32

So, I fixed up my parents' lawn yesterday, front and back. Pruned the trees and hedges, mowed, clipped the stuff that was in too awkward a place to be mowed. And, between where the basketball shorts stopped at my knees and the socks started at my ankles I got roughly 32 bites (I may have missed one or two in counting). Yep, you read that right, 32.
I think you can see about 10 or 12 in the picture, there's a lot more on the back and sides that you can't see (lol, and I almost didn't put this up at all because I'm not a big fan of my legs. How is it that guy's legs look great at any angle but most womens', and certainly mine, almost always look bad from anything but the side?). I have one word; itchy.

But, I'm being a trooper and not scratching.

Now, without futher ado; one of the many reasons I love my town is the beautiful parks















And, I now have undenyable proof that both the cats in my parents' home are odd:
















Otherwise, I have the contents of my tool box to write up and then I'll be totally done with all the inventorying of my stuff. Which is pretty much bizarre. Maybe I'll also write up a list of things that I have but I haven't packed away. I don't know why I'm making the list. It's not like I wouldn't give the stuff away if I needed to, or like I'd be broken up if most of it were burned or stolen. I guess I've always wanted to do it, just to feel adult and to keep record. People and possessions are so strange and I just can help but be struck by how temporary all this is. How temporary we are. Can't you feel time rushing by you like a roaring wind? And we're so *small*. The universe blinks and we're dust. It's a miracle that we matter at all.