15 months ago I was living the dream. A dream.

I worked at a global, coveted fashion company. I had interned at some of the glossiest glossies you could imagine. I spent my days researching trends, writing captions and wearing stunning shoes.

I miss that world, I do. I can’t wait to get back into it, should it have me. Magazines are my career and I am not giving up on that. But for now, adventure comes first.

So now, I have come to find myself working on a farm in New South Wales, to get a second year Down Under. 

Which comes to how I spent my day in a slaughterhouse, watching sheep be killed, skinned and gutted.

I was the little girl who cried when daddy went out shooting. Till the age of 6 I would barely touch meat. I have never intentionally killed an animal and, up until recently, have avoided eating meat that I have seen alive since.

I wish I had the willpower to become a vegetarian, but I love steak. My diet is far too limited with gluten and dairy being a pain in the ass for me to complicate things more, at least for the time being as I travel and explore.

So today, as I stood facing the poor little sheep with their dark baffled eyes, knowing full well what was about to happen, I had to grow a pair.

Let me say now: It was as humane as physically possible. Many, and I understand where they’re coming from I truly do, will never accept that. But for me, it wasn’t cruel. Throats were slit and the necks broken in a swift moment. They bled out for a few minutes before proceeding to be skinned.

When an animal dies its muscles keep contracting, so it appears they are still alive and suffering terrible pain. From experience I can say that they are well and truly gone, it is muscle movements.

The image however remains horrifying.

(So are the sounds/smells. Hearing blood spurt out of the snapped neck of a dead sheep, or smelling the stomach contents that pour out of it’s mouth as it’s hung up – quality nightmare material.)

The farmers skin and gut the animal, careful not to break the internal organs for tainting the meat.

My job? Hold the bag for the inner bits. Grim.

They are then hung for Rigor Mortis to set in, so that it is easier to slice and dice into the lamb chops and mince you will likely eat over the week. 

I am squeamish. I am very much pro-animal life. I will not be the one to kill and gut an animal myself. But it was eye opening and absolutely fascinating.

Tell the girl wearing the pretty heels and expensive leather jacket in the high-fashion office that soon she will be standing in the slaughterhouse watching sheep intestines fall out of a skinned lamb. She won’t believe you.

I decided not to add any pictures to this post for my own visual/stomach reasons. Sorry, you're stuck with words this time. 

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