Hay is for burning.

Today I had one of those guilt-ridden Sunday Fundays that starts with a harmless lunch and ends with a crippled checking account and a substantial amount of dread for the coming workweek. I ate a burrito, I saw Sunshine Cleaning, and I ended up at Duke of Perth, where my friend Lauren regaled me with tales (tails!) of the horses she grew up with. I'm fascinated by people who harbor any sort of affection for horses because (and I didn't tell Lauren this, although she will probably learn it if and when she reads this blog post)... because I don't like horses. Never have. Never will. Maybe it's because I've had more contact with horse poop than the actual animal. Or maybe it's because I've always associated horse lovers with calendars and indecipherable horse jargon having to do with bridals and mares and hurdles and who knows what. Whatever the cause may be, my dislike is deep-seated, and until a stray horse follows me home and offers me intelligent conversation or even just the warm affection of a dog or cat (all of this in exchange for apples), it is also permanent. The rats behind my apartment are large enough to put saddles on, and they don't need to be brushed.