It's 2am, a soft snow falls as moonlight shines through the slats of the long-abandoned barn, and I'm covered in frozen blood. Not real blood; it's peanut butter, paint, and dish soap, which creates a sickly smell that will forever give me nauseating flashbacks to this moment. It lays against my bare skin while the camera operator buttons up my shirt, thus sealing my freezing fate. We've been at this since nightfall, which in Kansas winter takes place around 6pm. The February winds are howling and the snow is covered in a layer of ice, courtesy of the polar vortex that pushed through the Midwest this weekend. I should be miserable, tired, hungry, and perhaps I am. But mostly, I'm having an absolute blast.
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