Well. Okay. Not every girl’s life. Apparently in mine though. Yeah. Anyways. Like I was saying. There comes a time… in my life… where I sit back and take in the situation. I sit back and realize… well. I. Am. A. Hillbilly. DAMMITALLTOHELLIMGOINGTOWEARNOTHINGBUTFLANNELFROMNOWON.
I’ve always had little inklings that I might have some hillbilly in me. I mean come on. Quads, Dirtbikes, my wonderful ability to forget to shower. There’s been a few times where I have reclined in my lawn chair in the backwoods of Wisconsin, sipping my coffee, throwing rocks at squirrels that the thought has crossed my mind. But come on now. I LIVE in a populated town. I don’t LIVE in the woods. I may prefer to ride a quad to the bar up in the middle of nowhere, but I’m more likely in a club in the city. Caaaan’t be a hillbilly. RIIIIGHT?
So I’m talking to my Dad today. He tells me he hit a deer up in WI with his truck. I guess the damage to the truck was minimal but he found the deer like 100 yards in the woods or something dead. So they’re butchering it. I get more venison. Ground. Steaks. Yay!
Let me rephrase the above paragraph so you can see how I realized I’m a hillbilly.
So I’m talking to my Dad WHILE he’s butchering a deer he killed with his truck. He tells me I get more venison. I get more excited about that than I did as a kid for Christmas. I promptly tell my friends, as if they could be more excited about dead bambi meat than I am.
I’m pricing flannel shirts and work boots on Walmart’s webpage as we speak.