I started a garden this weekend.
That’s actually a lie.
I tore down a couple of my Murder Sheds this weekend and was left with two rectangular patches of dirt. I spent the next eight hours playing in that dirt, raking up old nails, pulling weeds and respectfully disposing of any mummified cats I found. I surrounded them with a wobbly wall of cobwebby bricks that were piled around my property and proclaimed, “These are my gardens.”
Then I saw a few more weeds and noticed that the ground wasn’t level, so I started digging around in the dirt again. I’ve been doing that for three days now. At this point I’ve dug and re-dug the same empty dirt plot so many times that if my neighbor suspected me of hiding a body and called the police, I wouldn’t even be angry. I’d shake her hand for being so vigilant about reporting suspicious behavior.
I’m having the scariest Halloween season ever. It’s not the haunted corn maze my roommate keeps trying to get me to see (because I definitely need another weird complex associated with vegetables). It’s not the girls who literally have to tape their body parts to make sure everything stays inside their skimpy costumes. It’s not even the inhuman number of Pumpkin Spice Lattes I’ve been drinking in preparation for the long, dark, Pumpkin Spice-less time known as “The Rest of the Year”. Those things are frightening, but the most terrifying part of this Halloween– the thing that’s been keeping me up at night in a cold sweat and haunting my dreams when I finally manage to sleep– is the sudden, horrifying epiphany I had last week.
I finally figured out what makes monsters so scary.
They’re my ex-boyfriends!