Personal Narrative: The Cow Manure

In all honesty, the reason why I have any interest in venturing out into a field or pasture is so that I can wear my rain boots that are by every standard au courant. Unfortunately, grasses still threaten to leave snags and tears in my overpriced athletic shorts and yank on my cotton shirt. They leave behind seeds similarly to a crowd of sailors urgently piling board a ship that has already begun its departure. At the same time this tragedy is occurring, I begin to smell the cow manure in the back of my throat. I can literally taste the fecal matter. The further out I trek into the pasture the taller the weeds and grasses grow, eventually to the point that both my legs from mid-shin up AND my arms to my elbows are receiving stinging cuts and bites. I should lift my arms over my head, but I would regret piercing into the delicate skin on the underside of my upper arms, and this predicament is already proving to be fairly exasperating. For example; the hundreds of miniscule bug bites I am dotted with resemble the

When I realize there is going to be a newborn animal in my presence, I inadvertently pull out my phone to open up my Snapchat application so I can record anywhere from 20 to 70 seconds worth of videos. I have been told and reminded on numerous occasions to “live in the moment,” or “nobody cares as much as you.” Maybe when I turn sixty or have developed degenerative keratoconus I will give up my smartphone. Naturally, this makes me want to document this moment with double the pictures. In the meantime, the calf that was born only hours before is now walking on four legs, knees knocking together with every step. His awkward yet unwavering demeanor is not unlike the innocent bliss that kindergarteners often experience in the moments leading up to their first day of school, or college students before their first day of