*blue balls not included.
meh.
This t-shirt about summed up my morning mood (tired, with a little bit of hangover). Regardless, I was SO MUCH HAPPY (as seen in that muscular smile) once I was on the back of that horse. But I could also be holding back the laughter from realizing (and hearing) that I totally ripped a hole in the back of my jeans when I climbed up on said horse. OK, a BIGGER hole.
The horse’s name was Bubba. I kept calling him “Bubby” by accident, after our childhood family dog (who also happened to be black-and-white and yes, he was named after THE Bubby Brister… The dog; not the horse. I cannot tell you who named this horse nor the reason behind it. Also, why do I keep spelling “hourse”?).
It was a perfect weather, relaxed Saturday to ride for two hours with a couple of friends (thanks again for a twitter friend who sold me her Groupon!). And sometimes, even, the hourses… gah, HORSES would gallop. But mostly, they liked to poop. And put the ends of my cowboy boots in their mouths. Near the end of the guided “tour,” the staff leader got a bit more adventurous in his meanderings through the muddy, cob-webbed part of the woods. There were jaggerbushes… and they attacked me.
Ah, nature.
So, go forth and go riding this fall at Rolling Hills Ranch down in Bridgeville. An afternoon drive through that area is worth the getaway. But watch out for detours. Like, everywhere. Even the detours have detours. For serious.
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This blog is about pursuit: a transplanted Clevelander (me) in a new city (that's you, Pittsburgh!), pursuing the role of a self-employed copywriter, becoming a roller derby badass and somehow merging all my to-do items into one ever-growing Bucket List.
And of MY boyfriend. His blue balls started this mess.
