On the roomates

They do try. The roomates. That are mine. My roomates. It is the haphazard, indiscriminate, unsystematic, arbitrary way in which they try that a young gentleman such as myself must call into question.

Take the lawn for instance. For the past few weeks, we've been putting a small amount of effort into prepping the yard, cleaning it up for summer growth and beauty. I've done my fair share of raking and bagging to be sure, I enjoy yardwork to a certain degree, and would do the majority of it happily if I had more free time.
My kindhearted Bendite stoner roomates also enjoy doing yardwork, in that they like being outside and communing with nature, and thinking about how nice it would be to have a well groomed lawn and vegetable garden and hanging marihuana cigarette plants and maybe a llama because hey, who doesn't think llamas are funny. This leads them to wander outside, trailing clouds of white smoke faintly reminiscent of the character pigpen from the peanuts cartoon, and begin plugging away until invariably they lose interest halfway through the job.

These inconsistent efforts have resulted in our garden being partially raked and planted with nothing, our grass partially watered and partially raked, with piles of dead leaves and plant detritus/hank poop creating randomly placed Hopi burial mounds all over the yard. (Hopi because you better hopi you never step on one since its 9/10ths dog turd). Instead of finishing the raking job by bagging up their scrapings or at least wheelbarrowing them all to the rubbish pile behind our shed, those gentle natives became confused with their responsibilities and moved straight to mowing, resulting in our grass being mowed...kind of. Sqwiggly lines now trace across our property with no rhyme or reason apparent from ground level, sometimes avoiding the poo mounds, sometimes running right through them, the mower guided by an invisible force of inertia only apparent to those whose minds have been over-exposed to the noxious fumes generated by burning that most stickiest of the icky.

Standing on my back patio in uffish thought, I can only assume that they have created a quarter acre tapestry of art which while invisible to the unaided eye, reveals itself like the great Nazca desert lines to those icarus-ish ascended beings who have taken to the heavens, or at the very least to our shed's rooftop. Tomorrow is another day however. Maybe this time I will help.