My Heart, The Hare

You ever worry about your heart competing with your brain for what’s truly good for you?

I’ve been searching for a dog and my track record with dogs is…not great. I’ve adopted three over our 11 year marriage and they have all been, shall we say, special. The first was lovely but would sprint out any door, gate or window and run away from you, joyously, for hours. He was all of 15 pounds and delighted in biting cows and chasing horses.

The second, Jack, is a beagle who had three homes before I took him.

Worst. Dog. Ever.

He ate our couches. He screams constantly. He smells like he’s dead inside and after 10+ years, we still can’t keep him from getting on the table.

And then there’s Sadie, who the internet knows affectionately as Derpy. Derps is half lab, half rottweiler, and a total anxiety filled dork. We like to joke that she loves me so much that she wants to live in my skin, but it seems less of a joke when you see how she looks at me. She’s 110 pounds and can open doors. At 9, she’s got about one and a half good legs left, an overblown sense of self-importance, and opinions on when she should be fed. She possesses the rottweiler gift of gab but does it in high-pitched yaps and whines.

She is also the most accident-prone, most expensive dog I’ve ever owned.

Having not learned my lesson, I’m looking for another dog. For many reasons. Honestly, in part because I know Derps won’t live forever and that’s a pretty big hole to have in my heart.

Also, the town is getting rough. Just last Thursday I had somebody reverse directions and cross two streets to walk up to me as I got out of my truck. They told me they were carrying a socket set around, and then wanted to chat about how the wood in my gutter was in my way (we’d had a tree removed.) It was just one of those encounters where you leave it knowing that wasn’t a normal, sober human interaction. It’s becoming a very frequent occurrence, too, along with the break-ins.

So I want a dog. A big, fuck off dog to come running with me and go on car rides. I’ve been searching German Shepherds and Belgian Malanois specifically.

All this to say, I caught myself explaining my excitement to my husband on the phone as “my heart moves faster than my head does, I need to calm down and let my brain get caught up.”

That’s stuck with me over the last week. As somebody prone to intense passion about projects and life decisions, I can see where that fact-the hare of my heart versus the tortoise of my brain-keeps getting me into trouble. I follow a heart which loves too quickly and never learns from old hurts. I make impulse purchases if they make me laugh. I bought a giant house that I have no hope of keeping up the maintenance on. I adopt stupid dogs because they’re the first ones I meet and I instantly love them.

When you realize your heart is racing out ahead of you and all your time is spent trying to hold together the pieces of everything its crashed through, it puts some interesting perspective on your desires.

I want a convertible stick shift two door. I can’t fit dogs in a car like that. I can hardly fit my family in a car like that. But does that make me want it any less? Hell no. It’s going to be 75 degrees tomorrow, of course I want a sporty convertible.

I want a horse. I want to get swole like Thor. I want to write and shoot movies and live on multiple continents and live on the ocean and publish books and have ten dogs and fast cars and talking parrots and learn how to sail on tall ships. I want to go fishing in the ocean and whitewater kayak and eat in fancy restaurants and hike through the rainforest. I want a horse. I want to be so busy that somebody else is booking my flights and hotels and I just have to show up places and be fabulous. I want to plant a garden and quilt and paint and luxuriate in bed for hours every morning. I want to do everything.

I’ve been told I can’t do everything.

Lately one specific, picturesque ideal in my head has been troubling me. I’ve always wanted to have a house out in the middle of nowhere, much like my grandparent’s home place. Dirt roads. Miles from everything. Low light pollution, and quiet at night.

No trains. No cars. No neighbors shouting at each other. No 2AM motorcyles and constant sirens.

Stars, solitude, and self-sufficiency.

Space.

And yet, I don’t know. It sounds perfect. I know I like being alone, and being away from the bustle would be nice. This is where my heart gets into things.

Because this is what my heart wants, what it keeps coming back to. A solitary place where people don’t just show up unannounced. A place with acreage and not another home in sight. Where I can make as much or as little noise as I want and, save for nature, that’s the only noise there is.

I also know that isolating is what I do when I get depressed. I like being alone regardless, but solitude like that is not a good thing if you’re mentally struggling. Last night it gave me pause, and I had to question—which part of me has painted this picture, my heart or my brain?

