I’ve never been able to make my girlfriend smile at me the way she smiles at pigs.

Yes, pigs.

Her desk at work has a single picture of us together from a trip to Mexico that sits surrounded by plethora of pigs. Mouse pads, calendars, and, for all I know, desktop wallpaper dedicated to the creatures while my picture gathers dust and stares enviously into a swine covered abyss.

I didn’t get it. I still don’t. But after taking a trip to Grazin’ Pig Acres, I know that she’s not alone.

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The guitar riff just didn’t sound right. I had the notes. I had the timing. Yet, it didn’t sound how I heard it in my head—loose, fluid, natural. I focused and gripped the neck tighter. I hammered down each finger onto the strings and plucked each note with strength and sharpshooter accuracy. But something was missing. Something intangible. 

I played over and over until I had to stop and rest my hand. My hand cramped and my fingers were raw. Then it hit me— I was holding on too tight.

We are told we need to attack our goals. We grasp onto plans and dreams and squeeze until they become our next success or failure.

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