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I have been exceedingly busy for the last month or so, and if any of my neighbors wishes to register a complaint about the height my grass has been allowed to reach, that is what I will say: that my mind is filled with concerns above the earthly, filled with Better and Brighter Things, and anyway what does it matter if the grass is tall or short if most of it is some kind of bizarre species of oak tree offshoots anyway? So what if I experiment with growing a small copse of them in my front yard and try to attract, I don’t know, fair folk or Merlin analogues or whatever? I’d quite like a pet snake, leave me alone.

But my mother insisted, and given that I still owe her a rather large amount of money, I will do as her eyebrows command. (My mother has very nice eyebrows. Very expressive, too. You understand.)

So, on her advisement, I trooped out at about 7:30 this morning (happy birthday, AMERICA, thanks for the aesthetic strictures on a person’s own private personal ground foliage!!!) and spent probably an hour trying to get my lawnmower, which is electric and runs on a very long cord plugged into the shed at the other end of the driveway, to be less argumentative and more practical. My yard contains one large oak tree around which such things must be navigated. I also bore quite easily, and so amused myself by cutting the yard into stranger and stranger geometric shapes. I am sure the neighbors who may or may not have been staring out their windows angrily at this disturbance of the High Holy Day of America’s Birth enjoyed this quite as much as I did. It was a bit like two-dimensional Tetris, but louder and less melodic.

In the backyard, which I abandoned for the moment on account of Tiredness and Ennui, I think I shall practice crop circles. I will need to give the front a touch-up soon anyway, because apparently grass can get long enough that when you go over it with a set of rapidly-spinning blades it just lies down and pretends it’s not there until a later worst possible moment. I’ve kindly ignored the invitations of the local property owner’s association, but I’m sure that if my yard begins to look as though I’m giving it a comb-over they will have rather less polite things to say.

Perhaps an endangered species of thistle will grow, and I will be forced, how unfortunate, to cultivate it.