May 28, 2002 :: 11:09 a.m.
some things are just too sacred
Man, someone's going to die soon and it's not going to be me. There are guys in construction worker hats out there with big, loud machines. Not only are they cutting away at every tree in the neighborhood (!), but they're
interrupting my Rufus, which, you should know, is one of the higher forms of blasphemy. Grrr. They knocked on the door and asked me to move the two cars that are on the left side of the house so that they could "prune" (read: massacre, torture, unnecessarily amputate, etc) the big tree on that side.
No, says I, because I don't have the keys to either of those cars (the Jaguar and my mom's car). Now technically, I do have the keys for those. The ones for my mom's car, at least. But I don't know exactly where they are, and why should I search for them when I don't want them messing with my trees anyway? Fuck that. I do not assist men with obnoxiously noisy machines who like to cut and crash through trees that have done absolutely nothing to deserve such treatment.
Especially when said cutting and crashing intrudes upon my listening pleasure. You know?
I just wrote like an hour ago, but hey. Nothing else to do, and I thought it merited mention.
back & forth
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