God gave Summer the cards and she’s shuffling and dealing them. She’s obviously cheating and the beating hearts are obviously pissed. So pissed. Summer is playing Autumn and we do not know who is who anymore or what the rules of the game are. Who’s speaking? Who’s shuffling?
Flat Lands is raging against all machines. Dutchies have flames in the corner of their eyes. Expats are considering life, in general, questioning everything while praying and cursing to the same gods.
While I find myself mid-year already, there are only two options. B*tch about it. Which I do. Every day. Burn everything down until you are covered in the ashes of your normal life. Which I do. Every day.
Or go out (to b*tch about it). Just go out. Or do whatever you were about to do anyway. Which I do. Every day.
The habit of walking came as a necessity. As a must. And it stuck. I walk. I walk until the road turns into a street turns into a path turns into a stop sign. I’m a translucent beginner, but still: I walk.
I walk no matter the weather tantrums. Or everything else. One sure fact is that it rains water and not dog shit or sharp glass. It could at a certain point, but, as of now, as far as I’ve seen this morning: it was only rain water. A good gear is mandatory – I think I have the ugliest boots and I look like Dopey on weed in my wrong-size rain jacket. But who cares? Do you? Cos’ I surely did not this morning while it was raining water and cats and dogs and usual Monday to-do lists and everything in between. And still: I walked.
I counted 217 slugs while trying not to smash them with my boot and keep my head low so that the glasses remain clean. And there were more but I stopped counting since I was getting bored and ABBA was screaming MammaMia into both my ears. I started mumbling the song and using my fingers to tap the rhythm on my rain jacket. And still: I walked.
People complain about slugs for quite a while. Well, basically since the rainy days became a rule and not the exception. There are trillions of them. Everywhere. They eat your garden alive. I would not know since I do not have an actual garden. However, I have a bird feeder for my birdies. Apparently they eat just to poop. A lot. While some are concerned about slugs eating their strawberries, I am concerned about how much poop my beautiful birds can leave on my terrace while they feed themselves out of my mercy.
Summer – this cheeky lady, a bit beautiful and a bit cocky, is still shuffling and dealing whatever she wants. It seems that she’s keeping the royal flushes for herself. Whatever she does, I will pretend the wrong-size jacket will wear off at a certain point. I will still spotify Stayin’ Alive and sing it with that pitched voice without really understanding the words but acting like a raged chihuahua.
By the way, did you observe that chihuahuas are the absolute kings, the leaders of their pack, the seed in the avocado, the bubbles in the coke, the essence of life? Who cares if they’re not supposed to? Do you? It’s how you go out and present yourself that matters. And they sure put on quite a show.
Well done, Summer. Well done, chihuahuas. Shuffle again. I am ready!