PAPERS, PAPERS EVERYWHERE

I HATE papers. With the "joyous" Christmas season comes the need for the enterprising young businessman to do year-end paperwork. I have to keep track of several different sources of income, go through a whole years worth of receipts (I spend a lot of money), invoices, checks, etc., just to pay a large sum for taxes. Many an innocent Dew has disappeared down the hatch helping me burn the late night candles in order to get all this paperwork done. Some people think I'm stupid (I happen to be one of them), because I spent all summer slaving away so I could get my LPN. I figured on getting a steady job and taking it easy. Somehow I couldn't see taking a pay cut and keeping my fingers clean, and thus never looked for a job. Maybe some day I will get smart and get a real job, but for now I must continue the maddening task of bookkeeping. Someday, like my oldest brother did years ago, I will find a wife to do such things for me, but that's a tall order (especially around here). I figure if I survive to see next year, maybe I will graduate from the biggest mistake I ever made. They say "Life is hard, and then you die", and I have to agree with the first part. I'm just waiting to prove that statement true now. A word of wisdom from a "wise" (and very old) man, never go to college. In case of a hankering to go to such a college, here's what to do: Swiftly bash head into immovable object and repeat as often as needed until the said hankering is gone for good from your now bashed head. Oh what I would give for the days when life was simple. No taxes, no college, no paperwork, no girls, no bills, no worries (except that lunch-time would never come), no responsibilities, ah yes, that was the life.

BUCK FEVER

The following is a poem by my sister Grace which was given to me on my 21st birthday. She must know quite a bit about me, and obviously has poetic talent.

Buck Fever

You wake up when your alarm is binging,

Only to find it is the telephone ringing.

But out of bed you get anyway,

'Cause who would sleep this exciting day.

You forget your boots and go in your socks,

And don't even notice till you walk on the rocks.

You drive down the road toward the rising sun,

And don't even remember to grab your gun.

So back in the house you quickly go

And return with your gun - not going slow.

You turn out the light and head out the door

Only to find it is snowing galore.

"Ah, this will be great," you sarcastically say.

But why would you wait for a better day?

You climb in your car and get to the spot,

And then later realize you have to go pot.

You get so excited when you see a small buck,

You don't even remember your day started with bad luck.

You fire at random and wait to see it die,

But the unlucky animal flees into the sky.

But all's well that ends well, for when you come back

You are bringing home a huge buck in a sack.

So brother you know don't get to full of glee

When only a small buck or nothing you see.

Graybee Jayn

(Grace)

And so concludes this ingenious poem from a 11-year-old girl who just brought home her first turkey.

Another Stroke of Bad Luck

I seem to lack the basic skills that my sisters intuitively graps. I consider myself a pretty good hunter, a great slacker, and an even better brother. I am so proud of my sisters because, while I cannot seem to kill anything, they both got nice deer, and the other day, Lois shot an Elk. I tried for 3 years to get one and she gets one her second day out. I once had pride of my own, but know it is all gone. At least I can still be proud of my sisters. Oh well, I will just have to be content being a loser, and keep working and going to school. On the bright side, I am finally done with my stupid OB clinicals. I'll tell you what, if you want to have second thoughts about ever getting married, try 72 hours in the Family Birth Center. It's worse than you could ever imagine.