Or, on the other hand, is this what my heart and brain need together? A place of quiet, with more time, less noise, and as much calm as I can handle? Maybe this is my heart telling me it’s tired of running recklessly about and needs to find a calm center. Maybe this is my brain finally talking sense into my heart and requesting it go a little slower.

I was talking with a therapist (not mine) and she mentioned that people have a mid-life crisis for a reason. That when you’re like me, type A, an over-achiever, striving to be the master of all you do, eventually you get tired. The return is not worth the investment and it wears you down until you break, because you don’t know how to change but you also can’t continue.

I don’t want to get to that point. There has to be a balance between passionately chasing dreams and taking time to breathe, but I don’t know where it is. I don’t want to get to 45 or 50, look back and go, “It wasn’t worth all that work.”

I want to learn how to slow down before I break. To temper my heart before it grinds itself to dust and blows away.

So I look at this country fantasy and wonder. Is it a depressive lie? Is it another fanciful dream that I think I want in principle but would hate in reality? Or is it some combination of heart and brain trying to apply the brakes before we crash headfirst into the wall we know is around one of the upcoming corners?

It’s going to take much more thought but I do know one thing—nobody tells you how many dogs you can have when you live miles from everything.

Uncle "Jim" and the bull that hurt its dick

Of course you want to read a blog post with a title like that.

I have a story coming out with Tough Crime on Monday that started with me reading a whole ton of Cormac McCarthy, and then thinking about the concept of write what you know.

And accountancy is really fucking boring.

If you’ve met me or have seen pictures, it’s probably not obvious that I love westerns. I’m dying to own my own horse again and if I didn’t have to consider anyone else in my decisions, I’d have a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, miles from everyone, with a menagerie of animals and huge garden. Yes, I would miss Netflix, but my library would be vast and I’d take in every sunset.

Also, I’m a descendant of homesteaders and cattle ranchers. I have relatives that were, in fact, born in a barn, and many family members that still make their living running cattle over thousands of acres. I myself was born in Gillette, Wyoming, and we moved to Cali when I was six.

I consider California my home state. It’s in my blood and I will forever be grateful I grew up here. Though not the most diverse end of the state, the exposure to other ideas, other ways of life, helped me to form my own opinions away from the narrow-mindedness I sometimes find back in Montana.

That said, I love my roots. Or, better, I love the country they’re sunk in. My childhood is filled with memories of spending the summer at my grandparent’s house, of moving cattle and riding through the hills, of the horse I owned the front half of and my grandpa telling me to drink like a lady (yeah that one never stuck.)

We usually went back once or twice year, depending on what was going on with the family. It’s about 1500 miles from Northern California to Ekalaka, Montana, the town my mom grew up outside of. It has a tiny little main street, a great dinosaur museum, a population under 400 and is the county seat. She grew up in a smaller place called Mill Iron, which is mostly where two gravel roads happen to meet. They had a one-room school house and I believe the teacher lived on-site.

One of my favorite memories of driving back, I swear to god, is getting yelled at for laughing with my siblings, but that’s a different story all together.

Having family that runs cattle in an isolated part of Montana can be complicated. I love my family but like I said, the privilege of growing up in California allowed me to form a worldview that includes people who aren’t carbon copies of myself in skin color, beliefs, and/or sexuality. It makes for interesting visits at times, but if you just nod and go mmmph enough times, you get through it.

Part of what I love in that area is the land itself. It’s wild and beautiful and spacious enough to get lost in. So long as you close the gates behind you, you can roam as far as you like, across hills and through forests and up amongst the sandstone.

Probably not what you picture when you think of Montana forests and prairies, but one of the best features of the area is the sandstone. As seen and modeled here by the wonderful Trex. Those pictures are specifically of Medicine Rocks State Park and worth wandering through if you’re ever in the area. Or, more realistically, making them a destination because there’s not many reasons you’d be passing through.

One place in particular is called the Ludwick pasture. I’m sure at one point I knew who Ludwick was, but hell if I can remember now. Still, it’s been a source of great memories for me and most of my cousins.

Did I mention my grandparents had 9 kids? There’s a lot of cousins.

But throughout the years we’ve spent a ton of time out there. Once we camped for days. Other times we’ve had picnics and barbecues. Very few trips are made to that part of Montana without visiting the Ludwick pasture at least once.

