Utter Futility

the lawn is dead…yet again – same as last year, same as the year before, and the year before that – it’s an endless cycle of weeding, seeding, watering, waiting…all for the same exact end—brown death – I know that fat Bob down the street will be tisk-tisking my poor lawn care abilities and making snide comments about how these so-called smart guys can’t do shit – I’d like to be able to brush it off with a cool “who gives a flying fuck what the neighbors think, anyway” – but I know that I will never be able to do that – its not in my nature to take criticism constructively, even when it’s well deserved –

I think I know why the crinkled up grass in front of the house gets to me so much: that damn lawn represents ever god-awful failure in my entire life…my inability to hit the ball in little league, the time I left the water on in the garage and flooded the basement (old dad was not very happy about that one), being rejected by the girl with the sad eyes in the 8th grade – seeing that brown fucking lawn year after year reminds me that I am basically an incompetent twit, fit only for the most abstract mental labors, but horribly ill-suited for anything even remotely practical in this life –

If only human beings were created in an incorporeal state – then there’d be no such thing as lawn care (what does a spirit need with a lawn?) – unfortunately, my apparently horrendous karma has positioned me in the ultimate suburban nightmare: a place where the lawns are just small enough that every brown patch and every blade of crabgrass represents a moral failing of cosmic proportions. I have no doubt that the neighbors would think more highly of me if I performed child sacrifices on my front lawn…provided, of course, that the lawn itself was plush, vibrantly green, and free of unsightly weeds.