I am still going to blows with ESSENCE Magazine, which I never ordered and tried to cancel three times but have been receiving since January 1st. So before I slap you in the face with one of the best memoirs my childhood has to offer, I’d like to again use this public forum to address a little something with ESSENCE.
Dear ESSENCE Magazine,
Today I received your newest issue, where the cover story (#1) features Idris Elba and what turns him on. I’m sure that Idris, whoever he is, is a very endearing chap, but I could give a rat’s something or other. How about I’ll settle for whatever money I’ll discover you’re screwing me out of as soon as I actually look at my bank statement?
In reference to (#2) …you should know that I don’t have hips and things are very questionable when it comes to my butt as well. Now if you want to write an article on how I can keep my jeans from falling off, maybe you’ll stop receiving these letters. Which brings me to point (#4) on how to go from a size 20 to a size 6. If this many of your readers are a size 20, maybe you should consider a section on recipes that don’t contain giant tubs of lard. Lastly, (#5) you should know that I wouldn’t ever take advice from Michelle Obama. She looks mean. Have you seen that jaw lately? Yikes.
Always,
Blunt.
Okay, the sheep. As I’ve said before, I grew up in the country. I was a poor, lonely, desperate housewife child living in the middle of nothing. At some point, I presented my father with a couple of options. And being the great father he was, he never shot down any ideas. Directly, that is.
Me: Sooooooo, I was thinking.
Dad: Yes?
Me: Well, since we live soooooo far away from everything, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get a horse?
Dad: Why would that make sense?
Me: So then I could go places.
Dad: Do you have any idea what it requires to take care of a horse?
Me: Yes. And I can say that with absolute certainty, after watching the neighbors.
Dad: But you don’t even take care of the cats - I end up doing it.
Me: I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Mom does it most the time.
Dad: Well, horses are rather expensive, how about we get something a little cheaper and easier to practice on first?
Me: And then I can get a horse?
Dad: Of course.
Me: Okay. What did you have in mind?
For the next 2.5 years, I woke up at 5 am, [1800's-style] and transported 10 buckets of water and oats out to my pathetic herd of sheep that seemingly multiplied by the day. We started with two. Again, after school I’d have to rush home to repeat the feeding ritual. Then before bed, again. Three meals a day? What are these things, PEOPLE? Actually, no, they are just fat freaking lazy animals that you can’t ride, which have no self control and eat all their food in two minutes, thus it needs constant replenishing. Of course, in the wintertime, this ritual involved a snowsuit and alot of tears. No one hates cold weather more than me. Everytime I went to the barn, all the water buckets were frozen. As I sat on the dirt floor and chipped away at the ice so I could refill the buckets, I would pray for God to remove this burden from me. As I was praying, I felt my desire for a horse evaporate into thin air.
Eventually, my dad sold the sheep to some guy who turned them into a fine dining experience. All eleven of them. Last week, as we were reminiscing about this experience, I made a very disturbing discovery.
Me: Hey, remember when I wanted a horse, but you bought me SHEEP?%$#^!
Dad: [laughs] Oh man. That was funny. Well, you know I did the same thing with your brother.
Me: You did?
Dad: Yea, he wanted a horse too so I made him take care of the neighbor’s one for a winter. After that I said, “So do you want the horse or the motorcycle?” He took the motorcycle.
Me: Wait. What? Motorcycle. He got a motorcycle?! That is B.S. I didn’t get ANYTHING.
Dad: You never asked.
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