What I would describe as an ugly yearlong break-up, came to a finale with you diving head first into a shit eating display of shear lunacy. Under the full moon, you tore up my front garden like a rabid monkey, screaming ill-convictions of my private life to the world. I watched with pity and disgust as you thrashed the groundcover, ripped at lavender, plucked the curry bush, uprooted dusty’s, yanked out leeks….then you proceeded to stomp on the 50 year old rose bush: that’s when I had to tackle your ass. The cops showed. Maliciously, you declared that you were going to tell them everything; that I was fucked; done for. So you did, you told them a number of things that had nothing to do with your violent behavior. You snitched about a pot garden that both our names were registered to. So. Fucking. Stupid. As it turned out, the cops didn’t give a shit about the ganja reek from my house nor about what you had to say and they were ready to book your ass that night. You balked and whimpered like a little brat. You probably avoided arrest because I wouldn’t report how I received that fresh shiner on my temple – you’re welcome, now here’s a fork for your shit pie. As for me, the next sunny morning I used my green-thumb to repair the entire garden – except the leeks, I used those to make an excellent potato soup. You need to drop your self-aggrandizing permaculture classes and take your pot snitching, rose-stomping ass back to Baltimore. I hate you. Portland hates you.
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