Picture hills and the scraggly pines of southeastern Montana. A steep climb levels out into a plane of prairie grass, almost in a private, forest-hidden valley. On one side towers great columns of sandstone, eaten away by rain, wind, snow and time. There’s arches, holes, caves, and pathways the water flows off the stones. If you can find the right one or climb up, the tops are vast and flat, usually close enough to hop from one pillar to another. One one side you can walk right up onto the rocks while there’s a good 20-30 foot drop on the opposite end, leading into the small valley.

With the wind whistling through the trees, there’s a misleading sound of water at all times, though the country is dusty and dry most of the summer. Sage and pine scent the air while sand and pile needles wheedle their way in between your soles and socks. There is not a thing to do out there except whatever you like, and it’s a perfect place.

That, essentially, is where I set the story that’ll come out in a couple of days. That dust, the dirt, the pines, the sandstone and the baking summer sun-that’s what I wanted.

“Okay but this has nothing to do with the promised bull dick!” you complain, because that’s what I know you’re all about.

I’m getting there. I just got caught up writing love letters to some of my best childhood memories.

If we circle back to my family being more conservative, we’ll get to the bull dick.

The reason such a tiny town has a great dinosaur museum is because it’s part of something called the Hellcreek Formation. If you’ve heard about Badlands dinosaur digs, and Sue, that’s in the same area. There’s so many dinosaur fossils popping up out of the ground that sometimes it takes a couple years after reporting one for a crew to come dig it up.

One of my uncles, we’ll call him “Jim,” owns land that includes what people call the Chalk Buttes. The chalk buttes, when wet, get gummy and slick, easily eroded by the water and snow. The buttes are full of various fossils, though usually in tiny pieces due to the instability of the buttes themselves. They shatter and roll down through the mud but sometimes, things like talons and femurs pop out of the hillside.

When visiting with fossil buffs and younger family members, the buttes are a wonderful place to explore. If everybody takes a sandwich bag, you can spend hours picking little bits of fossils and stones from the dirt, all over the hillsides.

That’s how I found myself riding in a side-by-side with Trex (my son) and Uncle Jim. We’d already ridden horses and picked wildflower bouquets and were now heading out to the Chalk Buttes, leading a procession of pickups full of cousins, aunts, uncles and Grandma.

There had been a lot of talk from Uncle Jim and his wife about a vet visit the next day. They were checking how successful the IVF breeding had been versus the bull breeding and were going to have an early morning of it. I could tell he was a little careful picking his words when he answered my questions about what all was involved, and how the vet would be able to tell the difference between the two, but didn’t think much more of it.

We picked fossils and minded a couple rambunctious young boys on the edge of the buttes, caking our shoes with mud and trying to find cooler items than everyone else. When we went back for dinner, we traded my sister for Trex, who hopped in the truck with his grandma.

Conversation drifted back to the next day’s events, the farm, and some of the wildlife we saw along the way.

Turning back towards the house we spotted one bull alone in a smaller field and inquired about it. The answer, very simply, was “Oh he got injured so we’re giving him some time to see if he gets better.”

Which leads naturally to, “How’d he get hurt?”

“Oh, it happened when he was out with the herd.”

Weird answer, Uncle Jim, but maybe I’m bad at taking hints. Also, like I said, I grew up in California and generally fail to be the tender, virgin-eared wilting flower some people expect woman to be.

“Did he get in a fight with another bull?”

“Kinda. Not really.”

Me, continuing to be as dense as possible: “So what’d he hurt? His leg or something?”

Uncle Jim, shifting uncomfortably, says, “Well, no.”

Clearly, I can not take a hint at all. “What happened to him?” I quite innocently ask.

“Well, it happened when he was mounting a cow.”

“Okay. Did he fail the dismount?”

“Sorta.”

“But he didn’t hurt his leg?”

“No.”

“What did he hurt?”

Then Uncle Jim caved, but only sort of. “Well, we think another bull hit him and and knocked him off the cow, that’s how he got hurt.”

“Ohhhhh,” I say, and we move on.

At least until I get alone with my sister, at which point I fall apart in laughter and inform her, who had no idea what my uncle meant, that the bull was mounted on a cow, doing what he’s supposed to be doing, when another bull rammed him off.

His dick. The bull twisted his dick when he fell off the cow and in no way could my uncle find the polite, appropriate words to tell us that.

