Whomever said that food tastes better if you pick it yourself has obviously never picked boysenberries. What the hell? They have thorns! Big thorns! Thorns that fight back! I thought berries wanted to be eaten, so that the seeds ended up moving around? These berries were like “ohnoyoudinnit!” with their sharp thorniness. It was a declaration of war. I kept picking berries even after I’d finished filling the buckets I had; I ate them, put them in other people’s buckets, left them for the birds. It was war, bitches – war, and I wasn’t leaving until there were none left. It was like our Iraqi strategy – only I actually had a strategy, and I won.