...and damn right, it's better than yours.
God, I hate that fucking song.
Spring has hit, officially, though my yard in particular is a miasma of new growth...a plague of life swarming with buds bursting to bloom insidious hues to attract every fly and bee already well into their work on my busily buzzing property.
Damn Shadow Clones! Far too superior a fertilizer. My Cat's dragon breath attack didn't help matters. Where as my neighbors are hovering about their porches enjoying the fine weather while their still half-dead grass rests at a wintery half-mast, I'm mowing a yard of grass that reaches high enough to tickle my...tickly spots...if you get me, an infernal host of mosquitoes (seemingly quite devoted to me) crown my every move. High noon has hit. The sun is some great spotlight focused into my conscience by a sadistic interrogator and I wonder, for the umpteenth time, what I have done lately to piss God off? Surely He's forgotten all the old stuff?
A choir of angels laugh their milky-white asses off. A fat cushy cloud shaped like a middle finger flutters over the noon-day sun and is gone.
Shadow meows from the porch, then makes himself quite at home in a little curl resulting in an instantaneous kitty nap.
I shove the mower this way and that. A tiny femur is thrown from the blades to the porch and Shadow finds himself awakened, with pain. And it serve you right ya little bastard!
I can feel all the heat of hell filling me, burning away what vestiges of humanity I have gathered to me like a sizzling anger that melts away the facade like so much paper blasted to ash in a nuclear holocaust. I must maintain, I have to maintain.
The mower dies and instead of screaming until the fire blasts my lips from my melting face I stop and I breathe, and I breathe a little more. My hands are balled tightly and my nails have skewered the palms all the way through to the wrists but I breathe a little more. I close my reddened eyes to the heat of the sun, the crawling tentacles of my neighbor's stares. I feel blood trickling down from my wrists to my knuckles and plinking a bass beat to the grass beneath but I ignore it...I ignore it. I gather all my will and...I maintain. Though my nails have turned to claws and pierced my own flesh I manage to cool down and chase away the worst of the anger. My face doesn't melt away. My demonic essence does not win out, leaving my carefully constructed human shell a lifeless hulk in the grass as I wreak havoc over the surrounding area.
I take one more deep breath, then I bend to the mower and pull the damned starter again. A round of cheers erupts from across the street.
The mower coughs itself back to life and I am shoving it again, back and forth, killing the grass I do most faithfully hope, or at the very least taming it for another day or three. The cheering onlookers begin to hoot.
I give them my most piercing eat-shit-and-live-to-eat-more-shit glare, giving a double take to a few in a crowd of white boys -- all gathered on a porch across the street...one of them has green hair, another has a green felt hat as tall as he is wide, all seem to be clutching (and toasting) bottles of Guinness. Jesus, son of Sam...is it St. Patrick's already? I yanked my eyes away from the Irish Cacophony and balled my fists yet again...damn it I must remember to retract my claws!...I noticed I stood, sweaty and irritable, behind my mower, completely and utterly naked.
My white-Tee modified to a warm weather wife-beater and jean shorts lay in a heap of smoking cloth somewhere behind me. They had suffered the wrath and heat of my earlier anger. My flesh--totally in tact and on display--had survived the onslaught. Breathing. Perhaps I should have calmed myself sooner, then perhaps I could have kept my bra and panties.
More hooting, cheers from the beer-addled boys across the street. Not a one was actually Irish. I could smell their blood on the wind, German descended everyone...except for one with a hint of a nigga in the wood pile, his skin tone much closer to mine than his compadres, though he chose to pass. There was no real fear of retribution, no actual belief in St. Patrick's teachings or, hell, even that the guy had actually existed, only a an alcohol fueled typical American bastardization. And I wasn't about to allow that particular St. Paddy to chase this snake outta Westwood!
I mowed my lawn and made a real show of it. There were at least two members of the group for whom I would make dreams happen later tonight--and I was hungry, ready. I mowed and I bowed and waved them all goodbye when I had done.
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. When the moon took center stage and the stars lined up to brighten his path three drunken bastards called upon me in dreams and I took them easy, slow, and...never minding the pleasant yeasty contact high.