they cry over…like, everything.

•April 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

One time I made a vegetarian cry. I felt kind of bad, but…come on…they cry over like, everything. Yep, it’s story time.

So I was a pretty hard core 4-H kid. I mean, everything I do is hardcore, so I had to inject my metalness into the local 4-H branch. (Poplar Valley, if you care.) I vaguely remember being Vice-President for a while, and I’m pretty sure I was President during my senior year. But I digress. Since I was a beef rancher’s daughter (which, incidentally, makes me like a million times more hardcore) I obviously excelled in the Market Beef project. Every year, I whipped my Angus-Gelbviegh into shaped, named it something hilarious, killed at the carcass show and cleaned house at showmanship. I rocked that project. 

I also rocked 4-H Congress, making tons of friends in the process. Generally, 4-H kids are the awesomest you’re ever gonna meet. There are, like with everything, exceptions to this observation. One of those exceptions happened to be in one of my workshop groups. She argued with everything anyone said, and for some insane reason, acted like she wasn’t completely ecstatic to be at 4-H Congress. (I know, WTF?) Anyways, she just happened to be in front of me in the lunch line. Since we 4-Hers love us some sammichs, they provided a variety of subs for us to choose from. I, being awesome, picked the roast beef sub. But Little Miss…let’s call her Peta, did not think this was that awesome. In fact, she thought I was right up there with Hitler. Here is a recreation of our conversation:

Peta: Oh my god! How can you live with yourself? You choose to live on FLESH?

Me: …um…what?

Peta: I can’t believe you’re actually choosing to eat beef. You’re supporting the suffering of animals.

Me: …yeah…no I’m not.

Peta: You know, people don’t need FLESH to survive. By taking supplements you can get all the nutrition you need and no animals have to die. Also, do you have any ideas how many chemicals go into the processing of those animals? (She takes a bite of her veggie sub and sips her Pepsi, of all things.)

Me: Okay, so we’re really gonna do this. *sigh*. All right. First off, it’s been proven that supplements cannot provide the proper amount of iron and protein that you get from beef. Second of all, very few chemicals go into meat processing. A lot less than that Pepsi you’re drinking. I’ve watched the whole thing done. Thirdly, these animals didn’t suffer. I know exactly how cattle are brought up; I’ve been living around it since I was born.

Peta: Those animals don’t deserve to die just for our consumption. 

Me: Then what do you propose they do? Should all livestock just be set free? Would it be better for them to be on their own, which they haven’t done in living memory? Yeah, I’m sure their survival skills are top notch. Do you realize how ranchers have to work just to keep cattle alive? Cows are stupid and just die. In twenty years they would be extinct from being unable to survive any winters on their own. And those deaths would be long, starving and painful. Why do you want them to suffer like that?

Peta: Well…I mean…

Me: Besides, more animals were killed in the process of making that hoagie your veggie sub is on. Do you have any idea how many animals are killed in the process of harvesting of the wheat for that hoagie? Rabbits, gophers, birds…mass combines don’t exactly stop everything to make sure they get out of the way.

Peta:…I…well….you’re eating one too!

Me: Yeah. I don’t have a problem with it. That’s Darwin for ya.

Peta: I guess…well…I didn’t realize that…

Peta then storms away, leaving her lunch with tears in her eyes, her shit having thoroughly been ruined.

That’s what happened. Nicole one, vegetarians zero. Look, I have no problem with what you choose to do with your body. If you think meat is murder, you go right ahead and think that. Whatevs, more power to ya. But don’t try and get sanctimonious with me, because every argument you have I can counter with three. And don’t try and tell me you’re healthy enough, because chances are you’re not. (Or won’t be for long.) And please, do not tell me how long you’ve gone without eating meat. I don’t care. To quote Jim Gaffigan, “Oh, you haven’t eaten meat in four years? Well I haven’t had a banana in a month. You don’t hear me bragging about it.”

And don’t e-mail me about being vegetarian with your arguments for anything I’ve written about vegetarians. Because I’ll probably just make you cry.

Advertisements

Quarantined!

