Flaming Green Tortillas (Or Taste the Clippings of My Rage)

My Kick Ass Pepper Plant. Weep at it’s Greenness Bitches!

 

Am having one of those days that started out with so much potential but has since disintegrated into some ball of doom that has settled in me even as it passes over the rest of Massachusetts (seriously, there is a doom cloud hovering over MA right now and making its way out to sea. This is nature people, I don’t have to make this shit up). Went to the diner for breakfast and then over to see Farmer Dave for some local produce and discount perennials. Then my insides exploded (as they do). Then I went into my garden to discover some of my squash are rotting on the vine even though they aren’t ripe yet. Then my insides exploded.

At one point I was told that BB and I had to do the grocery shopping, which I am loathe to do, but whatever. So I waited for him to get ready. Two and a half hours later, I’m feeling worse and worse, only now I’m livid as BB has apparently blown me off. I realize that now I am a festering ball of rage in a body that is slowly creeping south, and I’d better find some way to displace my wrath. Because, by gum, my wrath is a force to be reckoned with.
I turn my attention to a plot of overgrown weeds that is growing up over the windows in our front room and my bedroom. I come at them with a giant set of broken clippers and I just hack until behind me lies a swath of destruction of impressive proportion. When the damage is done I straighten up, take a breath and notice that BB is standing there with Cobble (our daft, ancient, giant greyhound) watching. It seems he is now ready to go. I on the other hand am covered in nature: trees, debris, dirt, bugs and bird poop. I turn to look at him and suddenly he is suggesting I stay behind whilst he toils at the grocery alone.

On one hand, not participating in the shopping is great. I hate shopping. I’m a fatty, so being near food, clothing stores or Wal-Mart type establishments is just a wall of ridicule for me. You have no idea how judged I get shopping for food, even when I’m only shopping for myself (am a healthy vegetarian. People see my basket and like to ask what diet I’m on. I’m not on a special diet, asshole, this is what I eat. Yes, even vegetarians can be fatties. ) On the other hand, if I don’t go, I’ll probably have guilt laid on thick by BB and get crap for it over the rest of the evening. This is how it rolls in my house.
I ended up staying, feeling dreadful (my hands are purple and swollen now from the minor rage induced toiling), and showering. I emerged shortly after seven to fix myself something to eat, only to nearly catch the kitchen on fire. Alas, no din dins for fatty. (Although, now am inspired to make some art entirely composed of flaming green tortillas.)
Luckily for me my personal cyborg was online and made me happy by making me think of cocktail parties for donkeys. Seriously. I have the best friends.

Wow. I am such a downer. I hope this doesn’t put you off my blog, oh followers I don’t have. I’ll try to be more witty and entertaining tomorrow…

When I will probably extol the glories of my failing but not failing garden.
P.S. Donkey cocktail parties exist. They aren’t called donkeys there though, the invitations are for V.S.E.s (Very Small Equines). Honest. You can’t make this stuff up.

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