I want to be a cowgirl

I have decided that I'm going to move to Alberta and trade my career in real estate for the good old-fashioned farm life. I'll trade in my black heeled shoes and fancy purses for cowboy boots and leather chaps. I'll meet a cowboy named Hunter and we'll fall madly in love. Hunter will be well respected on the P.B.R.A. circuit for his most recent claim to fame: the first ride out a full 8 seconds on The Devil Wears Stetson, a bull that eats cowboys for breakfast. Hunter will declare his undying love for me, and we'll be married under the stars on a warm summer evening. He'll tell me that he's retiring next season so that we can start a family, and 9 months later I'll give birth to beautiful sandy haired twin boys, who we'll name Jackson and Johnny, and I'll dress them in little plaid shirts and tiny boots and they will follow their dad around like a shadow, milking cows and raising colts. We will raise chickens and I will have a vegetable patch, and I'll make omellettes for breakfast with fresh herbs from my garden. In the mornings we'll work the farm, and in the evenings we'll have bonfires and sing campfire songs while my husband expertly strums the guitar, a hobby he picked up from his days on the rodeo circuit. We will have friends over in the summer and take them on hay rides. Hunter and I will grow old together and watch our sons grow into strong, handsome, good men. Life will be good. No, life will be perfect.

I want to be a cowgirl. This is what Stampede has done to me...