To this day it remains one of my favorite memories of that uncle, and a great reminder of the divide in what we find socially acceptable.

What bearing does that have on the story I wrote? None, really, though calving is involved. It’s just something I remember and laugh about every time I think of that visit in particular.

I hope you check out the story on Monday and support Tough. Have a great weekend, friends.

November 2019 Letter to Myself

I’ve been having trouble writing and my mind was racing one morning, so I wrote down what was in my mind instead. It helped me express what I was struggling with, and helped my therapist figure out which directions we needed to head. I sat on it for a while but like I said in yesterday’s post, other people talking about their struggles inspired me to seek my own help and if I can do that for at least one other person, it’s worth it.

I have trouble labeling myself as depressed, as somebody with depression. I don’t know why. It feels false, it makes me feel like a phony. I’ve never self-injured I don’t think, I’ve never been unable to get out of bed for a week.

Then again, sometimes I do just want to lay down on the floor and cease existing. Sometimes it takes every last ounce of anger and pushing to get myself to get up and keep going another day. A lot of days I feel like what I’m doing is all just busy work, it doesn’t matter, and I can’t see the point in continuing.

Not suicidal-ly. More like, why am I working so hard and exhausting myself for nothing that matters.

A lot of days, I feel flat and emptied out. I can’t read. I can’t write. I can’t do anything but stare at my phone until it’s time to go to sleep.

I see the things that are slipping around me. The bathrooms in the house are atrocious. Not unsanitary, but the sinks haven’t been scrubbed in months, the floors unwashed, the ledges dusty.
I feel like my whole house is like that. It’s slipping. My boundless energy has flagged and now I get home and do nothing. It’s all I can do to stay awake through dinner and go to bed.
My houseplants go unwatered. I haven’t watered the lawn in over a month. I don’t want people to come over because I’m ashamed of the state my house is in.

I listened to a short audiobook called The Burnout Generation and saw myself in its pages, in the inability to stop working even when it comes to my personal life, to getting so low that all I can do is stare at my phone.

I’ve started listening to Furiously Happy, and it upset me even more. Not the book, the book is wonderful and a stark look at anxiety, depression, and surviving. And bad taxidermy.

What upset me, however, was the dawning realization that this might be my new reality. That all the disappointment I felt when I started feeling bad again could be the cycle of the rest of my life. And honestly, has likely been the cycle up until now.

I’ve always had anxiety. I have panic attacks when I go into stores alone and have since I was in middle school. Malls are my personal nightmare and home improvement stores a step behind.

Going new places is the hardest thing I ever do. I stick to the same routes, the same restaurants, the same grocery stores. My anxiety dictates what I can and can’t do, and what days I can do it.

For example, I’ve gone to play soccer twice in another town. The first time, I had to actively push myself every single inch of the freeway to drive up there, to find the right field, to park, to actually put on my cleats. Now, the mere thought of returning is enough to give me panic attacks. Why? Who knows. I sure as hell don’t.

I understand that the depression could be temporary. That it could be a culmination of my fluctuating health and constant anxiety. Or it could be a permanent part of me, a hereditary inability to adequately deal with serotonin, exacerbated by my health issues. Looking back, I feel like I can see the pieces of it that have always existed yet failed to coalesce until now.

I don’t know why this feels like such a hard shift in my personal identity. I don’t tell people because it feels cliché. “Depression? Who doesn’t have depression by this point?” Also, because it feels commonplace and cliché, I worry that something that absorbs so much of my energy and focus and waking hours will be dismissed. I don’t think I could bear it. I feel like I’m scrambling to duct tape my pieces together so I don’t crumble apart and I can’t impress that upon people. I can say “I’m struggling with depression” but they don’t understand.

Depression is like my own personal Mike Meyers, always one step behind, and if I stop being vigilant or dare rest, it’ll catch up to me, raised knives and shrieking music, the works.

 I’m a little more open about my anxiety but only when pushed. “Why did you run ten miles?” “Because physically exhausting myself is the only way to keep my near-crippling anxiety from overtaking me.” “Why didn’t you come to my barbecue?” “Because anxiety won that day and I couldn’t leave the house.”

