Kid Rock was on to something.
Rough, rowdy, tough, hardworking, and freedom-loving is the description to a breed that I wonder exists anymore.
I'm talking Cowboys, here.
I mean, they must right?
Maybe they struggle through 9-5 jobs silently pondering an existence outside the barriers of city life.
Maybe they rock climb or attempt Everest or it's sister K2.
Knit? Bake cookies or wait, Cupcake Wars competitor?!
Alaskan crab fisherman? How very cowboy-esque.
So is PTA President minus the political BS.
A break dancer? Party Planner? Dog Walker? Zombie Killer? Doomsday Planner?
Where do you go? Where do you belong when what you are built to do or be in life, just doesn't exist anymore or worse, you watch the declination of your livelihood without a chance of revival.
At one point you realize you will be put out to pasture with your job title and find yourself donning fine wool socks, ironing your slacks, and buttoning your shirt for your job interview at Abercrombie or whatever seasonal work you can scrounge together while figuring out how to create a resume.
It's a rant.
It's a rant for no reason other than I saw a mountain backdrop in a shitty commercial and realized how deeply I wanted to climb those mountains, ride a horse, prance in the sun, kick some dirt, spit some seeds, and feel the breeze.
I want to be a cowboy. Or I want to feel what the cowboy represents to me.
Today, my pancreas hurts. I feel trapped by it. I feel out to pasture. So passe. I know it will pass. But today, bear with me, I just really want to be a fricken cowboy.
