Good old solitude.
It's not as misanthropic in origin as I often lead myself to believe. I mean, I'm blogging about these solitary experiences for fucks sake. I think these solitary activities subconsciously speak for a part of our culture that's been losing its way for a long time - That wild roaming beast that surveyed the land with reverence and a sense of entitled humbleness has become that indoor cat always pressing against the street side window, shitting in a box and eating out of a box of shit.
You soft, soft beasts. Male grooming salons, tanning beds, hand sanitizer, sneaker hoarders, a fear of the dirty. You poor bastards.
I don't do these things for you. I do them because I fear becoming like you. A soft and tired puppy.
I wish I could only eat meat I've harvested myself.
Have you ever hunted, killed, and eaten a creature? Have you ever fed people you love with sore feet and a dirty shotgun? I love the feeling. It never gets old.
Sometimes you rely on your friends for dinner.
Hasenpfeffer, anyone? (thanks Jay)
It's not for everybody. But if we had to draw straws after the apocalypse I'd make sure to become the hunter.