Like this:

I’ve been gardening a lot recently.

I think I’m in love with it.

I like how instantly gratifying it is. I can spend four hours clearing and mowing a lawn and look at it’s pristeneness for about a week and then there’s that second week where it looks shoddy but isn’t long enough to warrant mowing it and then by the third week mow it again and marvel at it’s uniform length, where the hodge podge of weeds that we call grass look like one singular species. And I love raking stuff. And weeding. And getting multiple blisters on my hands. At the end of a day of gardening, I come inside and scrub my hands and open blisters with a scrubbing brush and soap. My hands are always dry and in pain now and that’s how I like them.

I’ve discovered Explorer socks. Mine are all brown so as not to confuse them with brother Charlie’s*, whose are navy and black. I would like a mass of colourful Explorer socks but they’re expensive and I can’t foresee myself ever spending $14 on a single pair of socks, colourful and awesome as they be.

*John. Charlie is his new name though, Matt and I coined it from that retard from the movie The Black Balloon.

I submitted my last big, uni. assignment for the year on Monday which means all I’ve left to do this year is study for my pharmacology exam, and that’s in one month. You know what I do? I put my pharmacology lectures on my iPod and I listen to them whilst I garden. You know what else I do? I eat oats for breakfast.

I like gardening because, unlike this painting, sitting here next to me, that’s been sitting here next to me for four months, gardening is easy. It’s hard work, but it’s rewarding to the maximum. Painting I love … but am never happy with what I create. So wait shall you, painting. One day, I will finish you. But most likely not today.

I like sewing, too. And opening cans with an old fashioned can-opener. One day, I’d like to be ballsy enough to kill a cow and prepare it for eating but feminine enough to wear an apron as I make a hearty beef stew. And then if I only had some multiplying, flying device in which I could feed the poor with my hearty beef stew. Not the Indians though, they don’t eat beef, I assume.

You know what I wouldn’t ever be able to eat? Bush meat. I think I’d rather starve to death then eat bush meat. I wonder if the people who eat bush meat think us eating cows is equally revolting. I hate this world sometimes. It’s impossible to make it all better. I’ll just focus on this garden, I think. All I can do is help myself. And make waffles*.

* toast.

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