•March 26, 2009 • 2 Comments

I’ve been stricken down by that nucleosis known as MONO. *insert kissing disease joke here* But apparently it’s a pretty interesting thing, according to that obnoxious little know-it-all WebMD. See, when I was little I had all sorts of problems in the tonsil region, so we yanked those suckers out at age 12. Apparently tonsil-less folk like me shouldn’t be this affected by the mono, but my other glands still hate me so they’re swelling up extra huge to make up for the lack of useless organs in my throat. My body is a jerk. Plus there’s this whole slew of potential other things that could be cooking all up in my juice, so we’ll just see where that goes.

Because my body rebels against all of the ill-advised reckless shit I put it through, here are a few of the many and varied occurences of medical oddities that have afflicted me:

Age 10: My horse decides to be a jerk and buck me off, breaking the growth plate in my right arm. Luckily, surgery was able to make sure I didn’t end up with one itty bitty ungrown arm. Two days after surgery, I got on the same horse who bucked me off again. And so we have concussion number one.

Age 11: A snow globe explodes in my hands, slicing my pinkie bad enough to require nine stitches. To this day, still no idea how it happened.

Age 12: Gettin’ them tonsils out. They gave me way too much anesthetic and apparently almost resorted to using the paddles to snap me out of it. I slept for two and a half days, waking only to puke up the blood I swallowed. Oh, and be tee dub, while I was under they decided to throw some tubes in my ears.

Age 13: My horse troubles continue and I get bucked off again. (Shut up, I train horses, it’s an occupational hazard.) This time it’s my poor little thumb that gets snapped. Nothing too weird about this, other than that now its full of the arthritis and I can tell when it’s gonna rain. Oh, and concussion number two.

Age 16: WORST PAIN OF MY LIFE. Because I’m the person that I am, I like to do things very fast that I’m really just not coordinated enough to handle. One of these things is the Risky Business sock slide. Well, one fateful day after branding, I thought I’d do said slide down the hall. I usually stop by falling or hitting a wall, and today was no different. However, on the floor next to the wall was a bag of used cow needles from branding. I managed to thrust my foot against that bag, simultaneously poking one of the needles out and pressing the bag against the wall which pushed in the plunger. Yep, just injected myself with cow enzyme. Good way to get blood poisoning, apparently. But the hell of it is, I didn’t even realize what had happened. I was just like, “why on earth did that hurt so bad?” Six hours later, I didn’t care how it happened because my foot was twice it’s normal size and I had to crawl upstairs to call for help. Crutches experience number one.

Age 17: Fall through some ice in a frozen river. I was able to pull myself out, but got all these scrapes and, you guessed it, concussion number three.

Age 18: Fall off the big blow up obstacle course set up by the National Guard and tear all three ligaments in my right ankle. Crutches experience number two. Also, it ended my varsity golf career and forced me to wear freaking ugly pink crocs all around Russia because they were the only shoes that my brace could fit under.

Age 19: Fall off the top bunk on a bunk bed. Concussion number three. Almost O’D’ed on ibuprofen. Then thought it was Thursday all week. Go me.

And now. The mono, and possibly more. At least none of this was a result of my falling….well at least not in a way that I can connect. Now it’s time for more sleep.

words not on a computer screen

•March 16, 2009 • 1 Comment

I’ve been reading lately. Reading books.

Reading used to be a huge deal to me. Throughout elementary school, I just read everything I could get my hands on indiscriminately. Since I was reading before kindergarten, I’d made it through all the school library’s Goosebumps and Nancy Drew by third grade, all the Fear Street and Baby Sitter Club by fifth grade, then just gave up on the school library and started hitting up the public library for Stephen King and Dean Koontz. I would just sit in study hall and read instead of doing my math homework. (Which I never did. I just turned a piece of paper with numbers on it everyday. Got a C. True story.) Then, around sophomore year, I just put the books down. (And picked the booze and boyfriend up. In retrospect, fair trade.)

