I like that my Father makes me a birthday cake. Every year since I can remember, my Dad has made a birthday cake for my birthday. We don’t do candles, and all that singing nonsense, but he makes a cake, and then we both have more than is healthy, he covers it in foil and it sits on the counter for a week while we slowly plow away at it.
Sometime this weekend, there will be no more cake; that is when my mom will want her first piece of cake. Since the cake is gone, that is when she will tell us that she can’t believe that we ate that whole cake and that she never even got a bite. We will both look at her sheepishly, and chuckle. She will march down the hall back to her room mumbling something, and that’s how I know my birthday is over.
I don’t like hunting. Before we go any further, I should mention that I have never been hunting. I don’t think that invalidates my dislike, because I strongly believe that I don’t have to pull a trigger and watch a beautiful deer’s head explode to know that I don’t like it.
I don’t really get the motivation behind wanting to kill some unsuspecting and innocent creature with a highly developed piece of weaponry. It’s not even that challenging. You go to a place that is designated for hunting, presumably well stocked with prey. You spray some deer pee to attract them, then you wait around until it walks by, you shoot it with a rifle that’s been perfected over a few centuries, give high-fives all around, and call it a brilliant day of manliness. I don’t know, but doing something a caveman could do with sticks and rocks doesn’t really make you manly… it makes you less capable than a caveman.
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