no more weeds for me

.............and just like that, it's over.
told to stop at a certain point at the driveway. no more weed pulling for this wenchola. budget, over budget. nix the driveway worker first ya know, who's going to sit around and marvel at their driveway after all? Although I am beginning to take a sick amount of pride in my weed pulling skills and tend to stand a bit too long in a daze staring at the weed free gravel. I take pride in my work after all.

and none too soon.
I'm so tired, bone tired. which I think explains why in my afternoon nap I dreamt I was a poor little blind, black girl. I was being tortured by mean kids in school and waiting to be picked up by some family that was adopting me. It started in the bathroom, being tortured, and when I finally escaped and felt my way down the hallway walls outside I was then pounced on my two more jerky kids.

if I can shake this tired off I'm gonna work on art.

1 comment:

Steve Kane said...

There's something oddly therapeutic and satisfying about repetitive menial physical work, isn't there?