Exposé (Not Really) #4: Breaking the Repose - Just dying to die

Raise your hand if you've ever seen those commercials with the old wrinkly people writing their wills with some money-leeching company. You know, the ones where some old lady says, "I'm glad that I got help from Wish You Were Dead LTD. with writing my will so I can rest easy knowing that when I pass, my children and grandchildren will receive my meager savings. Now I can do something constuctive that will save the world with the very small amount of time I have left, like GARDENING! I love GARDENING! *waters impossibly lush and bright garden*"

Oh yes, you have.

So to end the monotony of my life of being caged inside the house preparing for a piano exam, I decided to follow upon the old lady's steps. No, not to death. To a new hobby of gardening.

Today after dinner I impulsively decided to go outside, because earlier I had received an email stating some uses of salt. Apparently, if you sprinkle salt on the cracks between your sidewalks, it stops grass and weeds from growing there, ultimately helping you to avoid the nuisance of pulling them out later. Unfortunately for me, when I arrived on my front lawn I realized that the weeds and grass were already there, which meant I had to pull them out first.

So there I was, on my hands and knees in the dusk, poking and pulling at the soil between the cracks on my sidewalk. I thought it would be cooler later in the evening, but I also forgot about the MOSQUITOES. Not to mention that apparently I'm a homewrecker too, because when I was trying to unearth the weeds, PILL BUGS (Refer to the picture to the left), enough to possibly take over the world, began SWARMING from the patch of green death I was pulling at.

As the night and the cold began to blanket the city, people passing by also began staring at me as I cursed at the stubborn weeds and waved the screwdriver that I was using to dig them out with around in the air to fend off the flies lusting for my blood ... but I still consider myself lucky that I wasn't tending to flowers, because I HATE BEES. Halfway down the concrete path I gave up and went in before I froze to death.

So to conclude, I have 4 new mosquito bites, I have YET to see if that salt theory works, plus my Secret Garden (of Doom) pretty much consists of half a sidewalk with salt mixed in with the soil between the cracks.

I think I've figured something out, though. Gardening to old people is equivalent to doing jail time for us. The experience is harrowing, will shave a couple of years off your life, but when you come out suddenly you're the flavour of the entire retirement home. I'll bet a whispered conversation at the old home between two Golden Girls goes exactly like this:

"Did you hear? George from 205 just finished planting sunflower seeds in the courtyard."

"I heard! He's so gangsta'. I'd like to get in his Depends for some hanky-panky, if you know what I mean!"

Or maybe gardening isn't only for passing the time until you die. Maybe it's the unspoken method of slow suicide.

But of course, this is all speculation. So far, I only know two things for sure.

NOT GARDENING.











GARDENING.






















Until next time, readers.