I can’t stop weeding. Sometimes, I have to fight the urge to pull weeds from other people’s yards. I dream about weeding — I’m not even kidding. I once snuck up onto Mark’s porch to get better leverage on a tree of heaven volunteer that just. had. to. go.

This compulsion of mine wouldn’t be so bad if:

A) I had more time for such things;
B) I had more sun-hardy skin; or
C) Bugs did not love to bite me so.

This morning I went out side intent on simply watering my window boxes. I wore sunscreen, but hadn’t perfumed myself with my usual bouquet d’OFF as I meant this to be a five minute chore. You see where this is going, don’t you?

I went looking for the spray extension to the hose, and ending up noticing an area by the garage where trumpet vine was murdering everything that was meant to be growing there. I grabbed my pruning sheers, a bottle of stump and vine killer and… somehow, it’s an hour later, I’m covered in bug bites, there are trumpet vine carcasses strewn all over the sidewalk and I think I need a second shower.

Also? It’s 12:41.

It’s a sickness.