Basil plant is a hell. Keep it alive. Water it. Sun it. Wait it out. Leaves become big enough to use as foodie flamboyance, proffering the pungent, peppery little pop of powerflavor in soups and sauces and salads (surprise!). But summer is aging on. Basil plant pushes for repro and so begins its bloom. Flowers tiny white and lovely like little virginal victories in the age of widespread spoil. Though without feathers, they still seem so much like delicate bits of hope. But die they must. By all good gardening behaviors, the blossom is pinched and plucked away from the stem with stern agreement that Mr. Basil’s energy is assigned to building a bounty of lunchable leaves, not blooming out beauty blossoms. Each morning, out into the sunlight, this garden ranger goes with gruesome green digits deployed on a mission to seek, pluck and destroy. Annihilate the little lovelies so we may spice our otherwise lackluster comestibles! The garden spot is left littered with teensy white corpses, each discharging their duty of joyous sweet scent hinting at the glories of herbal death. So delicious. Such a dastard, propagating the questionable lie, Dulce et decorum est pro culina mori. Hopelessness has petite petals. Basil plant. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Bacon grease. Damn it. The bacon is cooked, an already evil deadly delight. Now, pan of grease is hot and danger slick. Needs to go… Where? The coffee cans mother used to fill and collect on a shelf are not now how this kitchen lives. And barely eating bacon at doctor directive of impending death from clogged arterial tracts. He proposes a plant-based diet avoiding including anything processed in a plant. This is bacon sneaked in when he’s not looking. But now, there is no grease keep. Looking, seeking. Slamming cupboards sliding drawers. Empty vessels do not abound. Want to toss this slick without gruesome greasy mess. Empty vessels often are in the trash. Not this morning. But wait. Wait, yes, maybe, will it…the empty eggshell repurposed. Like baby bear bed, just right for holding the dose of deadly golden goodness poured from the pan. The shell now sits, waiting for the waste bin. Hot grease going cold. Will it ever gel or will it stay liquid? What have I done. Just a different problem to solve. Bacon grease. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Mousetrap. Damn it. Mouse about. Detritus abounds. He has been here. And there. And there and there and there. (Surely a he. The evil gender designation for the verminous interloper.) Have to trap. Not a von trap. There is no music play to this ploy. Just the sound of trap snap. Sad. But necessary. Before his family feels infestive and joins the fun. Supermarket tiny trap. In the vermin and infestation aisle, alongside the pretty poisons. Glue trap? Eegad. Is there a more inhumane slow-death device ever invented? No. Old fashioned, wooden base, metal bail, baited trigger, a sudden simple sufferless death. This is your grandfather’s trap, thank grid. Set that night. Morning corpse delivered. But now…disposal? It’s a new trap. A dollar and change. Throw it away with the furry form? Dispense with the diminutive cadaver and save the set-up? But then, how to clean? Disinfect? Is it ever free from germ and bug? Does it even work again? Or does the next mouse sniff the trace of trauma and the scent of doom? And has this trapper violated an Eastern religion prohibition of killing creatures and ensuring karmic reincarnation as a critter to be snaptrapped in the life anext? Guilty. Cursed. PETAviled even. Mousetrap. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Damn it. Plastic wrap. Unpeel? Where? Turn the toll. Look. Turn. Look. Turn. Look. Augh! Ah! There! Unpeel. Un-peel. Un…peel. UNPEEL! Fingernail under invisible seam unpeeeeeeel—unpeeled! Shrick of unroll and…Stuck! STUCK! Stuck on itself stuck! Unstick! Un-stick! Un…stick! Yes! Unpeeled and unstuck! Joy and victory! But fleeting. Sticking to self. Unsticking. Un-sticking. Un…sticking! Yes! Find alligator jaws teeth steel strip and…zip. Stick! Unstick! Un-stick! Un…stick! Unstuck! Quick! Wrap over opening and…one inch too small. Too small! Too! Small! Plastic wrap. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Damn it. Trash bag. Kitchen garbage. Full. Ish. Not full quite enoughish. Press it down just so. Not so much the trash bag sticks inside. Put flattened boxes on the top. On the side. Coffee grounds will fit. But. Oops. They escaped. Ran off the edge. Down the side. On the floor. Crap. OK. Fine. I’ll take it out. Pull it up. The bag is stuck like it was not supposed to. Sticking. Fighting. Swearing. Grinting. Banging. Thumping. Pulling. Arging. Boomp. Out. Sprinkle trash. Eggshell coffee ground. Ripshred. Out damn bag. Trash bag. Damn it. My life is a hell.
This is hard for me. My life is a hell. Be afraid. Or you will join me. TFTD: WTH?