Fishing
It was a perfect afternoon. Exactly the way a summer afternoon at a cabin on a lake is supposed to be. Just to make it ridiculously patriotic, eagles were flying overhead. And there were ospreys. And swallows. I happily agreed to go fishing. But some little voice inside convinced me to take an ultram before setting out. I usually listen to little voices that convince me to take medication. My first fishing lesson involved putting a worm on the hook. Somehow I expected it to just sort of cling on for dear life like worms do in cartoons. The actual horror was worse than helping out at an embalming and I seem to remember tossing that comment out. Some entirely conscience-free individual invented a tool that is used to skewer down the entire length of the worm and them work his entire body up and over the hook so he covers it like a tube sock. I can only hope he died quickly but the shrinking and expanding hook-shaped corpse told me otherwise. Wishing to God that the bloody ultram would kick in, I whimpered that I was not going to be able to do the worm thing. Ever. I had to look over the side of the boat and deep in to the water every time a worm was sacrificed. Slowly I began to feel the familiar melting of the world around me and I knew that at last the medicine had reached my blood stream. Adolescent fish after adolescent fish was sacrificed to my newly found blood lust. When they say hook and release what they really mean is hook then shove a medieval torture device down the gullet of said fish, wrench around till the hook can be pulled out and then release the fish back in to his watery tomb. And in my blissed-out state I got very sunburned on half my face and chest so now I look like the joker from batman.