Close Encounters of the Aussie Kind.

So there I was. Just doing some homework when I remembered I had stolen a box of chocolates from my home while "shopping" for the basics of stocking one's college apartment. (Mom was never going to eat them, she said they were from last Christmas. That, in my eyes, makes them open game.) Flipped the lid off to find that there were only three chocolates left.
All milk chocolate. Decided that even though I'm not a monsterous fan of plain, I'd take it anyway and ate all three without even sitting back down. When I went to throw the box away, however, I heard a rustling beneath the plastic insert. Lo and behold, there was a second layer of chocolate I had almost mistakenly thrown away!

I looked up at my water-damaged ceiling and thanked the Lord for the extra chocolate that He had chosen to bestow upon me.

Then I realized I had just audibly spoken to my empty apartment over chocolate and realized it was time to figure out why I was feeling the need to eat an entire box of newfound chocolates instead of just eating the entire box of chocolates.

The first option, I've found, is much more difficult and much less tasty.

I told you that story to tell you this story.

I urge you all to read edenland. For around a year now she has inspired me in ways I never expected. Eden is the type of writer that examines the grits of life. And believe me, she has seen the grittiest of the gritty. Stared at it straight in the face and walked away--being the better (wo)man, and all that.

It's theraputic. When I'm reading her stuff, it's like she's reached--Indiana Jones Temple of Doom style--and ripped out something from inside herself that was still beating and pulsating. And that thing is dark, twisted, and wrong and we expect her to recoil and drop it out of disgust.

But she doesn't.

She stands with it in her hand and examines it. Prodding and poking at the mass of something she has just torn from herself until she is no longer appalled by it. That's not to say that she's desensitized, but rather, grew to accept it for what it is. Then, and only then, does she throw it into the garbage without a second thought.

Since following her site, I have had two moments where I thought to myself, "I MUST speak to this woman." One was a crazy coincidence where we both happened to get our hair cut, blogged about it, and felt awesome. Small world where two people can get haircuts in the same week, I know. But really this bad boy is the activation energy that drew me into Eden.

How do I explain this without giving  my life story? Her post "Imma die with my boots on." made me cry. Which is crazy, because there's not a whole lot to be said about it.

It just struck a nerve deep down inside me when she spoke about clomping around cancer wards (her husband had a recent strife with cancer.) as the Angry Cowgirl. I laughed because this was in a time where I, too, was running out of university classes to go clomp around chemotherapy wards.

"I am an angry cowgirl," I told her, "who ironically doesn't own boots." I explained that our family struggles with this stupid thing called cancer, seemingly at every turn. And really her post reminded me of my dad's favorite song by Joe Diffie: Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox. Stupid, I know, leave it alone, we're a bunch of hicks.

But the line, "Lord, I wanna go to heaven, but I don't wanna go tonight. Fill my boots up with sand and put a stiff drink in my hand." Resounded in my head as I read her post. It made me want to buy a pair of boots and clomp around the cancer ward and scream, "CANCER, IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?!? I am the ANGRY COWGIRL! And you can't have THESE BOOTS!"

But that would be impolite, albeit a stress relief. (Eden dealt with this by going into a hospital like a renegade and hanging up her own art in place of the cruddy decco they claim. Also a great post for those of you interested.)

I was terrified to write her. She's a blogging celebrity--I felt like I was e-mailing Ghandi to prove how good I was at fasting. But she's better than Ghandi.  She wanted me to e-mail her with a picture of when I get my cowboy boots, because I will someday and I will feel so tough.

So I don't know if that's my problem, repressing angry thoughts like pushing a crazy thrashing beachball underwater, but I'm hoping she's right and when I get my boots I will be so tough, not just for myself but for everyone who is forced to clomp around a hospital.

I will be tough for the members of the Angry Cowgirl Club.