You tell me...
Sometime yesterday afternoon, I think it was around noon-ish, I began to experience pains that I cannot even begin to credit, let alone tolerate, in my stomach/intestinal area. I do not know when I ate the alien, but da bitch has been in there, trying to get out, using all manner of sharp objects and vileness since then.
I guess I didn't have enough to worry about. (Hey, thanks God...for distracting me...) And, I also guess that I still don't, 'cause it's still bugging me. Not as bad, but...damn. I choose to see it as God's (weird) way of making sure I know that there are worse things in life than not getting a free horse.
They were polite, I'll give 'em that. But, that's about as far as I can go. I have this feeling that this is the first real, honest-to-God farm they've ever been on. You could see it on their faces. "Ewww. What's this stuff?" "Dirt." Duh. I had to get Eric to show them the barns. First of all, I wasn't going too far from the bathroom, as the seige had already started. Secondly, I didn't want to be forever associated with those structures. They're embarassing. Thank God they're not mine. Actually, if they were my barns, they wouldn't be in the shape they're in. But, still... Anyway, we started off with an email from the Dad saying that they wanted the horse to be somewhere nearby, so daughter can visit him and help rehab his leg. Mom shows up, and that's where it went to hell. Her and daughter tiptoe around, grimacing at the dirt and ask a couple of questions, then leave. Eric and I had the same thought which was to email them and invite them back out, on say, Sunday when it's calmer and Eric is off, to let them see the areas we use better and such rot. I incuded a short line about us hoping we'd be the ones to be able to give Desi (the horse) his new home. (While they were still here, Eric invited them to come back Friday night for the fireworks. We're starting the Agri-tainment season this weekend-more about that stuff later.)
The answering email said shit like...Daughter will be rehabing horse for the next four months (That's how long the vet said it should be til he's ridden again) and that she'd decide then what to do with him. And, thank you for giving us an option. Bite me. Why can't ANYBODY just be honest? Is it so impossible to say "Ew. Fuck no. We don't handle real farm life too well. Thanks anyway." I hate people who pussy-foot around and can't just BE HONEST. God for-fuckin'-bid you should go ahead and hurt me quickly so I can get the fuck over it. Oh, no. Let's string it out for four fuckin' months. Fuck that. I've been living this 1960's, acid-induced, off-off-off-off Broadway play that passes for my life for too long not to know how this is going to turn out. "Facilities", indeed. I KNEW IT. Whatever. I've mostly been too busy staggering around, rolling on the floor, being in pain and shit to be overly concerned about this. Between the uber-polite (pussy) brush off and the pain, I don't care. I'm just happy I'm not blaming myself, for a change. Jesus. I'd like to say that this does not dove-tail really, really well with all my other experiences with females and rich assholes, but then I'd be lying, which I do not do. So, it did. Ummm...I didn't need any further proof, by the way. I am and have been forever convinced that people suck, especially rich ones. Oh well. Whatcha gonna do? Me? I'm goin' back to the bathroom for a while.
I'll be back later...I hope.
The best part of this whole thing was that, late last night, I heard that thing about money and God that I added to the top of this thing, under the title. It made me laugh and I chose to take it as a little poke in the ribs from God. He still likes me, anyway. So does Eric and so do you guys, so those other people can just kiss my money-not-having butt. See ya.... P.S. I didn't cry or say 'fuck', either. Til after they left.
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