My Yard Wants To Kill Me

Yesterday as I pulled up to the house I realized if I let the grass in the yard grow any higher, I was likely to receive more hate mail from the homeowners association.  They are not fans of our yard, generally speaking.  I seem to have inadequate weed control skills as well as a poor edging ability in their eyes.

I waited until eight o’clock to mow.  That seems to be the sweet spot between avoiding heat stoke and not waking the neighbor’s children.  So braless, as bra’s generally suck, and suck even more when causing unnecessary additional boob sweat during vigorous yard based activities, I began to mow.  And poison myself.

I knew my husband had thrown poison granules over the ant hills.  I could see it.  But I was on a mission to be done and ain’t nobody got time for careful navigation around every anthill in the yard.  So I mowed right over one that was bigger than I had realized.  It poofed up a massive cloud of dirt, ants, and poison.  I am fairly certain I inhaled all three foreign bodies.  Shit.  It didn’t stop me from finishing the job.  But I spent the rest of the time contemplating wether or not to call poison control, as well as meticulously circumnavigating the other hills.  I guess there was time for that after all.

This morning I woke up with a headache and an ant bite on my elbow.  At least the poison hasn’t managed to kill me.  My brain feels slightly maimed, but I’m sure that’s just temporary.

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