It is with a heavy heart that I am forced to announce that I must disassemble my lawn chunks.
Yes, my critically tolerated yard sculpture “Lawn Chunks”, after having received glowing reviews such as: “Is that just like a whole ass fucking tree or what?”; “How’d you fit that in the Buick?”; and, “Patsy Ann, please stop putting chunks everywhere, it looks like a mummified octopus,” is unfortunately no more, as my dad wishes to “not have to look at this thing every goddamn day”.
As I cannot reasonably fit “Lawn Chunks” into the new apartment, her skeletal bits shall be removed and made into like maybe a jewelry stand or something, and this big ass piece of wood will be respectfully thrown over the guard rail, where hopefully my dad will not see it and yell and yell and yell because I lied and said I would not throw it over the guard rail. There are train tracks down there, and while I do not think I can throw that hard, I bet it would look incredibly sick if this thing got hit by a train.
RIP.
Stereotypes like this are the exact reason my chunks are being unjustly terminated, and I hope you have trouble sleeping at night knowing that Lawn Chunk’s innocent splinters are on your hands.
I call this one “Hmm This is a Pretty Fucked Up Thing to Find in the Woods and It’s Absolutely Haunted But Residual Catholic Guilt Prevents Me From Throwing It Away So I Guess It’s in a Tree Now”:
And this is a little installation known as: “I Took This Behind the Garage to Fix It and Forgot About It For Like a Whole Three Months and I Think There’s Ticks in It Now Which Isn’t Great Probably”.
I’m really just out here living my life like a cryptic swamp hag in a low budget backwoods slasher flick, and I mean, it’s fine, it’s sexy, but also I’m very concerned as to how exactly I’m going to survive in an apartment.
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