I am the last true member of my species, a truly masculine individual in a world of social decay. I wear boot-cut jeans and cowboy boots. And I am a social pariah.
You see, I’ve recently discovered that my life’s purpose is to live like a cowboy from the Wild West, as the spiritual descendant of the great adventurers of the past.
Across campus, you’ll find an endless sea of Docs, Converses, and Blundstone Chelsea boots. But you won’t find many cowboy boots. I wear my pointy-toed, vegan leather boots with pride. When people hear the jangle of my overpriced decorative spurs, they know they’re in the presence of someone with a truly authentic sense of style.
My ‘friends’ don’t understand. They ridicule me for my decisions.
They say things like, “Brett, we know your film prof rejected your thesis proposal about the history of Western cinema, but this is not the way to cope, man.”
They mock me with insults like, “Bro, you’ve been wearing those cowboy boots for three weeks straight. Please take them off. They’re starting to smell.”
Their cruel remarks ring in my ears. Remarks like, “We know you’re obsessed with how Benedict Cumberbatch lived like a cowboy for weeks to prepare for his role in The Power of the Dog, but no one is paying you to do this.”
Technically, they are correct. But technicalities have never mattered to my folk. We haven’t wrangled cattle for generations just to be undone by technicalities.
Technically, I was born in London, Ontario. But emotionally, I was born under the wild plains of Montana.
Some people might say I’m taking this too far, that I should talk to someone over my extreme overreaction to academic failure.
To my critics I have only this to say: this town ain’t big enough for the two of us.
I’m not giving in. I will still win classroom arguments with the phrase, “I never got much schooling, but I learned to take the measure of a man, and you ain’t up to it.”
I’ll still take a raw bison liver to any potlucks I’m invited to—not because DiCaprio ate one in The Revenant but because that’s just the kind of meal you get in the wilderness. No beans, just raw meat, and not one spark to cook it with.
And when I’ve had household objects thrown at me and am shouted out of the potluck, I’ll gather my trusty boots from the pile of other, unremarkable shoes, and I’ll smile. And once you close the door, you’ll still hear the sweet, sweet music of me and my boots going our own way.
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