In those days, the old folks would tell of a splendor which had once illuminated the heavens. Though they had not seen it in ages, they spoke fondly of it. And they called its name "the sun"...
I cannot recall the last time I didst see the yellow sun.
It has rained all year. And more rain is forecast. It's like living in Seattle. Except without the Space Needle, formerly cool music scene, or proximity to the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
I'm beginning to think the Mayans may not have been completely wrong, just off by a month or two.
There is talk of this so-called "sun" appearing on Friday, but I'll believe it when I see it. In the mean time, I think I may begin pricing gopher wood on Craigslist. And livestock.
Today, the garbage was at the peak of its stench. Unable to put it off any longer, I decided to brave the rain and take out the trash.
Big mistake.
To reach the communal waste receptacle, I have to go out the back gate, down a sidewalk, and across a small parking area. It's roughly 72 steps, though I take longer strides to round it down to a nice OCD-friendly 70. Actually, 80 would be more friendly. Or 100. Or 50. I tried taking 50 once but then I just looked like a big lurching, creepy orangutan.
Often when it's raining, I'll jog instead of walking. I don't want to run too fast, so as to appear scared of getting wet. It's more of a manly trot, really. Like a firefighter, in a bit of a hurry because, hey, you never know when there might be a life to save.
Well, the sidewalk part of the trip is fine, but once I get into the parking lot area, there is standing water. At first, it's not too bad, just a few puddles. But then I feel it soaking through my Chucks. (Yes, I wear Chucks. I dress like Ted Mosby. I dress exactly like Ted Mosby.) I cringe, but it is too late. They are saturated.
With each step, the water seems to deepen exponentially. Like the parking area must have been built on a slant for some reason. By now, it has to be at least a foot deep. So about halfway through the parking lot and with water soaking me from the knees down, I decide to abort.
What? They always tell you in a flash flooding situation if you encounter standing water, do not try to cross. Am I right? Besides, it is a fact more people die from floods each year than are killed by automatic car wash mishaps and being crushed by vending machines combined!
Armed with this knowledge, I veer off to the right to begin making a half circle back towards home base. But as soon as I do, I realize I still have a garbage bag in my hand. My mind races. I can't turn back now. What am I gonna do, take the garbage back inside? But Bone, you could die! Yes, but this garbage really stinks. Good point, risk it.
I veer back to the left, planning to toss the bag into the dumpster from ten yards away so I can retreat as quickly as possible. It is then that I notice the dumpster door is closed. I also realize that my free arm has, for some reason, begun flailing out to my side, as I... continue my... manly, fireman-like trot.
I think I'm beginning to understand why J.D. Salinger didn't leave the house for 30 years.
I glance up at some of the windows. They look dark and suddenly strange. Hollow, yet not empty. I wonder if someone is watching from within. Or worse, videoing it all.
I mean, picture if you will: a man in his late thirties, daintily high-stepping through a foot or more of water, with a trash bag in one hand, other arm flailing like he's just seen a mouse, veering across the parking lot in a bit of an S-pattern, and now thoroughly soaked nearly up to his skivvies. (I may have also let out a high-pitched yelp at some point when the water reached my knees.)
Moments like this are the entire reason YouTube was created! Also, the mental health profession.
Resigned to my fate, I wade over to the dumpster and deposit the bag of trash. Soaking wet and now also freezing, because not only is it raining, but it has not gotten above 38 degrees all day, I begin the 70-step slog back. Except for some reason, I don't walk. But I do not trot, either. It's more like I'm skipping now.
Involuntarily, inexplicably, skipping in the rain.
And pretty sure I no longer look anything like a fireman.
"Hey, come look through the window pane / The bus is comin' / Gonna take us to the train / Looks like we'll be blessed with a little more rain / It's four feet high and risin'..."
I cannot recall the last time I didst see the yellow sun.
It has rained all year. And more rain is forecast. It's like living in Seattle. Except without the Space Needle, formerly cool music scene, or proximity to the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
I'm beginning to think the Mayans may not have been completely wrong, just off by a month or two.
There is talk of this so-called "sun" appearing on Friday, but I'll believe it when I see it. In the mean time, I think I may begin pricing gopher wood on Craigslist. And livestock.
Today, the garbage was at the peak of its stench. Unable to put it off any longer, I decided to brave the rain and take out the trash.
Big mistake.
To reach the communal waste receptacle, I have to go out the back gate, down a sidewalk, and across a small parking area. It's roughly 72 steps, though I take longer strides to round it down to a nice OCD-friendly 70. Actually, 80 would be more friendly. Or 100. Or 50. I tried taking 50 once but then I just looked like a big lurching, creepy orangutan.
Often when it's raining, I'll jog instead of walking. I don't want to run too fast, so as to appear scared of getting wet. It's more of a manly trot, really. Like a firefighter, in a bit of a hurry because, hey, you never know when there might be a life to save.
Well, the sidewalk part of the trip is fine, but once I get into the parking lot area, there is standing water. At first, it's not too bad, just a few puddles. But then I feel it soaking through my Chucks. (Yes, I wear Chucks. I dress like Ted Mosby. I dress exactly like Ted Mosby.) I cringe, but it is too late. They are saturated.
With each step, the water seems to deepen exponentially. Like the parking area must have been built on a slant for some reason. By now, it has to be at least a foot deep. So about halfway through the parking lot and with water soaking me from the knees down, I decide to abort.
What? They always tell you in a flash flooding situation if you encounter standing water, do not try to cross. Am I right? Besides, it is a fact more people die from floods each year than are killed by automatic car wash mishaps and being crushed by vending machines combined!
Armed with this knowledge, I veer off to the right to begin making a half circle back towards home base. But as soon as I do, I realize I still have a garbage bag in my hand. My mind races. I can't turn back now. What am I gonna do, take the garbage back inside? But Bone, you could die! Yes, but this garbage really stinks. Good point, risk it.
I veer back to the left, planning to toss the bag into the dumpster from ten yards away so I can retreat as quickly as possible. It is then that I notice the dumpster door is closed. I also realize that my free arm has, for some reason, begun flailing out to my side, as I... continue my... manly, fireman-like trot.
I think I'm beginning to understand why J.D. Salinger didn't leave the house for 30 years.
I glance up at some of the windows. They look dark and suddenly strange. Hollow, yet not empty. I wonder if someone is watching from within. Or worse, videoing it all.
I mean, picture if you will: a man in his late thirties, daintily high-stepping through a foot or more of water, with a trash bag in one hand, other arm flailing like he's just seen a mouse, veering across the parking lot in a bit of an S-pattern, and now thoroughly soaked nearly up to his skivvies. (I may have also let out a high-pitched yelp at some point when the water reached my knees.)
Moments like this are the entire reason YouTube was created! Also, the mental health profession.
Resigned to my fate, I wade over to the dumpster and deposit the bag of trash. Soaking wet and now also freezing, because not only is it raining, but it has not gotten above 38 degrees all day, I begin the 70-step slog back. Except for some reason, I don't walk. But I do not trot, either. It's more like I'm skipping now.
Involuntarily, inexplicably, skipping in the rain.
And pretty sure I no longer look anything like a fireman.
"Hey, come look through the window pane / The bus is comin' / Gonna take us to the train / Looks like we'll be blessed with a little more rain / It's four feet high and risin'..."