Last year, I never read anything for fun because I was too busy swimming in the mandatory reading materials that engulfed my life. Somehow, I felt my free time was better spent watching movies than reading. Recently, however, I’ve had a change of heart. I’ve been reading up a storm, and not just Stephen King. Lately I’ve been obsessed with Chuck Palahniuk (who wrote Fight Club for the uninitiated.) For a normal person, this would be fine. But since I have this weird obsessive compulsion with knowing everything about everything, I won’t be content until I’ve read everything good old Chuck has ever written and everything written about him. Same thing happened with Mr. Stephen King when I discovered him in sixth grade. My mom had to set limits on when I could start a new book with him, because otherwise I would just clean out the library and sit around poking through literature. Not okay.

As of right now, I have read two Palahniuk books and have recently purchased a third that I have yet to start. But that’s not where my reading adventures end. Ever since I saw Sin City, it’s been one of my goals to read a graphic novel. When  I saw the preview for Watchmen, I knew this was it. But because I’m ADD and just read really fast rather than enjoy any of the pictures, I kept getting lost trying to absorb the cloud of plotlines that is Watchmen. I made it to Chapter 3, and then saw the movie in IMAX (which rocked my socks, be tee dub). Now, I still wanna finish it because I’ll be able to follow it without looking at the pictures and because Rorsatch (sp) is my new psychotic hero. I’m also halfway done with a poetry book by Charles Bukowski. This isn’t exactly a voluntary exploration of literature; I need to get a review done on this. Since poetry and I cordially hate each other, the only basis I had for trying to grasp Bukowski is because of the Modest Mouse song about him. Turns out, I don’t hate it. So I’ve just been reading up a storm up in here.

I don’t think I use paratheses or commas correctly because I use them all the freaking time.

The movie Evita is probably something that all band geeks should watch. Beyond that, I don’t see why anyone else would sit through that film.

I find out if I’m still an RA tomorrow. That means I can start planning my life.

I’ve had a really strong draw to tattoo parlors lately. Maybe it’s a spring cleaning sort of thing except with metal and ink.

I touched Zakk Wylde’s hand, and that officially makes me about ten times more badass than I was last week.

My Dorm Room: The Virtual Tour

•March 1, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Guess what I did, guys! I learned how to put pictures on here!

Yes, I understand that it is a Saturday night and this is unbelievably sad. But if you’re reading this little post, you obviously have less to do than I do. So I thought I’d give you guys a little taste of my life.

Coming soon: my shoe collection and a photo analysis of the creepy valentine I got.

P.S. You apparently have to click on the picture to get my commentary on these pictures. For the sake of productivity, just don’t do it.

Cowgirls

•February 22, 2009 • 2 Comments

I love Montana. Montana is cooler than your state. And because I am from Montana, that makes me cooler than you.

I’m always going to be Dad’s Little Cowgirl at heart. That is what I was born as, and it’s what I will die as. Even though I’m not a stereotypical cowgirl (I prefer metal to country, Silvers to Wranglers, Cons to cowboy boots, and I tend to be the slightest bit more liberal than my other rodeo friends) it’s still who I am. Cowgirls aren’t made out of belt buckles and lariats. Cowgirls are the ones who know how to change a tire. Cowgirls love the mud. Cowgirls never pass up an opportunity to have fun in concern of hair or nails. Cowgirls stop to help people stranded on the side of the road. Cowgirls try to jerry-rig themselves out of situations (a skill we learned from our dads.) Cowgirls shotgun beers with the best of them. Basically, you don’t wanna be on the wrong side of a fight with a cowgirl. (Because if you pick a fight with a cowgirl, you’re already on the wrong side.)

As much as I wanted to leave when I was there, sometimes I get more homesick for my old town than I ever expected possible. I miss being able to whistle for my horse and riding the plains for hours. I miss offroading. I miss walking up and down mainstreet at night. I miss exploring old abandoned houses. I miss jumping off the black bridge. I miss taunting the cops. I miss being able to leave my car unlocked without a second thought. I miss being able to see the stars every night.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore Great Falls. Much more than I thought I would. And I still plan on living outside of Montana after graduation, at least for a while. Maybe it’s just because people are starting to expect me to grow up (and those of you who know me know that whenever someone tells me to do something, I do the opposite out of principle.) Heading into this transitional phase of life, I’m apprehensive…but I know I’ll be able to handle it. Because I’m a cowgirl.