Absorbing depression into my identity, pointing at that little chunk of myself and identifying it thusly, is proving very hard. Coming from a background of self-blame and unreasonable “personal responsibility” (i.e. what did you do to make that person insult you/creep on you/hurt you,) I feel like I don’t deserve the diagnosis, that it’s my own fault and I just have to work myself out of it, that I’m attention seeking, that I’m a liar, that I’m being dramatic, and on and on. That if I just stop thinking about it and not make it about me, it’ll go away.

Rationally, I know that all those things I just wrote are bullshit and if somebody came to me and said them, I would tell them as much. Unfortunately, that doesn’t translate. Knowing they’re bullshit doesn’t help me internalize the fact.

So I guess this is my letter to myself, as I see the truth in between the lines I’ve written.

I know things get better from here. I know that I’m taking the right steps, and I have a great doctor and therapist on my side. I know that I’m fortunate to have those things, and to have the medications to stop me from crawling any further down into that dark hole.

I know that I have friends that love me, and the world’s most wonderful husband who supports me, hears me, and holds me while I cry over missed social engagements and my own brokenness.

Someday I won’t feel flat. I won’t feel like a bleached dishcloth, wrung out and tossed in the back of the rag cupboard. Someday I’ll enjoy talking to people again, I’ll enjoy seeing friends. Someday I won’t just feel anger as somebody tells me about their day.

But for now, the anger makes me feel alive, because at least I can still feel that.

Until that someday, however, this is my reality, and I’ll celebrate the fact that I’m here. I’m getting better, and doing the right things. I’ll work on absorbing this new title, this new piece of me into my identity, placing it like a tattoo you only want to show certain people.

My name is Kristin, and I have depression.

My name is Kristin, and I have overwhelming anxiety.

My name is Kristin and this doesn’t change who I am, but only defines parts of me that already exist so that I can get better.

My name is Kristin, and this is my depression. I’m doing my best to dress it up in coattails and a bow tie, but it’s a work in progress. Bear with me.

Medical Gaslighting, Soccer, and Little Old Me

I jokingly refer to this as my “I could have gone pro if I hadn’t blown out my knee in the championship game” story. I don’t tell it much, because it feels…hard to say. Whiny, I guess? Mostly because there is an element of “I missed my chance” to it, which feels petty and stuck in the past.

But in truth, it’s not what I missed. It’s more a story what wasn’t done, and something I’ve started referring to as Medical Gaslighting.

Why talk about it now? The world cup definitely brought a lot of this bubbling back to the surface. I used to play against Rapinoe; we were in different city leagues & traveling teams that competed against one another. She’s so fucking fierce and proud and amazing, and I don’t even have words for what it’s like to see her dominate as she has. She worked hard to get where she is and I love watching her.

But also, I find myself fighting the medical establishment again. This new fight, along with the knowledge of how doctors tend to dismiss women, has inspired some reflection. And the only conclusion I arrive at, time and again, is anger. Rage. The kind that heats in the pit of your stomach until it sparks and consumes your whole chest.

To start, I was a soccer player. A very, very good soccer player. As much as that sounds like braggadocio, I can back it up. I had a lot of great coaches over the years that helped me grow, and in high school I further refined my skills playing on the boy’s team, eventually as a starter. When I was awarded All League my senior year, I was the only girl to have ever been given the honor in our division.

I had a coach ask me to play for him my freshman year of college but due to switching schools last minute, I didn’t that year. Instead I took a soccer class for fun, and that coach begged me endlessly to join the women’s team until I relented. So my sophomore year of college, I joined and unseated the current sweeper as a starter (I don’t think she ever forgave me.)

That’s where it really starts, that season of soccer I played in college. I hurt my back early on and played until I couldn’t walk upright anymore. Game after game, fighting the constant spasms, hardly able to walk across campus during the day. Things weren’t good on the team, due to the coach I agreed to play for departing and leaving a couple assholes in his place, but I tried, pushing through so much constant pain and agony, spasms nearly dropping me between classes.

Until one day, I couldn’t anymore. I couldn’t run more, I couldn’t hurt more. It’d been months and I had no more to give. If you know me in person, that’s saying a lot. I’m physically a “go until failure” sort, and I hit the failure point.

I think about this point in my life a lot with my current doctor fight. As of right now, I can safely eat a very limited variety of foods. The list of what I can eat is shorter than what I can’t. “What’s causing it?” people ask. I don’t know. “You should see a doctor!” they helpfully* say. “What does the doctor think it is?”

