Here lately, it seems I spend an inordinate amount of time scraping shit off of things. If I’m not scraping shit off of my shoes, I’m scraping shit off of my floors. I’m sick of this shit.
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with all of these animals around here, but none of them seem to be able to shit away from the house. I have a dog that prefers to shit under our clothesline, dogs that enjoy shitting in the 2 foot wide strip of grass between the magic bus and the pink house’s carport slab, cats that don’t bury their shit, chickens that shit every fucking where you look, and I’m fairly certain that there’s still some leftover cowshit all over the place from the incident with the neighbors cows right after we moved here.
I can’t walk the 15′ to the laundry room without stepping in shit. I can’t walk to the mailbox without stepping in shit. Some days, I can’t walk through my house without stepping in shit.
I need one of those boot scraper brushes
and I need it bad. The trick to one of those little gems is getting Sunshine to actually use it. I swear, the man is deliberately resistant to new patterns in his life, like, you know, actually putting dirty clothes into the dirty laundry hamper instead of the back seat of his truck/between the couch cushions/on a tree branch in the yard.
Sometimes, simple living ain’t easy. Sometimes, it’s just a crock of shit.