There have been many amazing things that have happened to me this year, from the shooting of my first buck to the amazing proposal that has rocked my world for the past couple of weeks. However, nothing could ever even closely compare with Christmas Eve past, a night that I will never forget.
Many years of self-loathing has forced me to evaluate my life action by action. I have a running laundry list of talents that make me grin with at least one of the seven deadly sins. Amongst these positive aspects of my person include: playing hockey, skating extremely quickly, eating rare steaks, understanding the deeper meaning of an obscure dead poet's divine masterpiece, realizing when wine has gone bad just by smelling it, adopting dogs that look sad (especially on SPCA commercials), cooking venison, and stealing every cover, pillow, or blanket within an 8-hour sleeping period (according to a study conducted by DU). The opposite list, chock full of those talents that I either need to work on or are wholly absent from my imperfect person, is much longer. For instance, I have no clue (really, NO AWARENESS WHATSOEVER) where any state is positioned on our beautiful map. Geography, a lesson in school that I must have slept through year by year, is beyond my intellectual grasp. I argued with my mother for a good week about where Montana was, I believed the state was just next to Ohio (wherever that is..) and she contended that it was quite a long ways from where we unpacked my college life in Niagara Falls. In addition, I lose everything. This little tidbit is a flaw which angers me to no end, one that I wish there were some pill to cure. Daily, every remote in the house, whether I have touched any of them in the previous twelve hours or not, always ends up in the crevice next to the wall on my side of the bed. My phone, of its own will and its interesting ability to sprout marathon-running legs whenever I require it, turns up in the most random of places from the inside of the refrigerator to in the yard, buried underneath 6-inches of canine-dug clay.
The Writing huntress
I hunt. I write. I wear what some consider an unnecessary amount of camouflage face paint.