or..."Where have you gone?"
or..."Now I'm crazy for you but not that crazy."
or..."Sol complains about his crummy week, month, summer, and so on."Don't worry, there isn't much complaining. Actually, there's nothing but complaining, but you won't notice it much, as there's lots of action, such as the putting in and taking out of pipes, the forceful removal of dead things from said, and the like. On with the show!
I live on a farm. This may or may not come as a surprise to you, depending on whether you are part of that very small but dedicated group that follows me around where ever I go. Also, no one else can see you. But I do live on a farm, though, you can see that.
I don't like farms. Not in the scorched earth sense where I want them turned into expanses of glass. I mean, I like farms. I just don't like farms, you know? That is, I don't grok farms.
So, of course, what better way for me to spend my summer than to work on one. My own, in fact, as I am constantly and consistantly reminded. ("Someday, all that you survey", etc.) It isn't how I would choose to spend my summer.
Some of you, mainly the oppressively cruel, and my father, would say so what? It's good for you, you lazy shiftless beast! Why, when I was your age I had seventeen jobs, nine of which involved backbreaking labor, and I only had three backs, but I did them anyway! Yes, yes, very nice.
Not that I'm complaining. I mean, of course I'm complaining, but not really about the work. Though I will complain about the work, just not yet. Now, maybe. Yes, now.
Sorry about that. Anyway, my standard schedule. Peruse.
5:00 AM: Alarm goes off. Simon (That's me, in case you're new or don't care.) wakes up eventually to Megadeath trying valiantly to convince me that they still rock, dude. I disagree and reach over to shut it off, only to discover that my nightstand was removed the day before, leaving me with an alarm clock sitting on the floor out of comfortable arm's reach. Damnation!
5:10: Back to bed, if I can wing it. Possibly from my new position on the floor.
5:30: The father call. "We're leaving at six." I respond by moaning unintelligibly, hoping perhaps to scare off of the evil spirits. This doesn't work, but I try anyway. Also, I remember the very, very strange dream I had involving Paul Harvey releasing an album of oldies covers with a backing swing band. Ouch.
6:00: Having scurried from bed, and pulling on whatever clothes I can find, I move outside. The irrigating starts. (Well, first we get in the pickup and get out elsewhere. Then the irrigating starts.) I turn sprinklers off. I get wet. Fun.
7:30: Having finished with what sprinklers are available, I get to move on to corn and grapes, both of which are fed by ditches. I shovel for an hour or two. I put this very odd substance into the water which ensures it cannot stick to anything at all, even itself. The chemistry of this evades me, but I know that it will stick to your pants for days and days.
9:00ish: Drink time! The most enjoyable part of the day, when I wind up buying Pepsi for those around me. And myself. We drink in peace for a space, followed by...
10:00: Odd job time! Spraying, which involves dumping large amounts of herbicide down the back of my pants. Pipe draining or moving. Oh, pipes. My true nemesis I think. Consider, for a moment, a metal pipe on a hot summer day. Who knows how hot it gets in there? A squirrel, apparently. One which has decided for whatever reasons squirrels have to wander into this particular pipe before venturing off into the Great Beyond, leaving behind its corpse to greet me when I'm plugging said pipe into another pipe with water flowing through it. Exit squirrel. Exit Simon.
Also, there was a mouse that flew at me under similar circumstances, though it was far less decayed, and I was able to run screaming like a little girl because no one was around. In the first instance, I had to feign nonchalance for the benefit of observers. "Whew, he's been in there a long time, eh? Uh...what say we change places for a moment? My, uh, back hurts."
I've left out the best part, which is when I begin to sneeze. Violently. I am, apparently, alergic to anything born under a yellow sun. This generates what are apparently quite funny facial expressions from me, judging by the reaction of witnesses.
So, that's my day. Everyday. Sundays too.
I don't like farms. Humans were not meant to be up at five in the morning. At least, not human college students who wanted to become writers in the first place so they could avoid this sort of thing.
And on a semiserious note, the monotony gets to me too. It's the same thing, day after day after day. It numbs something inside, I think.
I find myself waiting eagerly for college to start, so that I might have a vacation from my summer.
Anyway, that's what I've been doing, and why I haven't been here much as of late.
I've also been driving past a girl's house and listened to sad love songs. These two may or may not be connected. Perhaps I'll go into them later.
But what I really want to know is...how is YOUR summer going?
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But the dead only quickly decay. They don't go about being born and reborn and rising and falling like souffle. The dead only quickly decay.
--
Gothic Archies
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Read chapter one of "Dirk Tungsten in...The Disappearing Planet"! For the love of God, Montressor!
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