You leave me alone for a day, curled in bed and finishing all the books in my room, and this is what happens. I decide to write for debauchette and nightmare brunette, and not just to select one of the hundred labeled, catalogued, numbered word documents on my hard drive. No, I have time, and I certainly have no shortage of subject matter. I will write them something entirely new.
I long, right now, for the feeling of mucking stalls in the dead of winter, swearing and stripping off my gloves to punch through ice-caked water buckets, my fingers turning blue over and over again in waves. You're not a rider, a horse owner, until you've stood in an unheated barn at the crack of dawn, your warm breath condensing and immediately freezing on your scarf. I'm with K on this, though -- I like barn chores, the simple weight of the work.
reading: feministing.com
listening to: rest your eyes // azure ray
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