Greetings, patriarchy blamers.* It’s really good to see you all again. Probably you’re wondering what the fuck, so:
I’m just gonna say it: I just don’t feel like writing about prostitution, abortion, pornography, FGM, high heels, or shitbag straight dudes anymore. IBTP has been an enormously gratifying and edumuckational endeavor, but let’s face it. Patriarchy is depressing, and I’ve been stinkeye-deep in blaming it for years. It cannot have escaped your notice that I’d started repeating myself. A lot. Like, verbatim sometimes. I’d exhausted the material. Obviously it was time to move on.
I’ll be leaving IBTP up indefinitely, and may eventually even revive it, who knows. In the meantime, because art is my life, man, I gotta write something to keep my chops up, right? And what do I do all day besides shovel manure? I encounter rural situations for which I am completely unprepared, that’s what. Creepy things, disgusting things, exasperating things, hilarious things. So my comic bucolic (bucomical?) exploits will be the focus. I give you Dreadful Acres Cottonmouth County Confidential, another life-in-the-country blog. Woot.
This one won’t be too heartwarming, though. I’m still the same old cynical spinster aunt after all (although with the fifth anniversary of my residence at Dreadful Acres comes the promotion to “Crone”). It’s just that instead of cracking on Girls Gone Wild and Boobython, now I’ll be writing about the universal unspeakable horrors of nature and the psychopaths who live out here and whatnot. Also horses and dogs. I’m building a new barn, so there will probably be pictures of that. And other casual-essay-type stuff. It sounds really bad, I know, since it is nothing but personal anecdotes about non-controversial shit, but maybe there’s a chance it might not to be too excruciatingly dull.
Of course you never know.
Come what may, there will always be room for a bit of patriarchy blaming, if you wanna hang around.
The photo, by the way, is of an adorable baby mouse I found hiding under my Gator. What’s dreadful about a cute little mouse? Well, it was confused and disoriented enough that it allowed me to pick it up and move it off the driveway into some tall grass, which meant that it was probably sick. If a sick baby mouse weren’t sad enough, a couple of hours later I saw a rat snake patrolling the area, and it appeared to be sporting a baby-mouse-sized lump. And even if that particular snake-lump wasn’t the mouse in question, the feral cat living under the horse trailer is always standing by. Natural selection is a grim business.
* If you’re not a patriarchy blamer, you really should consider becoming one, because the misogynist world order is jammin you up, guaranteed. Click here for more info than you can ever use.