12/04/2025
When my brain won't stop moving, I'm procrastinating writing the next chapter of the novel I'm working on, and I'm doom scrolling - this is the trajectory my scrolling takes me. A good story to make me [you?] cackle.
There comes a moment in every farm person’s life when you must accept a hard truth:
You carry a… scent.
Not a smell.
A scent.
A multilayered aromatic experience.
I walk into public places smelling like:
– fresh straw
– calf kisses
– a hint of iodine
– a dash of despair
– and the lingering ghost of milk replacer dust
Basically, I am a walking charcuterie board of barn odors.
And yet — YET — I insist on acting shocked when people notice.
---
So I’m standing in line, minding my own business, radiating barn fumes like a biological hazard, when a stranger leans in and goes:
“Wow…you smell like a farm.”
And this is the moment where any normal human would respond with grace. Something like:
“Oh haha yeah, sorry, just got done working,”
or
“I’ll shower when I get home.”
But my brain?
My brain heard that, panicked, yeeted itself out the nearest window, and left my mouth completely unsupervised.
So what do I say?
“Thanks, you too.”
YOU. TOO.
YOU.
TOO.
I hit this innocent, freshly-showered civilian with the most accidental barn insult ever created.
They smelled like laundry detergent and hopes and dreams — and I told them THANKS YOU TOO
as if THEY were the ones walking around like a feral goat in Carhartt.
The moment the words left my mouth, even the angels were like, “…girl what.”
---
And the silence afterward?
Violent.
Traumatizing.
Biblical.
They stared at me like they were trying to figure out if I was joking or if I actually believed they smelled like cow manure and broken ambitions.
I tried to fix it, but my brain was still rebooting, so all that came out was:
“Ha…haha…yeah.”
YEAH WHAT.
WHAT WAS YEAH SUPPOSED TO MEAN.
Why am I like this??
---
Meanwhile I am standing there in full-blown farm aroma glory. I smell like I lost a wrestling match with a calf and also maybe rolled in a compost pile for fun.
My socks are questionable.
My hoodie is an archaeological site.
There is absolutely hay in my hair.
If someone slapped a “Live Animal” sticker on my back, TSA would wave me through.
And I told a totally normal, clean-smelling citizen:
“Thanks, you too.”
I should not be allowed in public without supervision.
---
New rule:
If you see me anywhere that isn’t a barn, please assume:
1. I can’t smell myself anymore
2. I definitely smell like cow
3. If you comment on it, I WILL say something feral and deeply embarrassing in response, and then I will flee the premises.
I am done apologizing for the scent.
It is part of my personality now.
It has fused with my soul.
If you don’t like it?
Thanks, you too.