Note: I want this piece in the memoir to "break the fourth wall" in a way. I just don't know where it would fit. And it does reference writings I haven't posted yet, but are currently drafts. I also added a completely random story I was reminded of when I was looking through some old pictures. It's more of an anecdote more than anything, but it's definitely memoir-worthy in my eyes. It's actually an introduction to the side of my life I haven't really touched on yet in any memoir writings, which is the farm life. 

Writing this memoir has been surprisingly hard. Aside from my mom urging me to finish it so she, my family, her friends, her friends' friends, and her friends' friends' friends can read it, I have left a lot of things out. I don't want my entire life so far, or even half of it, on the shelves for anyone to pick up and read. Call me selfish, but I just don't want to risk throwing my privacy and dignity out the window. Lots of people get themselves into trouble by over-sharing, especially these days, and I'm not about to to step into that trap. 

I don't talk a whole lot about other people in this memoir, because I want to be respectful and protect their right to privacy, even if some people in my life haven't considered my right to the same thing. Plus, I don't have many friends, and never really have. I've truly been a lone wolf, and that's ok. I'm used to it. In fact, I've grown to enjoy it, though I still have a love-hate relationship with it. I get lonely, and sometimes that loneliness leads to bouts of depression and self-deprecation. Thankfully, those times hardly last long. 

The nice thing about this memoir though, is that for once in my life, I have complete control over something. I can control what I want the public to know about me when they take the time to pick this book up. Keep in mind, for every page that's in this thing, there are at least five drafts of it on my laptop, which is how I'm writing this in the first place.

Most of those drafts are very rough and rambly, often jumping from topic to topic because every event in my life seems to be connected in some way. Some drafts are incomplete, never to be completed, because I either got bored, tired, sick, ran out of time, or just hated what I wrote and needed a fresh start. I never realized that writing a memoir required so many drafts, so much time, and so much editing. Had I known this in the first place, I may not have even considered writing a book. But I promised my family, and my friends, and my friends' friends, and my family's friends, and everyone who follows me on social media, and the world, and God, that I'd one day publish a book about the first 18 years or so of my life. So, here I am. 

That isn't to say I haven't enjoyed the time I've spent writing this. I truly do enjoy my time writing on my laptop. I write everyday, just 80% of what I write doesn't get published. Writing is therapeutic, and I use it to cope with everyday life. I write on my phone and my laptop, which are both logged into the same accounts, that automatically and immediately save every word I write. Sometimes, I forget about charging the batteries, or some misadventure destroys my phone. It's always nice to know that if one of my electronics dies or gets completely wrecked, because technology is fragile (unlike me), my stuff will still be saved, and I can access it again from anything. 

Writing this memoir has been quite interesting and enjoyable. I have a lot of reasons why I've taken so much time to publish these stories and memories from my life. I want to raise awareness about Cystic Fibrosis, and show you (the reader in the outside world) what the disease really is like. I know awareness for the disease has greatly increased since I was born, but much of that awareness has lacked accuracy and meaning, and pretty much everything out there hasn't represented me or the disease well. I hope my memoir is different. 

I want to drag your ass through hell with me, but I also want you to experience heaven, which is how I write. I know you probably read to briefly leave your life behind and live someone else's. Well, you're living one hell of a life through my eyes while reading this memoir. I hope you're enjoying yourself, because I damn sure am. 

The Bull Pen:

A few years ago, I arrived at my grandparents' farm in Minnesota for my annual summer visit, and noticed the cattle pasture had been plowed and planted, and the yard ahead was empty and overgrown. I knew my cousins had some show steers, but they were kept in a separate pen next door to the yard. I always wanted to explore the yard without having to worry about stepping in fresh cow pies or getting between a cow and her calf. A cow will turn meaner than a rodeo bull if anything gets between her and her precious calf. 

The yard goes around the show steer pen in an "L" shape, and the show steers have a lean-to for shelter, so it's hard to see the yard where it curves around the pen. 

I watched the yard for signs of life for about ten minutes or so, before I decided to jump the gate and go exploring. I was alone. My grandparents were in the farmhouse, and my dad was somewhere else. No one told me that anything was living in the yard. They just told me they sold the winter Herefords and would get some more that fall. I just assumed I was safe, and even if there was something still living there, I assumed it would be a Hereford. Most Herefords, including the bulls, are very gentle. 

I noticed there was fresh water running in the water trough, which I thought was weird. Usually, the water trough was dry when there were no cattle to drink from it. But then I looked up, and staring at me from the other end of the yard, was what I thought was a black Angus steer. 

