(journal reflect 2/4/18 4:49 PM)

I was a few weeks into my first job off trail, mucking stalls at a horse farm. $10 a stall, twice a day. The horses hated me, and the locals proved to br very eclectic.

Dear Chris Pratt,

Today’s words of advice came from Kenny.

“You can’t run away forever”

Kenny was a local, as he said, born and raised Floridian. He told me about his estate being taken away, and last year he almost lost his legs ‘riding dirty’. But today he wanted to know my story, which, after mucking stalls by yourself for so long, you get somewhat annoyed by company. But Kenny was a nice guy, and his shirt informed me; “this beard is for her pleasure.”, so I figured I’d better take his advice. He shouted mostly complacent things from the roof above me as he patched it. He assured me he wasn’t getting paid, but doing it to help my boss out, and bring him good fortune hopefully.

The night ended with a lawn mower ride, a horse audience of me singing happy birthday to a voicemail, and then a lovely horse chomp of my shoulder. Crazy thing is, I’m not even mad at the horse. Seems like I deserved it. As if she was saying, “Why do you bother with fuck boys?”

No idea Libby, but I’ll treasure the bruised shoulder as a reminder to not sing happy birthday to them, especially not around horses.