Well. A doctor would have to actually listen to me when I tell them I’m not okay. That would be a good starting point to diagnosing why I can’t eat but so far… I’m still waiting for that to happen. And even if they listen, I don’t have a few thousand dollars sitting around to lob at tests (Go American medical establishment!) So the doctors go “Well, you look healthy enough,” and dismiss me, time and again.

After a while, if nobody thinks you’re sick, you start to believe that you’re the crazy one.

I’m fortunate in that I have a supportive group of people to lean on, who remind me that what I’m dealing with isn’t normal. Who assure me I’m not losing my mind. Who want to go strangle the doctors who dismiss what I say out of hand, doctors who ask “Have you considered cutting ‘x’ out of your diet?” while holding the list I’ve handed them of everything I’ve cut out of my diet, including ‘x.’

Even so. Am I the crazy one here? It lingers in my mind, dogging my every concern, whispering just accept this, there’s nothing wrong, this is just how things are now, even as I lose weight and go through bouts of being too sick to eat at all.

Not to mention the exhaustion. I have a very hard time fighting for myself and when I work up the gusto to do so only to be called a liar by a doctor, it’s crushing. I’ve been fighting for…what, 3 years now? 4? Eventually, the bastards do wear you down. I’m nearly too tired to fight anymore. A part of me wants to haul my family with me to every medical visit, just so they can fight instead. I don’t have much left in me to do it myself.

Which is more or less what happened with my back. Eventually, I became the crazy person, attention seeking and making things up. And if I’m bad at fighting for myself now, it was even worse when I was younger.

It started with a lot of shrugs in the Sports Medicine building. An intern almost solved it, I know that now. She stretched my hips a certain way and the pain let me know she was on to something. But then her boss said “IDK, here’s a chiropractor to go see,” and kicked me out.

A chiropractor who ran through my insurance money like it was a challenge, hurt me worse, and then told me “Well it’s going to spasm a lot more before it starts getting better.”

Then a doctor who shrugged and said, “I don’t think you really know what a spasm is.”

Then the next doctor, who looked at an X-ray, shrugged, said “You know, a lot of people suffer lower back pain,” and dismissed me from the exam room. He said that to a 19 year old woman, in good physical shape, who couldn’t walk upright.

There was no help. No relief. No suggestions of what else to do. Just apathy, disbelief, and dismissal. I was benched the rest of the season and the woman who’d been scouting me for the university team disappeared. It took my back another three months to stop spasming once the season ended.

What I know now, nearly 15 years later? One good physical therapist could have helped me. One person looking at 19 year old me, laying on the ground, nearly unable to get up, and taking me seriously could have saved me untold amounts of pain. I finally saw a physical therapist at 32, and we dealt with what happens in my hips to make my back go into spasms. I can stop things now before they get bad, without having to spend four days in bed every time, as I’ve been forced to for years. At 32. After I finally sat in a doctor’s office and told them I didn’t want to talk about it, I just wanted a referral.

The bitch of it is, if you talk to your female friends and loved ones, this isn’t an uncommon story. Almost all of us have tales of misdiagnosis, dismissal, and outright being accused of lying by doctors. It keeps us from going to the doctor when we should. It makes up put off visits for too long, ignoring dangerous signs, risking our lives.

Women die from this. This kills people.

Couple that with what we know now about how medication’s effects on women isn’t studied, how we’re not given the correct dosage because nobody bothered to figure it out, how a medicine designed to stop a woman’s pain was deemed better used to make men’s dicks hard, how for years nobody bothered to understand how heart attack symptoms manifest differently in women…on and on and on.

There’s a malfeasance in medicine and when I stop to look back on what it’s cost me, in terms of pain, in terms of opportunities, in what it’s cost the other women in my life, I want to simultaneously weep and break things. Fall apart, and march in the streets. It’s as heartbreaking as it is rage-inducing.

The good news is that it’s becoming a known fact. We now know how women have been excluded and ignored, especially women of color. It’s a problem that’s in the public’s consciousness, which is necessary if we’re ever going to address and correct it. I just hope we manage to do more than nod sagely and admit it’s a problem fast enough to keep more women from dying from neglect and dismissal.

I worry a little bit every day that I’m going to die from a doctor not believing me.

Plus, it’d just be nice to eat a real meal like a human again.

I miss beer.