These past few days, the highlight of my jog has been to stop by and smell them until I get a head rush.
They smell SO fucking good!
What the fuck you guys. Seriously! What the fuck.
-Neighbor out.
This evening, as the sun was setting, I rolled up to love them, just as I've been doing on every jog since mid march. I honestly believed that these roses would never bloom. I don't know if you're aware but the trails are a really hostile environment to plant something that you plan to love.
I've known for fucking months that I could've been setting myself up for heartache. I figured that a deer might punish it, or that aphids would infest it, or perhaps some fat little kid would pick the blossoms and yuck my yum.
But... Fucking Shovel Marks??????
I understand that roses are not some precious commodity in major demand, but Time, Work, Love, Selflessness and apparently RISK, went into nourishing these roses and I'm just so fucking disappointing in you.
You, the thieving renter, who stole my roses and will probably plant them in the shade... Fuck you, and clean up your dog shit!
You, the out of town guest who is going to grind my roses into some Slavic Jam/Preserves... I hope your family gets fucking botulism.
You, the selfish piece of trash, who plans to brag at your next bbq about how you salvaged wild roses from the buffer... I hope you pricked your finger on my thorns and an infection festers to the point where you have to retrain your hand in order to resume touching yourself.
You, the sweet old lady, who assumed those roses would get more love in your back yard... you are so fucking wrong.
And... So it goes... Mother Fucker, What the Fuck!!!!!!!
I've known for fucking months that I could've been setting myself up for heartache. I figured that a deer might punish it, or that aphids would infest it, or perhaps some fat little kid would pick the blossoms and yuck my yum.
But... Fucking Shovel Marks??????
When I came upon the scene I had an instant Warp Spasm and went sniffing out the sick fuck who dug up these dope roses.
In the twisted logic of the criminal mind, it is a victim-less crime to steal blooming roses, planted for all to enjoy.
And, I deduce they used a bucket to transport the loot because there were no fallen rose petals to be found in the surrounding area.
I hit the streets, casing every front yard between 166th and Meadow Park.
It felt like this.
I didn't find my roses (yet), but I happened to note that there are roses planted in every other yard.
They're everywhere.
Here's some from my yard.
I didn't find my roses (yet), but I happened to note that there are roses planted in every other yard.
They're everywhere.
Here's some from my yard.
You, the thieving renter, who stole my roses and will probably plant them in the shade... Fuck you, and clean up your dog shit!
You, the out of town guest who is going to grind my roses into some Slavic Jam/Preserves... I hope your family gets fucking botulism.
You, the selfish piece of trash, who plans to brag at your next bbq about how you salvaged wild roses from the buffer... I hope you pricked your finger on my thorns and an infection festers to the point where you have to retrain your hand in order to resume touching yourself.
You, the sweet old lady, who assumed those roses would get more love in your back yard... you are so fucking wrong.
What the fuck you guys. Seriously! What the fuck.
-Neighbor out.
It's probably the slobs next door to you. Did you check the top of their dirt pile?
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