There are these blackberries outside my window, wrapped around George, the giant aloe vera (wait, it’s not a metaphor, I swear) that are the sweetest damn things I’ve ever tasted. They’re like magic. I can’t seem to pick a bad one. Even the ones that have cobwebs on them don’t bother me. They’re best warm from the sun (like tomatoes). I think I ate one with a bug in it yesterday, and I didn’t even care. Just kept chewing.
They’re not mine, actually. They belong to the house next door. Their yard is almost my yard since they don’t have a fence up yet. When talking to the neighbor one afternoon (why won’t his name stay in my head?), I asked if it was okay that I steal some berries from time to time (read: every morning when I get home from work). He said sure, that they weren’t very good anyway. Then I made the classic mistake by telling him the truth: “NO, they’re INSANELY good.” He tried one, and agreed. Darn it. Now he knows, and there are fewer berries for me.
In my future, way down the road, when I get settled, when I move into a place where I can put things right into the ground without thought of transplant, I’m planting blackberry vines. I know they’re a noxious weed, but I have to have ’em. That and a sheep.
I don’t have much weekend coming up — I have to work Saturday night, and the rest of the weekend is filled with to-dos (including one fun one: going to The Producers on Sunday). I need to spend some time working on my dang computer. (I realized I spent 18 hours yesterday looking at computer screens — 12 at work, 6 at home dealing with the crash and subsequent discovery of the spyware nest.) You’ve all given me fabulous suggestions of downloads, so I’ll add a few more and work on killing those bugs. Such a major pain. Clear your cookies, folks. And eat some, too.
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