I can really appreciate the sentiment here...living off the land, berries, wild game, roots, leaves, etc. Sort of like Thoreau - pure crystalline
water, time to think, cooking over an open fire with only the sound of the owls and the light of the stars.
It starts to get hot, and then rain, and then the mosquitos come out and feast off of your blood and sweat, and the ticks, and then the chiggers.
Then you run out of toilet paper, or use use the wrong leaf to wipe your butt and you get an allergic reaction to what you'd been wiping with and
your crack feels like it's on fire and when you touch it it actually bleeds.
And then you get an intestinal parasite from either the water, or a bad piece of venison, or maybe from a piece of undercooked fish and your stomach
feels like it has a nest of writhing biting poisonous snakes in it and nothing you can do will force them out even though you spend hours during the
day trying to evacuate your bowels but the fire you feel come out does nothing to alleviate the pain.
Then the roof starts to leak, and your writing supplies, sheets, sleeping bag, underwear and clothes get soaked with drip water from the roof that was
never really clean to begin with, and the once dry stuff begins to mildew because you can't hang it up since it's been raining for the past two
weeks, and anyway you don't feel like moving because your arms and hands and face are so swollen by bug bites that it hurts your joints to raise your
arms above your head.
Then the cellulitis sets in, and you see red line things moving their way up your arms and legs toward the center of your body, and you pray to God
and everything that is holy that it is not staph.
Now your clothes and linens are rotting. They begin to smell like slow death.
The fever makes you feel cold, and you want to sleep and know you need to but there really is no way to keep warm. Your energy is very low, and it
seems like you shiver all the time and your eyesight seems to narrow to a little pinhole whenever you stand up, and the high-pitched whine of the
thousands of nagging tiny bugs seems to increase in volume although most of the parasites have begun to crawl off of your body to search for a
healthier and more productive host.
The last of the dried venison jerky is gone. It doesn't matter though, you can't stand to swallow anything anyway, because now instead of explosive
diarrhea, nothing at all comes out even though you can hardly stand because your stomach hurts so bad.
You noticed last nite that your toes and soles of your feet have turned a funny grayish-white color, and the nails have come off of the larger toes,
and sometimes if you poke them on a rock or scrape them on the rough, knobby floor of your cabin they bleed and leak some kind of cloudy yellow smelly
fluid, and you noticed the same color and condition around your crotch but you try not to touch down there even though it itches and burns
You stay in a fevered and tortured sleep almost constantly now, but the reality of your waking times are complicated by odd funny dreams about your
home before you started your "Thoreau experiment". You dream that you are able to go into the kitchen of your once boring cube-like mass-produced
but cozy and dry apartment, thirsty and ready for a cold glass of fresh OJ...you can see yourself from the corner of the kitchen, near the ceiling
reaching out and opening the refrigerator door, but when you pull the door open you see that there is nothing in there but mud and blood and filthy
stagnant water and the yellow stuff that drains constantly from the open sores that spot every inch of the skin on your body, that runs from your nose
and urethra and anus and ears and you scream and no one hears and no one cares as you sink down into the rot of your very sad and lonely demise.