Many of you know I have a profound aversion for anything "hunting." I went to a store called Cabella's in UT the other day and almost threw up because of the hundreds of dead animals on display--including a grizzly bear and mountain lion. Although this aversion is basically irrational ( I eat meat often and realize those cows suffer a lot more than the deer), I am attempting to explain it here and now.

Story 1:
When I was a child, my grandfather would feed stray cats in the neighborhood. One such infamous cat was named blacky. He was always super mangy and frightening. At one point he attacked my grandpa who is diabetic and subsequently had to go to the hospital. I was under the impression that the cat broke and ripped up his arm, when really he only got a few cuts. Understandably, I was always terrified to enter their house for fear that blacky would be lurking, waiting for me. One day we road tripped up to my grandparent's home (12 hours in the car as a small child) and I was totally fried. We walked up onto the driveway to see this:

Some birds were eating blacky's cat food, which was unacceptable to g-pa because he so dearly loved the devil. So, logically, my grandpa had his GUN BARREL out the window pointing at the walk way (meaning me, as a small child) and had recently shot a bird which was flailing around, bloody and dying before my eyes. He told us to throw it in the trash which we would not do, so he came out and shot it a few more times. It still didn't die, but was thrown to its stinky grave still violently thrashing around.

Story 2:
My family took a backpacking trip to the wind river mountains. We fished during the day to catch dinner. I didn't really have a problem hooking them because it seemed pretty adult-ish and adventurous. My dad would remove the fish from the line and in one neat, swift crack, would whack the fish head, leaving it dead within seconds. Neat and tidy.
So, one afternoon my dad went up to get the fish cooking and left my little brother and I to get some more for dinner. Easy. We caught one and that is where everything went drastically wrong. We were unable to kill the fish:

We whacked his head repeatedly, guts and blood flying everywhere and all over us, but IT WOULD NOT DIE. Flailing and still alive, it totally freaked me out. We couldn't kill it but were making it suffer badly. Finally, screaming and covered in guts, we ran up to camp where my dad, surprised and alarmed, killed the dang thing with one hit.

And that, all you stalker boys, is why hunting is my deal-breaker.

*My uncle later shot blacky at the bequest of my grandmother, who was afraid she would get eaten alive. But never tell my grandfather--he thought the cat wandered away and died a peaceful death.


Beware the door.

This morning I arose at 4:30 am to take my darling roommate Rachel to the airport. It was fine because I had to go into work at 7 in SLC anyway. I was so tired after I dropped her off that I decided to find a parking lot so that I could take a quick nap in my car. I found an IHOP in a very sketchy area of town and settled down with many semi trucks for some zzzz's.

Once awake again I figured I should probably grab some breakfast in the IHOP. By the way, the prices at that restaurant are obscene for greasy eggs and overcooked pancakes. I digress-- the only other person in the place was "the tool." IHOP uniform unbuttoned to show his chest, shaved head, soul patch and an overall tough guy demeanor. His eye was stitched and he had bruises everywhere. It was also oozing.

He pestered me with questions even though it was now only 7am and I was clearly delirious, until he actually sat on my table asking me about my job and life. Not appropriate. He then informed me that he usually looked a lot better but got "hit with a door" last night. I think "door" is the codename of the girl's boyfriend with whom he cheated. He continually informed me we should have some coffee together because we were both so tired.

I got out of there in record time.



John Keats is my favorite poet right now. Here are two of his most famous poems:


Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.


When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charactry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love; -- then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.