It may be a problem.
I’ve been bucking a lot of hay recently, thanks to my boyfriend having major back fusion surgery (good excuse, Terry, well played).
I have noticed hay is like an old Facebook comment — even though you deleted it, it keeps on popping up at the least convenient time.
It finds places where no man has gone before…and goes there. It’s like the Neil Armstrong of the plant kingdom.
Here are some places I’ve found random pieces of hay:
In my bra: How does it always attach to my boobs even when I’m wearing a turtleneck?!
My cell phone’s plug for the charger: I plug in my cellphone and the phone won’t charge…because it has hay all jammed up in there, hay blocking the electrical connection.
Pockets: I always have an ounce or more of loose hay shake. I feel like if I got pulled over and a cop said “empty your pockets” I’d have a lot of explaining to do.
Teeth: Anything in my teeth? Yes, something green. Does this count as my daily serving of veggies?
Ears: Of course no matter which way I throw the flakes, the wind somehow always blows it back in my face. Q-tips are a godsend.
In the crevice of my truck’s car seat. No, I didn’t haul hay with that truck.
All over the toilet seat: When I pull down my jeans, I somehow forget that if hay is in my pockets, it’s probably in my underwear, too.
Why does the animal that we hold close to our hearts and consumes 20 to 30 pounds of feed a day have to choose to survive on the most annoying, pain-in-the-butt thing on the planet? Why can’t Flicka just be happy with eating something like kibbles and bits?