I got one thing done today, which was murdering all the weeds except for three or four of the flowering prettiest.

As far as I’m concerned, weeds are maintenance and maintenance is on the owner, not the renter. But these asswits have a clause. Maybe its legal and maybe it ain’t, but like so many clauses in the modern world, that makes no difference.

So I spent the day doing something I never want to do again.

Halfway through I was out front and here comes the same landlady black pickup with the windows all tinted to the same color. I stopped and just leaned on my shovel and stared with pure hate. I wanted to raise a finger but I didn’t. Just a fully ironic salute when they were mostly past.

I took the giant bag of salt out to the very front by the dirt road and I drew a giant phallus with it for their next drive-by. One long tube, two circles for the balls. Swiping forward with the trowel, I made it appear to be ejaculating profusely. On their tires.

Then I went and did the backyard.

I finished by about three in the afternoon and I was standing inside at the sink, looking over the sterile yard and the salty penis. The school bus dropped a load. There was a boy, about nine maybe, and he saw it and stopped, and started to laugh.

That almost made it worthwhile. That plus the carefully crafted email I sent back to Mr. Property Manager Esquire, author of the stupid clause. And now this beer. Just one.

However, I’ll probably move anyway. They want another lease and I don’t think I can take another year of their shit. Probably. Depends really on what else I can find, for less monthly and less brain damage. Likely an apartment again. It would be the first one, that wasn’t a house, in exactly fifteen years.

I don’t know if I can handle that again either. Maybe if the bedroom doesn’t have a common wall with anyone else. Maybe.