Pickled Pigs' Feet

I am pickled pigs feet. I know this is not the most flattering of self-descriptions, and I suppose the simpler explanation would be to say I’m in a rut. But I come from that great mysterious, sweltering, beauty known as the Southern United States, and despite popular misconceptions, we don’t keep everything simple. Especially stories.

If you have ever ventured into a convenience store in the South, you may have noticed a jar of gooey-looking pinkish parts. It would look akin to something a CSI might have inadvertently placed atop the counter as he or she paid for the six pack of Icehouse they would no doubt need to figure out what part of what mammal from whence it came. This, my friends, would be the delicacy of pickled pigs feet. Personally, I think the jars are placed at countertops to dissuade criminals and terrify children into keeping their little paws away. And if you were to discreetly tag the feet of the little pigs, I’d wager that those feet are probably the same ones that have been in that jar since the first World War, and will probably be in that jar through the next. The jar and the twisty pink hooves will still be there, scaring small children and preserved in pickly grossness for years and years to come. It will never have excitement. It will never be bought. It is but a cautionary tale. This jar is my life.

It’s sad, I know. But never fear, my friends, for I am breaking out! No, don’t have thoughts of little freed hooves running rampant through convenience stores of the states; this is purely of the metaphorical sense. I have decided that I no longer wish to live a swiney kind of life. I want to be the Snickers and gossip magazine at the checkout counter that, though resist you may try, you always throw on the counter in haste as they are bagging your last item in the hopes that they will swipe without noticing your dirty little habits.

I know that I should wish to be the bottle of water or sugarfree gum that can proudly hold its head high and take its time being scanned, but if I’m honest, that just ain’t going to happen.

So this is for you, readers of the world. I will proudly be your dirty little secret if you break me from the pickle jar.