Picnic

My Goal: experience life stories and write about them. Reality One: Too much time experiencing life stories and not enough time to write about life stories. Reality Two: Too much time set aside for writing life stories and not enough life for the stories. I am nearing the end of four whole days off in a row and somehow I have managed to fill my free time with doing all the things. Now for Reality Three: live and write.

 

My journey with Kimberly today was quite magical. We encountered a strange little castle, complete with turrets and a small toad that, despite how many times Kimberly kissed him, refused to turn into her prince. Maybe that only works with frogs, but there was a castle right there, come on. I was quite sure he was the dashing Prince of Rural Fergus and that Kimberly was destined to reign over all of the dusty side roads. Alas, I was wrong. Failing our attempt to make her a princess, we travelled on.

 

It's all just practice for when you're older...
It’s all just practice for when you’re older…

Our greatly anticipated destination today was Kimberly’s bush. She isn’t very good with directions so we had to back up a few times and try again, but eventually we got there. Everything else about Kimberly is so pristine that I was a little surprised at the wilderness that opened up before me.

 

“This place is so quaint,” Kimberly said. “Just follow me down this path. I made you delicious sandwiches for our picnic…” I stood, looking down a dark tunnel of twisting ominous tree branches and sharp curling bramble, an empty MacDonald’s bag to the right of me, a dead sheep to the left. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had reached into her picnic basket, pulled out an apple and said, “Come my child, only a little further.”

 

Nature walks with Kimberly.
Nature walks with Kimberly.

I decided to trust that Kimberly was a great friend and had no reason to kill me even though I am quite pretty. Our friend Naomi, though, is quite literally the fairest of them all. Naomi, if Kimberly ever invites you here, please make sure that you bring an entourage of small men, trust the birds and don’t swallow (anything poisonous).

 

We made our way to a clearing (and by clearing I mean an area in the forest where nothing was taller than our thighs) and laid out the picnic blanket. Kimberly’s arugula, mushroom and Swiss cheese sandwiches were absolutely amazing. We also dined on fresh Ontario strawberries, glutarded choco-choco-chip cookies, vegetable skinny sticks and washed it all down with swigs of lemonade straight from the bottle because we’re so fancy. The mosquitoes also had a delicious meal, tapping in wherever the little whores could find a spot to stick it.

 

Our mosquitoes sang "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole," by Martha Wainwright.
Our mosquitoes sang “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole,” by Martha Wainwright.

After lunch we decided to walk down to the water, but Kimberly tripped over all the wood and ended up on her back. We opted for a casual stroll down the country road instead. Despite the tractor that almost hit us, the walk was quite peaceful; it was just what I needed after a busy week of work and a busy weekend of playing. Just when I was thinking that nobody actually lived out here and that all the houses were abandoned because some mysterious creature was ravaging the countryside, a young man on a bicycle came out of nowhere. He was lean and muscular with sharp cheekbones and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He also had blonde dreads swept up behind his head that we decided, after a brief debate, were attractive because it was summer and his skin was like gold.

Hard to find. Harder when you find it.
Hard to find. Harder when you find it.

I tried to leave a voice reminder about the pros and cons of Caucasian dreads and was left with this message on my phone:

 

Remind me in 5 with stick to talk about white boys having summer dress being OK with a banging can but in the winter can you just add Pacey guy with the winter drives and that’s really trashy.

 

All in all, a golden tan with luscious twisting dreads are hot. Pale skin and greasy dreads are not. The really hot dreaded cyclist smiled with the corner of his mouth and said hi. If this were a real fairytale, then he would have been the prince that Kimberly took home. Unfortunately, the only thing that Kimberly took home was the stench of dead sheep on her dog’s breath because dear old Mildred must have snuck a nibble from the carcass when we were not looking.

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2 thoughts on “See Dick Picnic.

  1. Just randomly found this blog (I hate the word blog), so far its interesting.
    It’s definitely peaked my interest. I still have no clue how the hell I got here though from looking up recipes online,lol. I blame too much internet and not enough sleep. Really confused by the phone message part of this post a though..?…But the end about the sheep is funny. Reminds me of my dogs doing about the same thing in the past. Thank god for doggy toothbrushes super minty toothpaste, lol.

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