The view out my front door

I've been sick for days now. Pray-for-death, drinking green-death-flavored syrup sick. I'm slightly better today. Better enough that I poked my head out the front door to try and figure out what the hell my dog has been barking at since 6:30 this morning.

All I saw was dirt. And a few dried up dog turds.

I stood there trying to figure out what these dried up dog turds said about my life, until it made my head hurt bad enough to want more green, death-flavored syrup (or some vicodin-chip cookies). Once my head started hurting, I realized that this is what the dog turds said about my life:

A) nothing, really

B) Mollie shits a lot for a little dog

2) that we need to find some grass that will grow in our yard

XXIV) I need to rake the yard and bag the poo for removal to the dumpster

28) Our yard is really small

N45) BINGO

(Sorry, couldn't help myself there)

Maybe I wouldn't be obsessing over dog turds if they hadn't been the first thing that I saw when I came back from the dead. Maybe I wouldn't be worried about the dog turds if the world around me would act like it was fall and drop some leaves off the trees instead of being 92 fucking degrees outside.

I must be going crazy. I need to get a job so I have something to do with myself other than worry about three dried up dog turds in my yard.

Or maybe I just need to go rake and bag the damned poo.

That'll teach me to open the front door during daylight hours.