Uhh.

Y’know, I’m just going to walk away from this one.

– c.

The girls, however, would go into heat and liked to be… spanked. I’m not willing to explain how one spanks a rat. Or why I even complied. It’s not what you think.

Rats masturbating is not one of Those Things, but it is one of those things. Weird. How the hell do they do it? I guess they kind of have little hands, like squirrels.

And good eye on the tattoos. Never looked at it that way.

– c.

And rats masturbate too.

And one of the reasons I have tattoos, as a woman, is because if anything ever happens TO me they’ll be able to identify me more easily.

The man was folk-loric in stature, ability and homegrown wisdom. In case of zombie apocalypse–or Red Dawn-esque domestic invasion–his was the only house on any of our escape routes.

He could straddle mountains, ford mighty rivers in one step, shoot a fly from a ten-point buck’s antlers from a mile away and lasso a twister with a rattle-snake.

He was more at one with the world around him than any 10 drum-circle hippie liberals. The very earth would come up to meet him and the wind would move out of his way.

He was not the most open-minded individual but he ran a tight meritocracy where the burden was on you to prove your worth. He possessed true salt of the earth type wisdom and was fantastically full of shit.

I’m glad to have known him, even if he scared me shitless for more than half of my childhood. I took a number of his lessons to heart including knowing when to be full of shit.

I still don’t have a tattoo.