look what she did to the hydrangeas

another from a series where Marge Bjork wonders why she writes diary-like every day huzbahs for the world to read. Is it really that important?

There are other sides to summertime times. They're the rounding-out, three dimensional character building, story fleshing times. 

Last night Karonius and I bicycled to the dollar theatre (pardon, that's a misnomer, the dollar twentyfive theatre. blah) to watch a stupid flick that ended up being so stupid I began having an overwhelming craving for taco seasonings and junk food. And we walked out.
Only to find that our bikes were being watered by the evening sprinklers. These things are always highly amusing at 11:30 pm. and things seemed even more funny when Karonius, my protector who has super powers, retrieved them and we rode home with wet bums making almost every green light.


This morning I woke up from a dream. Do you remember that I hate dreams? All I desire is complete, heavy unconsciousness. Since we started sleeping outside I have not been troubled by internal, nocturnal, sleepytime films. Someone told me over a frozen pizza that the dreams probably just drifted on and away in all that big, wide, nighttime sky. 
It was bound to happen, I suppose. This clean streak couldn't last. And this dream being the worst kind, taunting me with something I wish for. [But] all gone after a deep breath of outside morning air.


Then I noticed my limbs itching over breakfast. I innocently assumed I must have gotten a couple of new mosquito bites and continued to read about Russian espionagers infiltrating suburbia USA and growing hydrangeas. It was not until I looked in the mirror before my shower and saw that my usually clear-skinned décolletage was mottled by minute bug bites or some kind of rash. Minutiae ruin everything. Minutiae is now gracing my calves, knees, elbows, upper arms, collar bone...

"Ah mortality," she said as she leaned back in her rocking chair and continued to crotchet her afghan. Then out of the corner of her eye she noticed a black spider string down from the ceiling and land on the bamboo mat about four feet away from her. She never wears shoes these days so there were none of her usual weapons on hand. Asking for forgiveness for such a disrespectful act, she picked up a book of poetry, prayed this would be one of those miraculous times when she could aim true, chucked the book at the bugger, beaned it flat on the mat, and retrieved the book, with not a bent page corner in sight.