The Man Garden

If you’re reading this then you’ll maybe wonder what the hell it has to do with bleach, but mark my words, people, I’ll find a way to put in that delicious word. You’ll also possibly wonder what the hell this post has to do with this blog, but by being here, not only do you know I am a bleach fan and have created a blog to tell the world about it, which some may consider weird in itself, you’ll also, from time to time, be privy to that side of myself that shows what a truly weird person I am.

I want to talk about The Man Garden. Weeds are unsightly little buggers at the best of times, aren’t they? Well, those in the garden can be ignored only so long before they become an ungodly mess and you’re fighting through them. I’m not talking about the back yard here, folks. No, I’m talking about THAT garden.

Due to things out of my control this past month, I had been unable to tend to the weeds as I usually would. I’m not an avid weedkiller by any means—I tend to get rid of them when they start becoming apparent; you know, prickly—but this month saw me turn into a yeti. Yes, I was much akin to an abominable snowman, raging around with my weeds a-swingin’ in the breeze. Not too pleasant.

Anyway, I checked under my arms prior to getting in the shower and noted, with much horror I might add, that the weeds there were, in fact, swaying in the breeze coming through the bathroom window. Yes, they were that long. I wondered briefly whether a field mouse would pop its twitching nose out of that scribble of bodily foliage and threaten to bite me if I so much as thought of mowing his hideaway. Of course, there was no field mouse, but still, the thought was there. While in the shower I thought (yes, I do that sometimes—seems I thought a lot in this period of my life), “Blimey, my legs are a bit hairy too.” So, as you do (or not, whatever floats your boat), I shaved my legs.

Then I had the chilled-right-down-to-my-goddamn-bones shock that between my legs was A MAN GARDEN! Ladies, you know what I mean, yes? Weeds creeping right up to my bloody belly button. How unsightly? I almost fainted against my steamed-up shower screen—one that had been BLEACHED (Yessss, get in! I added that beautiful word!) that morning.

The Man Garden clogged up my razor. The Man Garden clogged up my plug hole. Oh my goodness, The Man Garden was so rampant it had a life of its own, a mission to spread over my navel and have a cup of tea with my tits. This was NOT going to happen. I killed the majority with my blade, imagining myself as a scythe-wielding ghoul, going so far as to release a water-garbled pahahaha in the process.

Now, I’m seriously considering the waxing option. I’ve tried it before and did the usual—high-pitched scream, watering eyes, a muttered F word—but I’m now in fear of The Man Garden’s return. This must be prevented at all costs. That field mouse vision is scaring me to death.

Have a great, crazy day, bleach lovers! And check your gardens regularly.