The bosses had dug a communal shit hole for all of us to use, but I had a hard time relaxing with my bare ass only a few feet away from the giant pile of foreign turds that had accumulated in the hole, so I took my shits elsewhere. I brought these biodegradable doggie poop bags with me to use as my method of tidying up. I would shit where I pleased and then collect my excrement in one bagged scoop, which I then tossed onto the pile I lovingly nicknamed, Shit Mountain. I thought it was a genius idea, and bragged to everyone about my baggies and the wonderful freedom they afforded me.
There were also three dogs on the farm; one giant German Shepard and two adorable mutt puppies. They were all fond of eating shit but only the German went that extra mile in his shit binges by diving into our huge collection of feces. One day, he got really sick and was found near dead, next to a pile of vomit that seemed to contain, amongst a variety of strange things, ripped open plastic baggies. I was pegged as the almost dog killer. My bragging rights linked me immediately to the shit dumplings the dog had so hungrily feasted on. This was the same dog who I had allowed into my tent one evening for added warmth and company only to find out the next morning also provided asylum to a family of ticks. Karma had linked us together. One evening, looking deep into that German Shepard's eyes I said, "I'll trade you my shit for your ticks." He farted in agreement and so it was.
I told my mother I went camping for two months. I should have told her I was going to be an activities coordinator at some wilderness camp for urban youth than fucking camping. I keep forgetting that if I'm going to lie to my family, I should at least make myself sound good. She was so bent out of shape about the whole thing asking me if there were going to be boys and if people were smoking weed. In my mother's eyes I hadn't held a real job in close to three months, and that I was completely losing it thus explaining my desire to go live in the forest possibly amongst men and marijuana, which, I guess was hitting the nail on the fucking head, but I was working. Perhaps things would have gone easier if I had only said, "Mom, I swear I'm trying to get a real job, but in the meantime, I'll be working on this here pot farm", but I seriously doubt it.