BLOODSPORT

He certainly knows which way the wind blows.. Fathers just know that, you say. But my wind-swept parent really does. He hunts for things, remember? I went to assist today. He span his usual hunting yarns and I took my usual hunting photos. We carried out the ritual beer tasting, which (quite unfortunately) led to my scaring off one of the prospective victims. I refused to throw this empty can away, so I crushed it to fit in my camera bag. All that on principle, I can't stand littering. The noise alarmed the beast and it buzzed off.

I was kind of disappointed, I must say. No action, no fun. Not so long ago I would have been more than glad about that. I would have let out a huge sigh of relief that no murder had taken place in front of me. And maybe I would have even crushed that can on purpose, who knows.. On most occasions like that I used to invoke all the gods I could possibly name, including those I didn't believe in, to please please please make my dad miss his shot. I felt sorry for his prey-to-be. And soooo embarrassed that I wished to be someplace else.

Funny how things change. Only a week ago I voluntarily held a dead animal in my bare hands while flaying. It was still warm. Pretty intense.. But I didn't feel a thing for the creature. It was being violently deprived of its.. belongings, one by one. And I held it still and felt damn useful.

I don't think this makes me less human. Or romantic. Maybe even more? Shouldn't surprise anyone, considering what is really behind humanity and romanticism..