last time Mike drove his truck, he was escorting me back to the house. The man was excited so I don't blame him for, uh, leaving the truck in drive.

I was in the process of climbing into the truck, as was Mike, when he started the engine. When the truck jumped forward, my leg traveled with it. Yes, it is still attached. Luckily I escaped and slammed the door before the truck slid into the ditch beside the porch.

We were just lucky that it was parked at an angle away from the house. If it had been straight, his truck would have flew straight into his roommate Marshall's kitchen. The only time that would have actually been acceptable is if we were coming home from picking up the pizza. We'd burst into the side of the house, open our doors dramatically and shout "OH YEAH." Kool-aid man style. No one would pay any mind to the gaping hole in the wall. Their minds would be set on the deliciousness of the pizza and the epic entrance.

At least that was what I visualized as Mike stood there in the snow in total shock.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Just a little disappointed."

"What?"

"Nothing."

The man who would die for his beer

I would like to start this entry off with an important announcement, then we will continue with our regular broadcasting. Tomorrow is my last day in Texas before I dive headfirst into the biggest adventure of my life. This is relevant because I am going to be distracted from posting for a few days. So I figured that I would write now before a long day of packing and last minute exercising and make the post extra hefty to appease those who get on my case every time I neglect my blog for a day. Don't worry. I will tell you all about my travels after I get some much needed time with Mike. I really hope that FreeFlying is my flight attendant. Can you say cherry on top? 

So yesterday my family had a scare. Dad and I were visiting with my grandparents when I received a phone call from my Mom.

"Jess, you need to take your Father to the emergency room."

Now wait a second. I was sitting right next to the man. He was laughing, having a good time, was not bleeding profusely or giving birth. His skull was not cracked open and his limbs were all still attached. (Insert creative injury here) So you could imagine my reaction.

"Uh-buh-duh-whaaaa?"


My Mom had previously shared those little numbers that show up when you take your blood pressure to two specialists, my Aunt and the Mother of a little girl that my Mom takes care of. Both said that the numbers were so high that my Dad could easily have a stroke. That alarmed me. I looked over at him and imagined the whole thing playing out- the side of his face sagging, the collapse, the panic, all of it. And I immediately began to feel that sense of helplessness, even as he spoke to my Papa with that wide smile of his. Mom had already informed everyone in the family, but I was the only one with the power to act.

So I did. But we went to a clinic instead. Life's all about compromise, and sometimes you are forced to when emergency rooms are so ridiculously expensive.

They ran their blood tests, took their samples, hooked him up to machines, filled out charts, and medicated him. "Hypertension and extremely high cholesterol" they diagnosed. The doctor said that with an immediate and drastic change in diet and exercise while taking his daily medication, the problem would be taken care of. So we left the clinic with eased hearts, only Dad's was working harder than it should for a man in his early fifties.

As we headed home in silence, I took another long look at the man that raised me.

"Why are you so frustrated with Mom?" I asked.
"Because she made the whole family panic over nothing," he sighed.
"She reacted like that because she loves you. Remember when she had a bad reaction to that medical dye before her surgery? You popped a blood vessel in your eye."
"Yeah, I know."
"She told everyone because she knows that you won't listen to her about going to the doctor."
"I know, I know."
"Why did you listen to me?" I asked.
"Because you're... different," he whispered.

Me and Dad

I remember looking out of the window and sending out a mental thank you to whoever was worth thanking for giving my Dad another day to live.

Later that night, as I sat at my laptop and wrote out notes for my book, I could hear laughing in the kitchen. Dad was standing in the pantry examining labels of his favorite foods while Mom supervised. With each label he read, the amount of food in the house he couldn't consume began to gradually incline. "Sonofabitch," he'd mutter, and my Mom would laugh. Not that lighthearted chuckle, but a full fledged laugh from deep within her. I think she's as thankful as I am. Or she was mocking him with her hysterics.

Or both. I mean, she eats Halloween candy in front of him.

I don't know what kind of payback she seeks, but she is getting it.

Which brings me back to my trip to Alaska. I could not be leaving at a worser time. The man needs to be monitored. Just today he stole a piece of cake, drank a beer, and ordered a pizza. The moment I told him that he would be limited to one beer a day, I received the "Well you'll be gone soon anyway" eye roll. I suddenly feel like the suspecting parent who is leaving for the weekend and expects the house will be trashed when I return. Only instead of a house, it'll be his health. Beer or no beer, if it were up to me, he'd be living off of spinach leaves until his numbers improved.

Ah great, he's in the fridge again. "Dad, what is that under your shirt? And why are there crumbs on your chin?"


Gotta love him.

But I like purple!

So last night I babysat a friend's daughter and we had a little conversation that I thought my viewers would appreciate. It radiates pure cuteness.

Hailey: Do you have any carrots? I love carrots.

Me: Girl, with the amount of carrots you consume, you are going to turn orange.

Hailey: What?

Me: If you eat a certain food everyday, you can turn the color of that food.

Hailey: I'd like to be pink.

Me: (Silence in response to intensely adorable reaction)

Hailey: What food is pink?

Me: I don't know. What pink foods do you like?

Hailey: Pink cupcakes!

Me: I don't know if your momma and daddy want you eating pink cupcakes everyday.

Hailey: Well the frosting can be pink.

Me: Ooooh I see. Just the frosting? (snicker)

Hailey: And the cupcakes will be made of carrot cake. So we can turn pink and still eat carrots.

