Thursday, April 9, 2009

daisy chainsaw

i moved into a house with rosebushes in the front. i have never been big on roses; i think they're trite. even for my wedding when the florist lisped "for your bouquet, roses?" i rolled my eyes.

so from what i was told, the rosebushes had to be pruned, cut back to about 8 inches off the ground. granted, i should have googled this first, because im not sure on the reliability of the source. but the bushes, as they were, were as tall as me, which is about 5 feet, so there was a lot of cutting to do.

i have never gardened before, unless a chia pet herb garden counts. but i got some pruning shears and gloves and decided to do my pruning today as it was reasonably warm and sunny.

at first i was timid, just a snip here and a snip there. the thorns kept sticking me, which made me think of that stupid poision song which i had to force out of my head. bret michaels is a washed up douche. soon though, i was not just snipping, i was whacking. i was not just trimming branches, i was slaughtering them. i was moving with a quickness, butchering everything in my path.

these little grass-like plants next to the roses, i had been advised, needed to be trimmed as well; i grabbed them in my hand like a little girl's pony tail and whacked them at the root, waving the plant over my head like i had just scalped a white man. if i were more talented i would have done a native american battle cry for effect.

i began singing "anarchy in the uk", first in my head, then inadvertantly out loud, putting special emphasis on the "i want to de-STROY" portion. coincidently i looked a little like sid vicious in that one picture where he's slashed himself and is bleeding all over, what with the roses slicing the shit out of me. i hadn't even noticed until afterwoads as the entire time i was transfixed on the roses in this crazed, trance-like state. MUST.DESTROY.ROSES.

when i had finished there were branches, leaves, grass, buds...all kinds of crap...everywhere. i might have gone a little overboard, however, the whole thing was strangely, almost perversely, theraputic.

gardening. who'd have thunk it.

No comments:

Post a Comment