I live in a very - VERY - small town with a very strange name. I guess that in the grand scheme of things, it's more of a village than a town, really. Still, I'm somewhat reluctant to calling it a village. It just sounds a bit to much like we hunt and kill our own food, ya know? Which some people do, but only during hunting season. There are sheep and cows and shit (mostly from sheep and cows) all over the place. The cool kid drives around in his very own tractor, which is decorated with multi-colored christmastree lights and has loud country music blaring out of the stereo. I swear I'm not making this up.
Should you venture outdoors after the stores close (which they do promptly at eight pm), you're pretty much guaranteed not to run into a soul. But if you think that you can go through life unnoticed in a place like this, you'd better think again. I moved here with my parents when I was just a little kid. This was while my mum and dad were still married. Before mum became a lesbian and dad embraced life as a hermit. Back then, there was a butcher shop just down the street from where we lived, and I used to go there with my mum to get our regular fix of something recently dead. On our very first visit there, we ordered some murdered animal or other for the following week. Then it turned out that mum wouldn't be able to pick it up when she was supposed to. But the butchers wife knew what to do - she could just give it to dad when he was coming home from work, since she saw him drive back and forth every day. Despite never having been introduced to my dad.
That's where it started. And only a few days ago, I could hear myself being discussed by two women I have no idea who are at the meatcounter in the store. You can learn a lot over a slab of meat.