Me: Girl, are you sure we are not related?

Hailey: Huh?

Me: Nevermind. I'd rather be purple anyway.

Hailey: Ew!

Me: Why ew?

Hailey: That would just be weird Jessica.

Me: And pink is better?

Hailey: Well at least I wouldn't be purple!

Me: Stop hating on my favorite color, dude.

Hailey: Well stop hating on my pink carrot cupcakes!

Me: ...I love you.

The girl is a ninja at getting me to gawk at her responses. 
I just want to put her in my pocket.

Making progress, one step at a time

I have been relentlessly stalking blogs all day long. I still have no clue what I want to write about today.

I have no follow up statement at this time.

( 2 hours later )

So I have a few enterprises that I have in store for the rest of the week. I've been searching for a project other than my book for a while. I've hit a brick wall with that. So being my creative and fabulously productive self, I have decided that if I can't dedicate time to my book, I will devote it to my blog instead.

As you can see if you have been following my posts for more than a month now, my page has changed form almost every week. I just couldn't bring myself to settle on a look. (That's why I don't have any tattoos.) So I've finally settled on this current display until something better travels my way. Lord knows that I can't work my way around Photoshop. I managed to do everything in paint. My mad html/css skills were left behind in high school. But still, it captures what I wanted to express: the thin line between childhood and adulthood. I'm still lingering restlessly in between. I am considered an adult, but no one takes me seriously.

And voila! Epic banner that represents just that.

Onto more or less serious matters, a friend of mine who knows her way around the blog-o-sphere advised me to spread the word about my blog in a variety of ways; ways that will not be shared here as there were far too many ridiculous ones that I won't consider unless desperate. (I refuse to print out my URL on thousands of sheets of paper and spread them across campus. Never will I resort to that.)

Okay, I came up with that one in a moment of doubt. Don't judge me.

I just have this intense yearning to get started. I want to be in that comfortable place as a writer. (Does that place even exist?) Reality tells me that that won't happen until way later. That is considering, of course, that my blog takes off in the direction that I want it to, that I finish that ten novels that I've started, and that I can actually pull off doing this as a professional.

Oh Lord. No wonder no one takes me seriously.

I hope the deer were in costume too

Yesterday was disturbing, even for Halloween. My close friend Michaela and I thought, while disregarding the nature of the holiday, that instead of dressing like naughty nurses and getting trashed in town, we would instead venture off into the night with a camera and take some night shots for her final before graduation. The thought of standing in the middle of nowhere with only the stars above me and the crickets singing to me was romantic and the urge to catch it on camera was even more appealing. So we drove about in search of anything that would make for an interesting photo. Along the way a few oddly grotesque and somewhat alarming things happened to us. Half of me does not care to remember. My saliva is already starting to taste bitter.

So we were traveling along this dimly lit back road that led to New Braunfels when Michaela noticed something interesting on the opposite side of the road. Since no cars were around, it was safe enough to take a U-turn. Just before the turn as she began to slow, her headlights reflected off of something that made my insides churn. Before I could speak a warning, her tires went right though the bloody mess. At first I didn't know what to identify the corpse as. After my friend rolled over it and got another look, she thought it was a porcupine. But our second drive by proved otherwise. It was a ribcage. A freaking ribcage that was all maggoty and shit.

We decided to keep going and surprisingly, we were still in high spirits. I don't know what the frig was wrong with us.

We rolled to a three-way stop where another car sat perpendicular to us. Michaela waved them on, so the car continued forward. As it passed in front of us, her headlights shined through the window and illuminated a mask that was looking directly at us. It was white with hollowed out eyes, like two large black holes on a skull, and a malicious grin. Blood was pouring from the eyes. Neither of us screamed, necessarily. We simply exchanged nervous glances while thinking with warranted repetition, "Do not like, do not like, do not like, do not like, do not like!" 

Now those kind of spooks were to be expected, but nothing like the next two that followed.

After taking a few shots in a nearby park, Michaela and I got back into the car and hit the highway again. I was telling some elaborate story that I cannot recall now, as I was too distracted by the next bit to even care about finishing it off. In mid sentence, both Michaela and I caught site of a decapitated deer head that was on my side of the road staring directly at me as we sped past. "...so then I wa- EW! HOLY SHIT THAT WAS THE MOST DISTURBING THING I'VE SEEN ALL NIGHT."

(Pause for me to make noises that I do not care to type out.)

The next one topped it all, and Michaela was the first to see it. We traveled through the park a second time for a follow-up shoot and ended up getting lost. After a few turns here and there, she pointed through my window and shouted, "OH MY GOD." Of course, being, well, me, I looked over to see what she was gaping at. There limped a deer, half of the bone in its leg jutting out through its skin. And it was still standing. Like. Walking on it. That was when I screamed.

You'd think that being born and raised in the South, where seeing a restaurant called "The Roadkill Cafe" is normal, I would be somewhat used to the prospect of viewing dead animals on the side of the road. But this was just ridiculously morbid. I was practically being forced into seeing dead animals over and over again. That mask just made me jittery, weakening my defenses before I saw the real nasty stuff. We decided to head home after that.

For once I feel sorry for my food. This must be what it feels like when you actually watch those videos on YouTube titled, "What Cruelties Happen to Animals Before Consumed." Only firsthand.

This is going to make me think twice about finishing off that venison meat Dad has stored in the freezer, and I don't even know who to blame.