Chasing the Buffalo

I spent my day yesterday reading blogs and getting sucked into the world you all are so kind to share with me. It’s better than my world right now, so I was perfectly content being there.

Then the Orange Buffalo reports began to come in.

Rarasaur, awesome lady that she is, posted My Orange Report, which is basically a set of questions formed from her husband’s book Orange Buffalo. I kept reading everyone’s responses and thought. . .

Self. . .I should do this. 

And so here we go.

1.  In the book, Orange Buffalo by Grayson Queen, the orange buffalo is a legend.  Tracking a regular brown buffalo is a feat of skill.  A rare white buffalo thus represents the nearly impossible hunt for something, whereas an orange buffalo represents the search for something that simply doesn’t exist.  Have you ever searched for an orange buffalo– a truly false or impossible dream?

My Orange Buffalo is that second cousin, twice removed, that nobody wants at the family reunion, but the bastard keeps showing up anyway. I call him My Big Little Secret Fear, but most of you probably know him as Acceptance.

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I have this strong streak in me, at least that’s what I’m told, that gives off this “I don’t give a fuck” vibe. I try really hard to actually feel that way inside, and I’ve made great leaps towards getting to the point where I can truly tell Acceptance to go take a long walk off a short pier. However, I think we are wired to want to be accepted. We want to fit. It’s a survival mechanism, really. I still find myself crawling around sometimes, hoping that I won’t get kicked. I’m hoping for a little pat on the head to tell me I did a good job. I don’t like Acceptance, but I’m related to that guy, and so I feel like I’m forever chasing that family reunion down, trying to nab him and keep him close by.

2.  What’s the greatest lesson you’ve learned from a break-up?

Take. My. Time. I always tried to rush through healing, whether from a break-up, a loss. . .anything really. I wanted to get past the part where I felt weak and push right back into the woman who has her head on straight and knows her game. After leaving the King of the Douchebags, I learned to give myself time. I knew I’d be okay. I knew I was strong. I knew this wasn’t some Twilight scene where I was going to curl up in the woods and plot ways to hurt myself to get his attention back (Sorry. . .but I hate the way that woman made the female protagonist a walking doormat). I learned though that I can accept not being okay. I’m allowed to have days where I’m just not okay.

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3. Do you remember what you wanted to be when you grew up?  Did you get there?  If not, what happened?

I wanted to be an archaeologist. Seriously. I wanted to be Indiana Fucking Jones. I didn’t want to be stuck in a museum or anything. I wanted to be out there kicking ass and destroying everything to save that one priceless item that no one even believed existed. I wanted ninja skills and friends all over the world and I was going to do it.

There is no Indiana Jones. I am sad to report it, but someone had to say it. Excuse me while I take my sweatpant wearing self to the corner to cry.

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4. Is there something in your past you’d like to do over?  How do you think it would change your life if you had the opportunity to do so?

I would be there when my grandmother died. Regardless of Tripe AAA and his determination to keep me by his side that night, I would have gotten there. I would have walked. I’d have done anything to be there. Would it have changed my life? I don’t know, but I could knock out a big chunk of the regret I still carry around inside me.

5. In the novel there’s a repeating series of lines, referring to society’s predictions for the main character– the good and bad.

What a nice boy, a good boy, so much potential. He’s going to grow up to be president, a novelist, a hypocrite, a sellout.”

Write your own.

“What a good girl, a good girl, so much potential. She’s going to grow up to be a poet, a scientist, a liar, a fake.”

So there they are, the wonderful questions Rara shared. Head on over to her blog and check it out, write your own responses, and link up!

Link: My Orange Report – Rarasaur

 Herstory Lesson: Take what others say about you and make it your own. They’ll never stop talking, but you can stop letting it hurt you.

20 thoughts on “Chasing the Buffalo

    1. Hahaha. . .Believe it or not, I have been told numerous times that I am a habitual liar. I think it mostly stems from family who doesn’t like me bluntly spilling secrets that puts them in a bad light. I suppose I should be ashamed of my behavior. I’m not, but I guess they’d like me to be.

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        1. I do. “Let me give you some advice bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.” -Tyrion Lannister. I learned a long time ago to take what people say I am and accept it and use it.

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  1. Your number 5 response isn’t that far off from mine, though it was pointed out I should have ended on a positive. I was just following the format!

    (can’t leave any wine, need it for later 🙂 )

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    1. I followed the format as well. I took it more as what others around me where saying about me. And it’s okay. . .I stocked up on wine yesterday. 😀

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  2. Yeah, normally I try to end on a more positive note, too, but I answered the questions the way my hubby gave ’em to me, 🙂 I loved your answers, and I thought calling out “acceptance” as an orange buffalo was spot on. (Also, being called a liar is one of my biggest pet peeves, grawr. 🙂 I’m impressed that you seem to let such things wash off you. It must be that Indiana-Jones-spirit inside! 🙂 )

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    1. Oh I don’t let it wash off. . .I do things like bottle it up and turn it into a snarky manuscript full of poetry about how much of a “liar” I am. 😀

      I may be disowned after this next book.

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  3. The world is a much simpler place once you don’t worry about what other people think about you.
    And I’ve found people are a lot more able to take me at face value since I make it clear I don;t care what they think.

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