I came out as Pickle-Kin to my family a week ago today. My mother and father didn’t understand at first, but when my brother told them, my father angrily kicked me out while my mother sobbed. It all started when I watched the episode of Rick and Morty in which Rick turns himself into a pickle and exclaims “I’M PICKLE RIIICK!” Those words bounced around my head for days, weeks, months. I, too wanted to turn into an anthropomorphic pickle. This was more than a simple fetish for me, it was a way of life. I was conflicted, painfully conflicted about my identity. I waged an internal war with myself, and the good side finally prevailed. I came out to my family as Pickle-Kin. It was both the best and worst birthday of my life. I turned 18 that day, and, after being kicked out, took my car and drove along 81 for miles until I found myself on side roads in the Appalachian Mountains. I was going to live off the land as a nomadic hermit. Society had only brought me pain, so I left it. I donned my handmade pickle suit and climbed the top of the nearest mountain. There, I fell asleep to the sound of crickets in the night air, and for the first time in my life, I felt content.