They’re still out there, in my backyard. Throwing around their Frisbee-disks, running to and fro, trampling the rose bushes I’d worked so hard to cultivate.
My God, how I hate them.
I know, I know, it’s my own damned fault. When I first moved in I tried to be friendly, tried to make myself well liked by my new neighbors.
I prepared snacks, and ice-creamy beverages, and invited everyone in the neighborhood to partake in the treats I’d created.
And, for a little while, it was fun.
But it’s not fun now. Now they come back every day, hoping I’ll serve treats again, and I’m too damned old to put up with their shenanigans!
I had no idea they’d take my offer to “drop by anytime” so seriously.
So I watch from my window, seeing the young men ruining the lawn I’d so carefully cultivated, and though I’m so angry I can barely breathe, I know it’s at least in part my own fault.
It is, after all, my milkshake which brings all the boys to the yard.
And I’m like: Get out of my yard!
Damn kids, get out of my yard!
I’ll teach you, and if you trample my rosebushes one more damn time I’ll have to charge you with trespassing!