“So this won’t get anything done” she tells herself, as she sits at her desk for the fourth hour in a row, typing in third person and listening to the (loosely) horticultural based playlist she’s spent the ENTIRE week-end compiling. It’s now Sunday afternoon, last night there was an epic thunder storm that lit the skies shades of blue and pink and emblazoned the silhouettes of the tree line onto her retinas as she sat quaking in her bed, huddled in blankets, watching and waiting for the lightning to strike the chimney and bring it crashing through the roof. She is not a fatalist in the slightest….

She woke this morning in a panic, her brain randomly throwing angst at her. This morning’s obsessive thought was about Alliums. She has obviously planted too many of them in the borders at work meaning sometime in June the display will be a ridiculous spherical purple joke, with bits of actual well done horticulture in between. She tells herself to shut the fuck up and reminds herself that, the glorious thing about Alliums, is that you can cut the heads off them if you’ve overdone things.

Two days is never enough time off when you’re inclined to extreme inertia and fuckwittery.

In my mind.



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