Moral Dilemmas

•February 17, 2009 • 2 Comments

Okay, guys. I’m struggling with my future. Now I wouldn’t leave my future up to the Internets, but I need to get out of my head for a while and look at this objectively.  Feedback would be appreciated.

Would you take a job from someone you believed to be morally reprehensible? Keep in mind, getting this job literally means that you can keep going to school. Without it, you would have to transfer or drop out all together. But the person you would be working for is a jerk and has personally done things that you would not let stand. (Things that you’ve considered rallying against with petitions and walkouts.)
I’m sorry if that is way too vague, but I don’t dare get more specific than that on a public blog. Please guys…would you take this job?

Way too metal.

•February 11, 2009 • Leave a Comment

I’m writing this directly after the Avenged Sevenfold concert, and I’m still adjusting to life outside the pit, so please forgive any incoherencies. Despite my desperate need to shower, take some ibuprofen and go to bed, I feel it prudent to chronicle my metal adventures before the awesome starts to wear off.

Metal concerts include many extremes. I’m not just talking about those “DUDE! EXTREME!” moments. I’m talking about actual polar opposites in the universe. When you wait outside in line, you are freezing. (Well, at least in Montana in the “winter” months.) This is because no one wears a coat to a concert! It’ll just get ruined! But the minute you hit The Pit, you will get hotter and hotter until the tee shirt you’re wearing seems like a parka. Don’t believe me? I went into The Pit with straight, shiny hair. It came out a curly, frizzy, tangled mess. For those of you who don’t speak hair, that means it got so wet from sweat that it curled right up to my head. It happens.

Also, there is a certain comradery in The Pit. Amongst all of the violence. People moshing, fighting, elbowing, clawing, groping, and me yelling at the red headed dude next to me that if he pushes me one more time I’ll break his fucking nose (true story; he left me alone after that.) But the minute someone gets the urge to crowd surf, or falls down, or nearly loses consciousness when a crowd surfer kicks your head (me again) you have hundreds of people there just waiting to help you out. Makes the whole “I think I’m going to die here” thing a little more bearable.

I’m pretty impressed with myself for actually construting those two paragraphs. I can barely do that when my brain isn’t all metal-addled. So here, true to my nature, are some random thoughts about metal concerts.

~Don’t judge a band before you hear them play live and see how they respond to the crowd. I’ve never been a big Papa Roach fan, but damn if he didn’t just get me even more excited to be there. A feat I though impossible.

~Bring a pony tail if you have long hair. Don’t wear in a pony the whole time (TOTALLY defeats the purpose of headbanging) but you’ll regret it if you don’t. I sure as hell did.

~Only at a metal concert will someone say, “Shit, was that your hair in my mouth? Sorry!” and have it be greeted only with a “No prob dude!” and no further thought or worry.

~If you get groped once: it was an accident. Twice: still probably not on purpose. Thrice: give ’em a glare. Four instances of groping allow you to elbow him and tell him to knock it off. Five or more, get physical and smack his head in. (Only at a metal concert would this scale be acceptable.)

~You know you’re at a metal concert when you can lift both feet off the ground but stay vertical because of the masses of bodies pressing against you.

~Cons are really the only acceptable footwear at a concert. Just make sure you double knot them.

~You are going to get alcohol spilled on you. Just accept it, move on and keep rocking out.

~The people in the back will never understand that simply pushing on the people in front of them will not osmosis them to the front.

~By any means necessary, GET TO THE FRONT.

~Bruises should be worn with pride. If you can’t remember how they got there, make something up.

~It would probably be a good idea to fill water bottles and leave them in the car, because when you get out the first thing you’re going to want to do is drink all the water in Great Falls. My friends and I are not smart enough to do this.

~Don’t freak out about staying with your friends the whole time. It’s just probably not going to happen.

~Metal is about being hardcore. Don’t go in expecting not to get sweaty, dirty, stomped on, pushed, elbowed, and bitten. (Yeah…was not expecting to get bitten.)

Well, that’s all I got. Time to hit the showers and then go to bed. I’m just going to finish this blog off with my Twitter reaction:

Ears ringing, neck aching, throat scratchy, hair tangled, toes stomped, sweaty, bruised, beaten…and I couldn’t be happier. 🙂