When I was little we lived in Spain. We would go to bullfights every now
and again. I never wanted to be a matador. I admired them. I was
dazzled by their flashy outfits and their cape work. Behind it all,
though, I think I realized it was all show; a sport of which I didn't
really understand the rules. Once my brother convinced my parents into
letting him bring home pieces of one of the butchered bulls that we
found in a trash can outside of the arena. It was gruesome, it was
fascinating, and soon it began to stink.
Posted the above as my profile information on the day I changed the blog's look.
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