I wouldn't make a very good pioneer woman. I've read Little House on the Prairie and Cold Mountain. I saw The Revenant. I turn into a champion, Grade A, all-conference complainer in the winter. Not proud of it, but I just can't deal. Not when my hands are blue, my shoulders perma-hunched and my nose runs like a mountain stream. Things like getting out of a warm bed are monumental feats of inner strength. From the minute Christmas is over, I go into an irritated funk of pouting. I'm a preschooler, basically -loudly sighing, throwing a tantrum or two, pretty much seeking sympathy. Expressing my utter misery isn't optional. My sanity depends on it. I'm incapable of suffering quietly. So yeah, I wouldn't last long on the prairie. The townsfolk would shoot me dead and have a party around the bonfire celebrating the blessed silence. Ding dong the witch is dead. Fine by me, at least it's warm in hell.
|Nope. Not gonna.|