Recently, someone was telling me cute anecdotes about their childhood, which encouraged me to think about mine. One of the memories that popped into my head was a yearly tradition the men in my family had -- deer hunting.
Now, as if filling poor Bambi's butt with buckshot wasn't bad enough, the adults thought it absolutely precious to have their children's photos taken with the carcass.
The eviscerated carcass.
I swear it's true. I have pictures of myself at about age five standing next to a dripping, gutted deer that had been hung from a tree in my grandpa's yard. Seriously.
Sometimes, they'd drive around from house to house with the carcass strapped to the front bumper. Oh joy. Some kids got to run outside to the ice cream truck. I got to run outside to look at large, dead mammals.
I'm not even going to start in on the bunnies, dozens of them, strung across my grandma's kitchen like Rob Zombie crepe paper
Now you know why I'm the way I am.
Nobody could survive that unscathed.