Dances with Horses

I have a repressed memory. Now don't get me wrong, I remember PLENTY of awful remembrances from my childhood: my teacher pushing me from the jungle gym, breaking my arm, the time I vomited in front of my crush, overhearing my mother describing how she screwed up raising me, and decided to raise my brother in a different way, the time fire ants bit my... anyhoo, I have plenty. But I have one seemingly ordinary memory that I felt compelled to forget until my father mentioned it the other day. "I just heard your horse trainer died."

wut.

"My horse trainer?" I looked at him quizzically. "Yeah, a nice old woman." And OFF HE WENT. ON WITH HIS DAY. No further explanation. What on Earth happened? What rocked my world so fucking hard that I can't remember horse training? When did I ride horses? I grew up in suburbia, God damn it! There's very little to mount out here... if you catch my meaning. Wait, you thought I meant sex? You're gross.

I mean, I've never liked horses. "Oh, they're SOOOO majestic." Fuck off. Unless it's in my gelatin or glue, I couldn't give a flying fuck about Buttercup. God damn shitting, farting, ornery beasts. Say what you will about the short falls of the human race, at least we don't walk and shit at the same time... well, I think Utah might be an exception, but then Utah always is an exception, isn't it? Horses just never drove me crazy, although most heterosexual men aren't all that mesmerized by them anyway. They just rub me the wrong way. The one thing horses have going for them are big, beautiful, brown eyes. But I'd sooner see that on a female of the human persuasion... I guess what this whole rant boils down to is this: stop trying to seduce me with your eyes, female horses. Yes, yes. Your manes are spectacular, and the workmanship on that horseshoe is sublime. But it just can't ever be.