That Time of Year

I mowed the yard. It was a royal fucking pain in the ass and the unpleasant portent of things to come. Did you know that in a fight between a lawnmower and a green plastic dust broom, the dust broom loses? However, if you pit the lawnmower against a large, soggy rawhide bone, the bone emerges the victor. It's a good thing I took a shower before I mowed because otherwise it would be dirty skin that's covered with tiny shreds of grass as opposed to my clean, yet green, self. There's something in my eye and using the lawnmower to fight back the invading thornbushes doesn't really work very well.

It turns out that the tiny bugs that were attacking me in McClellanville were more serious about feasting than I thought. I had this idea that they were only vaguely annoying: little midgey gnats that buzz around but do no harm. I was wrong. Boy, was I ever wrong. I am covered with fiendishly itching tiny bites. It's awful. I have rings of bites around my wrists, my ankles and my middle and sweet weeping jesus, they ITCH. Naturally, I tell myself that the more I scratch, the more they will itch, but honestly I'm finding that they itch demonically no matter what.

Fish is dead. Sing requiem. His large unsightly orange body is floating in the pond. It seems sad that he made it all the way through the winter only to die in the spring, but there you have it. Nature is red in tooth and claw, and goldfish die. I think maybe this year I will pull that damn tub out of there and give up on my pond. I don't really take good enough care of it and it just gets nasty; I can't afford all the pumps and filters and shit it would take to keep it nice. Sigh. Fish, we hardly knew ye. Thanks for taking care of all the mosquito larvae.