I happen to drive a pick-up truck at school. The same one we took on the road trip, actually. And it happens to have camouflage seat covers. But not just any kind: legitimate hunting-camouflage seat covers. I don’t hunt nor does anyone else in my family. And I’ve never felt the need to kill animals for sport – until I saw these seat covers. If I’m going to go with this Lesbian-Hick-Lumberjack-Hunter look, I’m going to need to strap a deer carcass on the top of the truck to make it more believable. I need to sell it. I can’t just ignore the fact that my car screams, “I KISS COUSINS SOMETIMES.”
People have already been making assumptions about my truck the moment they step inside. The California plates may briefly distract them before they are overwhelmed by scenery mimicking a deeply wooded area. The smell of musk floats through the cab. A bearded man may or may not be in the backseat with a taxidermied squirrel. They turn to me and see I’m wearing plaid flannel: PLOT TWIST. “Not only is she a lesbian,” they say to themselves, “but she is a hunter-lesbian with forest animal friends like Snow White… if Snow White had murdered her animals friends instead of singing with them… Murderer.”
My dad specifically asked me to not remove the seat covers – and I’m doing just that, not removing them. But at what cost, Father? Surely I will be targeted by PETA for driving this heinous machine. And I’m going to be pigeon-holed into the plaid-wearing-lesbian-hunters group at school. Do you know why that’s horrible, Dad? BECAUSE I’M THE ONLY ONE. THERE IS ONLY ONE PERSON IN THE GROUP AND IT IS ME BECAUSE YOU HAVE PUT ME THERE.