I stared at him, and he stared back at me. I noticed he had an impressive set of horns for a steer his size or his breed, and he was beefier than a typical steer. He came a little closer and paused, and he sort of nodded his head and snorted. He came a little closer, paused, but instead of nodding, he turned slightly broadside to me, and without putting his head down or taking his eyes off of me, dragged his hoof across the ground and grunted. That's when I noticed he had some white on his belly and around his rear hooves, and also realized he was no steer. 

From the bedtime stories my grandpa Lyle told me about his childhood and teenage years, to the way my family discussed different breeds of cattle, from the humble Hereford bull to the aggressive Holstein bull, I knew I was in trouble. I slowly made my way to the gate. I sort of backed away, but watched my step so I wouldn't trip and fall on the uneven concrete foundation of an old barn that once stood there. Meanwhile, that bull slowly moved closer to me, showing his aggression more and more. 

Eventually I made it to the gate, and as I reached for the second-highest rung and stepped on the second-lowest, that bull stomped and snorted some more. He was gonna charge, and we both knew it. I counted down from three in my head, broke eye-contact with the bull, and then scrambled up the gate as fast as I could, before jumping off and landing feet-first into the soft, uncut grass on the other side. Around the same time my boots touched the ground, I heard hooves skidding on concrete, and a long, disappointed sigh escape from the bull's flared nostrils. 

I decided to just run to the farmhouse and not tell a soul. I was embarrassed, and I didn't want to give my grandparents a heart attack. Instead, I just decided to ask grandpa Bob if he knew there was a Holstein Angus bull in the yard. He said he did, and told me that my cousins saved it from a blizzard. Apparently, shortly after the Herefords were sold, my cousins were out tending to the farm, when one of them spotted a little black thing out in the yard, against the blowing white snow. 

My cousin stopped what he was doing, and trudged into the yard to investigate, and that's when he discovered that the little black object was a shivering, dying calf. He immediately picked it up and brought it into the garage to be warmed up. The little calf surprisingly survived, and my cousins raised that calf with a bottle until it was old enough to survive the freezing Minnesota weather with a few other young steers. Because it wasn't a Hereford, they decided not to doctor it. Instead, they just let the calf grow into a horned bull. Everyone was pretty surprised when the black Angus bull started growing horns and a massive temper. Turns out, he had some Holstein in him, which is the breed that made him mean. 

The next day, I returned to my grandparents' farm, and decided to say hello to the bull again. This time, he was grazing in the middle of the yard, and I rattled the gate to get his attention. He immediately shot his head up and stopped chewing, and began approaching me the same way he did the day before, until he was right next to me with only a tall concrete grain trough and a single string of barbed wire between us. 

I had my phone out since I wanted to get some pictures of that beast, and he seemed more curious than mean. He tried licking me many times, and seemed to enjoy it when I scratched his neck and behind his horns. I was surprised he let me pet him.

My grandma came outside with a box of ice cream cones shortly after I had gone out to visit the bull, and together we fed him an entire box of waffle cones. I'm not sure if that made him any nicer, but he enjoyed it, and so did we. 

A few days later, as the sun sank to the west, my cousin, Wade Jr arrived in his truck. Apparently, the bull's water trough (which was supposed to automatically fill up and filter the water itself), was broken. A valve was stuck, and my cousin had to fix it and refill it. The bull was right there waiting for Wade to step right in, and like any good, caring cousin, I pulled out my phone and tapped record. 

My grandma was very concerned for Wade's safety, and decided to join me at the grain trough to watch as my cousin fixed the water trough. Fixing the valve was the easiest part of the whole ordeal. Once the valve was opened and water began flowing into the trough, the bull put his head down and started going after my cousin. 

My grandma started yelling Wade's name, I started shouting "Hey!Hey!" over and over again, while my cousin did his best to stay calm but stern with the bull. In self defense, my cousin kicked the bull as hard as he could in the face with his pair of steel-toed boots. The bull stepped back a little bit, completely dumbfounded that my cousin had the audacity to do such a thing.

I highly doubt the bull was hurt. They use their thick-skulled, horned heads to move trees and fight over cows with other bulls, so getting a boot kick to the head was nothing. The young bull still respected Wade, and kept his distance while Wade calmly climbed over the gate, and jumped off the other side.

I guess the lesson of that day was, sometimes, just a little retaliation is enough to make a bully back off.

I never had the courage (or the stupidity), to interact with that bull without a fence or barbed wire between us again. When that fall rolled around, the bull was sent to be turned into burgers and steaks, and the humble Herefords returned again. 

(As for the video, I think have it on an old backup email account that still exists, I just haven't guessed the right password yet. I'll try to get into said account, but if I can't, or the video is not there, then it's lost forever. I also had the video on an old laptop of mine that just decided to quit one day for no reason, which is partly why I treated myself to my current $900 gaming laptop with a bunch of car-crash lawsuit money I got. If I find the video, I'll get a screenshot from it and add it in.)